Chapter V: Making Acquaintances

IN a few days, Damaris had settled down into her lodgings with a comfortable feeling of security and peace.

Mrs. Patch, junior, amused her by her flow of talk; she listened to her but would give her no information about herself.

On Sunday, she went to church in the morning. The country service was a novelty to her after the fashionable churches she had frequented in town. She sat well back in the church, and was intensely interested in watching the congregation arrive.

The Squire's seat was in the chancel behind the choir boys, and Damaris's heart beat rapidly when she saw a tall smart-looking old man lead the way up to it, and the woman and man who had passed her in the road on the day of her first arrival following him. She could hardly believe that the handsome golden-haired woman was her mother's sister. She had such an air of youth about her, and yet bore the stamp of a strong masterful woman. Damaris wondered if she could ever pluck up courage to speak to her.

And then she saw the Rector's wife come in and take her place in one of the front seats. She was a slight graceful woman with a very sweet face, and led a little curly-headed boy by the hand. Damaris had heard that he was her one and only child. Another seat in the church held some nice-looking people—two old ladies and a dark handsome man with a short square beard. The rest of the congregation consisted of the villagers.

More than once Damaris met the eyes of her aunt, and of her companion who sat next her. She shielded herself as much as she could from observation by a pillar near her, and was rather relieved when the service was over.

It was a little too early for summer visitors, and many glances fell on the tall graceful girl in mourning at the back of the church. Damaris felt almost self-conscious as she walked through the churchyard. Once she caught the words—

"So that is Mrs. Patch's new lodger. What a pretty girl! Who is she?" And her cheeks burned as she hurried on.

When she got to her rooms, she found the kitchen downstairs full of Sunday visitors. There was a smell of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding and of hot pastry in the oven. Damaris felt she was the recipient of oven smells day in and day out. She wondered that a baker did not give his oven a rest on Sunday, but she enjoyed a hot plate of roast beef and vegetables and the inevitable Yorkshire pudding, followed by a gooseberry tart. And then she slipped out of the house, and found her way up to the common.

It was a lovely afternoon, and not too warm for walking. A fresh breeze met her as she walked on farther than she had ever walked before. The peace and quiet of it all delighted her. Her thoughts were, of course, on her mother's home. It had been a shock to her that morning to see that her aunt was so young in years. She had foolishly pictured her as a gentle elderly lady who would receive her with open arms. She realised now that, according to the letters she had in her possession, Barbara Murray could be only thirty-eight or thirty-nine. Old Mrs. Patch had talked of her as a young lady still.

"She's hard, Miss Barbara is," she had said, when talking of her to Damaris. "Her temper was spoiled by her ladyship, who never understood children. Miss Barbara might have had a sweet temper had she been handled differently, she's high-spirited and boyish—she always liked her brother's pursoots, but she seems harder than she is at heart. She grew up thinkin' everybody against her, and she must defend herself. Often she has rushed off to me, when she could bear herself no longer, and I've told her patience always wins the day. Of late years, she's grown more reserved and proud. But she's a warm heart when once it is reached."

This description of her aunt made Damaris shy of making herself known to her. She had not imagined she would find it difficult to introduce herself, but now she put it off from day to day, hoping that some opportunity might be given her, rather than that she should have to make it for herself.

She was so deep in thought that she hardly noticed where she was going, until she found herself at the end of the common facing another small country village. An old red brick house was before her surrounded by elms; and further down the road were a cluster of cottages, with the usual village church in the midst of them. Very few people seemed about, and as there was a seat on the common by the side of the road, Damaris sat down upon it to rest.

Presently an old lady came out of the big iron gates leading to the house in front of her. She gazed anxiously up and down the road, then came across to Damaris.

"Excuse me, but have you seen a black-and-white fox terrier? I have lost him. He has periodical fits of running away, which annoys me very much."

"I have not noticed any dog," said Damaris.

The old lady looked at her sharply.

"I see you are a stranger."

"Yes," Damaris answered; "I am lodging in Marley, and have come across the common for a walk."

"Really? It is a good four miles. Now I should not wonder if Scott has gone over to Marley to-day, for my nephew is staying at the Hall for a few days, and he always follows him if he gets a chance."

Damaris remembered seeing a small fox terrier dancing round the Hall party when they left the church. She mentioned this, and the old lady looked quite relieved.

Then she took a seat by Damaris and became very communicative.

"It's quite a comfort to see anyone to talk to. You mustn't mind me—I am very unconventional. I always do as I like—custom or propriety does not affect me in the least. Now, if you were lodging in this village, I would have you in sometimes to talk to me when I'm feeling dull. You can talk, I suppose? Some young people won't open their mouths to old women. Are you like that? The young won't remember that old age will come to them. I was like that myself."

"I think I like old people better than young ones; I am more accustomed to them," said Damaris. "I have lived with two old uncles for the last four years since I left school, and now they are both dead, and I miss them more than I can say. I am afraid I used to grumble sometimes when they were alive, they kept me from knowing people, but now I almost wish them back."

"I hope they left their money to you," said the old lady bluntly.

Damaris shook her head.

"Perhaps they had not any to leave."

"Oh, yes—a good deal; but it went to their nephew."

"You interest me. Go on. What are you going to do now?"

Damaris did not know why she confided in this stranger, but she felt she had gone far enough.

Her tone was very dignified as she said—

"I shall manage very well, thank you."

"How can you, if you have no money? Don't be foolish, child. Have you no other relations?"

"I could easily earn my livelihood by needlework," said Damaris, gazing before her dreamily. "I was told at the Art School in Kensington, where I had a few lessons, that they would always take my work. I copy old tapestry patterns."

There was a pause. Then the old lady introduced herself.

"I am Mrs. Bonnycott—everybody calls me Kitty Bonnycott. I've lived in that old house there all my life. It came to me at my father's death. I have three farms and a good bit of land, which my nephew looks after. He's like a son to me, and we're very good friends; but I don't tie him to my apron strings, and every now and then we want a change from each other, and then he goes off to the Hall, they're always glad to have him there. Barbara and her brothers and he all grew up together. I live my own life. I garden, and look after my dogs and goats, and have my finger in most of the village pies. How do you like the Rector's wife at Marley? She's county, you know—would marry a parson—told me she loved the idea of being a shepherdess! And she's a charming young creature. A little too pious for me, but I laugh at her; and she takes it in very good part."

"I have not met her yet," replied Damaris, feeling bewildered by the old lady's confidential talk; "but I saw her in church to-day and think she looks perfectly sweet."

"And how long are you going to stay at Marley?"

"I do not know."

Damaris's cheeks flushed in spite of herself.

Mrs. Bonnycott looked at her with a pair of very sharp far-seeing eyes.

"I ought to be in church this afternoon," she said, after a moment's pause; "but our vicar annoyed me this morning, so I am punishing him by my absence. I'm a most regular church goer as a rule; we have no evening service, and the afternoon is a trial in summer! He refused to give out a notice I sent to him. It was an invitation to the six old almswomen to a strawberry tea. Is it wicked to mention strawberries and tea in church? I suddenly thought of it as I was walking to church, and I wanted them to come to-morrow. My vicar is a very proper young man; he is always afraid of doing something unclerical or unorthodox. I have no patience with him."

Damaris could not help smiling. Then she asked the name of the village and was told it was Fallerton.

"I am the only resident in it of any account," said Mrs. Bonnycott; "but we have plenty of neighbours within driving distance. The Gores are nearest to me; they go to your church because they had a quarrel with our vicar over some of his vestments. They're starched old maids, both of them, but we're very good friends. Their brother would marry Barbara Murray to-morrow if she would have him. He worships the ground she treads upon; and I think she's a fool, for he's an intelligent upright man, whose only fault is that he's too easy-going, and lets his sisters rule him. He has the hobby of bee-keeping. His apiary is well worth seeing. He's a bit of a naturalist, too; you meet him lying out in the woods or on the common watching the habits of some insect or bird. But I'm not very fond of men with beards, are you? I always fancy they are hiding up a weak mouth or chin."

Damaris laughed, then got up to go, and the old lady insisted upon shaking hands with her.

"We shall meet again. When next I am in Marley, I shall come to see you. When we don't bake at home, we get our bread from Patch. I'm sure you're lodging there, though you didn't tell me so. They are the only rooms to let that I know of!"

Damaris parted from her, feeling as if she had made a friend. Mrs. Bonnycott was a pretty old lady with a wonderfully clear complexion, bright brown eyes, and an upright active little figure. Her eyes twinkled as she talked, as if she were always seeing a hidden joke. Damaris had a happy feeling as she talked to her, and as she walked back over the common, she hoped that she might soon see her again.

As she was nearing Marley, she met Barbara Murray and Mrs. Bonnycott's nephew. Barbara had half-a-dozen dogs with her, and Scott was evidently one of them, for his master said as they passed her—

"My aunt won't sleep to-night without him. I tell you Scott rules the house; but the walk over the common is good for both of us."

The breeze brought Damaris the added words—

"Who is she?"

And Barbara replied indifferently—

"How should I know?"

Damaris returned to her lodgings feeling rather tired and quite ready for her tea.

Yet an hour later, she slipped into the little church again for the evening service, and enjoyed it.

The next afternoon, Mrs. Dashwood, the Rector's wife, called upon her.

Damaris succumbed at once to her charms. She almost felt inclined to confide in her, her history, but her natural reticence forbade her.

"I am so glad you came straight to the Patch's. I always think I should enjoy living here myself. Doesn't the smell of hot baked bread make you feel fed and clothed and housed all at once? It always gives me the sense of comfort and home. Now don't be lonely, will you? And if your days are long, will you help me at the Rectory? I am always trying to catch up the work that is waiting for me even in this small village. Do you like being busy? I believe you are a dreamer. But dreamers develop into doers. Look at Joseph!"

Damaris's eyes sparkled.

"Yes, I have been a dreamer, and my life for several years has fostered it. But I am just waking up now; and oh, Mrs. Dashwood, I want to do something!"

Mrs. Dashwood leant forwards with her pretty entrancing smile.

"Then you and I will do together for a little while. We are both pilgrims, aren't we, travelling the same road? And just for a little time, we will walk side by side."

Then she put her hand on Damaris's arm caressingly.

"Is our goal the same, do you think?"

Damaris looked doubtful.

"I don't know."

"Have you the driving force necessary for all work? 'Such' a force! 'The love of Christ constraineth us.'"

Sudden tears filled Damaris's eyes.

"I have often thought about those kind of things, but I have been so alone. I have had no one to help me. You remind me of old Mrs. Patch and her 'Pilgrim's Progress.'"

Mrs. Dashwood laughed happily.

"Yes, you can't say you have no one to help you, dear, with that old saint in the house. I don't quite know why you chanced on our little village as a rest cure, but I see now there was no chance in it. You were sent here to be helped, and to have your soul rested as well as your body. How I do hope and pray you won't miss it. And now I must be going. My mothers' meeting begins at half-past three, but I felt I must just see you first. Will you come to tea with me to-morrow, and make acquaintance with my small son Eddie? You see what a conceited mother I am! But he really is nice to know."

She was gone like a flash of light, and Damaris was left with a longing to know her better, and with a pleased anticipation of going to tea with her the next day.

Mrs. Patch came in after she had gone.

"Our Rector's lady never stays anywhere quite long enough," she said; "that's all the fault we finds with her. But her days is near as crowded as mine. She flings me a pretty word.

"'Mrs. Patch,' she says, 'I wish I could be your lodger one day; I would cast off my housekeeping cares, and have a blissful time. Your rooms,' she says, 'have all the true atmosphere of restfulness and comfort.'

"Ah, Mrs. Dashwood—she has the observing eye—same as have myself, bein' a student of human natur. Did she have a few words with you to the improvin' of your soul? I reckon she'll have been finding out if you're a worker or not. 'Tis her craze—that of work. She even taxes me with it, though she do allow that I've enough to do to keep my household goin'."

Damaris listened a little impatiently. She grew rather tired of Mrs. Patch's flow of talk, and slipped away from her with the excuse of going out for a walk on the common.

She went up to the Rectory the next day, and found Mrs. Dashwood, in her pretty morning-room, busy cutting out a lot of garments for her village working party.

Her little boy was by her side, pretending to help.

Damaris stooped to kiss him. She was rather shy of children, never having had much to do with them.

"Do you like kissing me?" Eddie asked, looking up at her with a pair of huge blue eyes. "I aren't liking it myself."

Damaris laughed, and Mrs. Dashwood looked up from her work.

"Eddie, remember you are a little gentleman. That is not a polite way to speak."

"But gentlemen aren't kissed," said the small boy. "Everybody kisses me, but they doesn't kiss Daddy."

"I won't kiss you again," said Damaris—"not unless you want me to."

And then Mrs. Dashwood set her to work; and as they cut out they talked, and Damaris found herself giving many confidences about her past life.

Eddie retired to a corner of the room to play. His mother said that his nurse had gone out for the day, so that she was in charge of him.

Presently a whistle was heard in the garden, and Eddie dashed out of the open French window, crying out excitedly—

"It's my Mr. Stuart!"

Mrs. Dashwood gave a little sigh.

"I hoped we should have had a quiet afternoon together, but Stuart Maitland is such an old friend that he walks in upon us whenever he likes. I knew him before I married. Have you met him? He lives with an old aunt just across the common. He looks after her property, but it is not enough to occupy a man of his abilities. We call him the Admirable Crichton. Here he comes."

"Well, Tina, slaving away as usual? What a woman you are for scissors! Now it's garments for the village, isn't it? Last time you were making havoc of your rose beds for some wedding."

Mrs. Dashwood laughingly shook hands with him, then introduced him to Damaris. He looked at her with a frank smile.

"Our third meeting. Three is my lucky number! I knew I should speak to you the next time I saw you."

Damaris smiled back. Her head was high, and her manner dignity itself; but there was something in Stuart's voice that always brought smiles to those with whom he spoke.

"You saw each other in church, I suppose?" said Mrs. Dashwood, turning briskly to her cutting out again.

"Oh, that wasn't a meeting; the first time Miss—Miss Hartbrook—I hope I've caught the name—was sitting by the wayside, and Barbara and I discussed her hotly for a good ten minutes after we had passed her. Then we met her again on Sunday afternoon crossing the common, whereupon we discussed her again; and now I shall go back, and most likely we will all discuss her for the third time."

"That makes me feel a person of some importance," said Damaris; "but I am learning from Mrs. Patch's talk that everybody is of importance in the country."

"You're right there. Allow me to relieve you, Tina. Don't dare to say I can't wield the scissors as well as yourself. Sit down and rest that long back of yours. What is that husband of yours doing? If I had a wife and she helped me with my sermons, I would help her with her scissors. That's fair play. Miss Hartbrook, when you listen to our Rector's sermons, and he startles you with a very straight hit which knocks you flat, that is one of his better half's bits of composition."

Stuart was rapidly cutting out children's frocks as he talked.

Damaris gazed at him with amused astonishment.

Mrs. Dashwood had laughingly taken a seat and drawn her little boy to her side, but her quick observant eyes were following her new assistant's rapid cuts, and twice she corrected him.

"Now," she said, "give me back my scissors. I am rested. Won't you play to us?"

"Yes, play, and I'll dance!" cried Eddie.

The next moment, Stuart was at the piano playing the merriest jigs and snatches of nursery rhymes. Eddie capered up and down, occasionally bursting into songs in which Stuart joined him. He had one of the softest and most mellow tenor voices that Damaris had ever heard. Suddenly he stopped.

"That's enough for you, old boy. Now I'm going to play to Miss Hartbrook. And then it will be your mother's turn. Now, Miss Hartbrook, what will you have—grave or gay? I think I know."

He began to improvise. Damaris listened, entranced, for she knew at once he was a real musician. And from a very sweet and plaintive little melody, he turned to some Norwegian Folk Lore airs, and then finished with a very inspiriting Polish March.

"To cheer you up!" he remarked, twisting round on the music stool.

"Thank you very much," said Damaris.

He turned back to the piano, and began playing "O Rest in the Lord," "Comfort ye My People," and "He shall Feed His Flock" followed. And when he stopped playing, there was a grave stillness in the room.

He stood up and drew a deep breath.

"Music is meant to portray religion, isn't it?" he said.

"What a dangerous gift it is," Mrs. Dashwood said thoughtfully. "It appeals to the best and worst inside us."

"Will you have me to tea?" Stuart asked, as he took an easy chair and hoisted Eddie upon his knee. "Barbara has taken it into her head to pay calls this afternoon, knowing that I won't accompany her. And Sir Mark has shut himself into the library with some business papers, and told me he didn't want to be disturbed."

"Of course, we will give you tea. How long are you staying at the Hall?"

"Only till to-morrow. I know you feel I've been idling here too long, but I've been making sketches and plans for some model cottages Sir Mark wants to build."

"Anything else?"

He laughed.

"Oh, a few. Don't make me blow my own trumpet before Miss Hartbrook, but you know I'm a handy man, and I find jobs everywhere. That reminds me—I've promised the rector to get rid of those crows' nests in the belfry. I'll go now. Would Eddie like to come with me?"

"Oh, mummy, let me!"

Mrs. Dashwood looked dubious.

"He'll be breaking his neck."

"Will Miss Hartbrook come and look after him? I'm sure you've done enough cutting out!"

Damaris was not very keen on going, but Mrs. Dashwood seemed as if she would like her to do so.

"You will hear the tea-bell. I'll have it rung outside the house, and when it rings, bring Eddie in, will you?"

As Damaris walked through the garden, Stuart talked to her as if he had known her all her life. He interested her at once; there seemed no subject on which he could not talk. And though his tone was gay, he could drop suddenly into the gravest vein.

"Of course, you've lost your heart to Tina. I tell Barbara she's lucky to have her near her. But women are a mystery to man in their dealings with one another. Barbara keeps her at arm's length. I think she is afraid that Tina will tackle her on religious subjects. She's tackled me, and she'll do the same to you before you've been in her company very long. But if you know a good thing, why shouldn't you try to pass it on? And I bless the day when I was enlightened and set going by her. Now, young man, what is it?" He turned to Eddie.

"I want to ring the bells. Will you take me?"

"Not if I know it! But we shall climb the tower, and you shall show Miss Hartbrook the hill where the rainbows end."

"I believe I met a relation of yours on Sunday," said Damaris suddenly.

"Did you? It was my aunt. A dear old talkative soul. Was she on the common?"

Damaris gave an account of her meeting.

Stuart's eyes twinkled.

"Did she tell you of our difference of opinion? I wanted a certain man dismissed—a farm-hand who is an idle loafer. She wants him kept. So I said I would go away for a few days and let her see for herself how he worked. I received a repentant note this morning, so I'm going back to her to-morrow."

"How nice to be able to run away when things go wrong!" said Damaris.

"That's a nasty one for me!" laughed Stuart. "Have you never run away from anything?"

"Oh, yes," said Damaris hastily; "I'm doing it now." Then the swift colour came to her cheeks. "I am my own mistress," she added. "I sometimes wish I were not."

"Ah," he said, "independence has its drawbacks. Now, it's a queer thing, but, from the look of your carriage and walk, I said to Barbara, 'That girl is on her own—no doubt of it.' And I was right."

"Do you think me an adventuress?" said Damaris, with a little smile. "I am out on an adventure."

"Shake hands," said Stuart, holding out his hand to her. "I'm an adventurer born. That's why I'm a Jack of many trades and master of none. I'm always seeing things on in front that beckon to me, and I invariably plunge after them. But I'm sticking to my aunt now. I've been all over the world."

"Oh," said Damaris, with a long-drawn sigh; "I wish I had—I do adore seeing new strange places."

They reached the place, and climbed up into the belfry; then Damaris took Eddie up to the top of the tower out of danger's way. He had been there before, and was very proud of pointing out to her different landmarks.

The tea-bell rang too soon; but on their way down they met Stuart, who showed them four huge nests he had rescued from some beams in the roof.

"They're big enough for you to sit in, Eddie," he said.

"Oh, no, fanks; I don't want to sit on eggs!" he promptly replied.

And then they all went into the Rectory to tea.

Stuart went with the Rector afterwards.

"My husband wants to show him some old papers he has unearthed from the vestry," Mrs. Dashwood said to Damaris. "Stuart Maitland is one of the most gifted men I know. He says he happens to have clever hands, but it is his brain which directs them. You heard him play. He paints exquisite water-colour sketches, and has written two books. He is a very good architect, and is a member of the British Archaeological Society. I don't think there is anything that he can't do. I always say, when I have him in the house, that I have a plumber, carpenter, glazier, and general repairer. He ought to be a poor man."

"And has he no profession?" asked Damaris.

"I am sorry to say he has not. He was left an orphan when he was quite small, and came into a good bit of money when he was of age."

Then Mrs. Dashwood began to talk to Damaris of the village, trying to interest her in the people. When she got up to go, she said—

"You will let me see more of you, won't you, dear? I want to know you better. And we have had an interrupted afternoon."

"I shall love to come and see you at any time," said Damaris warmly.

And as she walked home, she determined she would pursue the acquaintance. Yet somehow or other Stuart Maitland obtruded himself, and overshadowed gentle Mrs. Dashwood in her thoughts.