Chapter VII: A Consultation

"NOW then, pump it out. What's up?"

Barbara and Stuart were in the big dining-room at breakfast. Sir Mark was not down. He often had his breakfast in his room, and this was one of the occasions when he did so. It was an ideal summer morning. The big French windows were opened wide. There was a sweet smell of freshly-mown grass coming into the room from outside. The gardener was busy on the big lawn with the mowing-machine. Great shrubs of glowing flame-coloured azaleas bordered the lawn. The breakfast table, with its choice china and silver and bowls of roses, appealed to Stuart's artistic taste. And, looking across at Barbara in her cool white linen gown, with her beautiful golden head, and her fresh frank face, he acknowledged that she suited her surroundings.

But he saw, from a bewildered look in her eyes and a restless movement of her graceful hands, that Barbara was in trouble.

She was toying with a scone and honey upon her plate—in reality eating nothing, only making a brave pretence of doing so.

"You're a dear to have come over. I feel I 'must' take counsel with somebody, and there's nobody like you for good sound sense when there's real need for it. I never slept a wink last night; and father is furious with me."

"That I can hardly believe. Sir Mark furious? I never thought he had a spark of temper in him."

"You would have been undeceived if you had heard him last night. And you will never guess the cause of it. That pretty little girl who is lodging here."

"Ah!" said Stuart, putting down his cup of coffee which was on the way to his mouth. "I thought as much. Then you sent her away."

"How did you guess? But I didn't. I hadn't the remotest intention of doing so. I never was so astonished in my life as when I went round yesterday afternoon and found her flown. Mrs. Patch could not understand it. At first, I thought it proved that my suspicions were right—that she had failed in her little plot, and had fled because she saw that we were not easily taken in—but now, I don't know."

"Have the goodness to explain yourself for I'm in the dark."

"I'll tell you all. Do you remember my sister Lilian?"

"The one that married some artist fellow and died out in Italy?"

"Yes; she was only married a year. Well, this girl says she is her daughter!"

Stuart stared at her.

"What? This is interesting! That accounts for her appearance."

"Oh, I see you're ready to believe in her at once! When she first sprang it upon me—the day before yesterday—I was so dazed and bewildered that I could hardly take it in. I was at school, remember, when Lilian died. It was my first term, and my stepmother simply wrote and told me the bald fact. I was never told she died at the birth of her child. I never knew she had one. This girl produced some old letters of mine written to Lilian soon after she married. And in my cautious way, I asked for more proofs of her relationship to us. Anybody can get hold of old letters. I did not doubt her being a Hartbrook, but I thought she might be some other member of the family who was using the letters for her own ends. She naïvely told me that she began to hunt round for some relations when she found herself penniless. That looked fishy. And I asked her why she had kept quiet so long. She has been here nearly a month, and is lodging in the house with old Nanny. She could not have done better if she had wished to spy out the land and discover all our family history. Nanny had told her she was very like Lilian in appearance."

Stuart made an impatient movement.

"Be patient; I want you to see things from my side. I told her I would show the letters to my father, and that she would hear again from us on the matter. She dismissed me like a little tragedy queen. You should have seen her eyes flash. She was simply furious with me, and said if we did not wish to own her, there was nothing more to be said. Now do you think me much to blame?"

"You are rather a sledgehammer sometimes," said Stuart, pushing his chair back from the table and walking restlessly up and down the room. "You might have let her down a little more gently. But you never liked her being here, did you? You took some unaccountable prejudice to her ever since we saw her sitting in the hedge."

"Perhaps it was the contradiction in my nature," said Barbara, with an honest smile. "You gushed over her so!"

"A man doesn't gush!" said Stuart sharply. "But I do recognise beauty when I see it, also good breeding. I'd bet a hundred pounds that girl is no common adventuress!"

"Well, now keep calm. I don't want you to get angry, because I want your help. Come back and finish your breakfast, and I'll tell you more."

Stuart subsided into his chair again.

"I came back and took the letters straight to father, who became most excited. I always feel that he still has a very soft place in his heart for Lilian. My stepmother had an iron will, and he was completely subjugated by her. I asked him if he had ever heard that Lilian had had a child, for it was news to me. He said he knew that she died at a child's birth, but had quite understood that the child had died too. I asked him if he had any letters about it. He said no, the husband had written to my stepmother, and he thought the letter had been destroyed.

"Then I asked him if he had kept any of my stepmother's papers or letters. He said he had kept a small private desk of hers. He had locked it up in one of his drawers after her death, and had never touched them. So I asked him if he would mind looking through them. He did it at once; and I helped him.

"For a long time we found nothing to throw any light upon it, and then we came across two letters—one from Hubert Hartbrook to my stepmother, and one from dear Lilian to me and which had been purposely kept from me; I don't know why my stepmother did not destroy them. I suppose we must forgive the dead. I dare say she was afraid of upsetting me when I was at school. How she hated Lilian! I suppose because Lilian never would make herself civil to her.

"The only thing, Stuart, that makes me believe in this girl was the look in her eyes, and the set of her head when she opened the door and dismissed me. It took me straight back to Lilian, who used to sweep from the room after some of her rows, and regard the stepmother as if she were the dirt under her feet. If this girl is her daughter, she has not my phlegmatic soul, but the same hot pride and temper as poor Lilian had."

"Go on," said Stuart; "what did the letters say?"

Barbara took a small letter case out of her pocket, and put the two letters into his hand.

"Read them. They are very characteristic of the writer."

Stuart read as follows—

"DEAR LADY MURRAY,—I write to you, as we fancy all letters are opened by you. Will you let Sir Mark know that my dear wife died yesterday. She has not been at all strong, and the worry of having all her letters returned by you no doubt told upon her. She lived to see her little daughter, but sank from exhaustion twelve hours afterwards. I shall take the child to England with me. If her grandfather ever wants to see her, he can write to me. But this will be my last letter to Marley.

"Yours,

"H. HARTBROOK."

"That fellow had some grit in him," said Stuart thoughtfully, as he folded the letter and handed it back. "I suppose Lady Murray never showed this to your father?"

"No; she carried her spite beyond poor Lilian's death. My father had never been given any of Lilian's letters. My stepmother kept the key of the post-bag and doled out all the letters herself. Now read this one from Lilian to me. It is almost sacred, and yet you are such a friend that I want you to see it."

"MY DEAREST BARBARA,—I must just write you a line, for I feel weak and unready for the strenuous time in front of me. If my darling little one lives and is motherless, I hope that when you grow up, you may see it and love it for my sake. I hope it will be a girl, for she would comfort my poor Hubert. I am sure I shall not come through. My heart is with you and with father. I wish I had not married as I did, but I felt that we would never be allowed to do so at all if we waited for father's consent. Lady Murray must have made him write as bitterly as he did when I announced our engagement. And Hubert has made me happy, and we have had a lovely year together.

"Your loving sister,

"LILIAN."

Stuart handed this back to her without a word.

"Well, you have read them, and you can imagine how father and I felt. He was most eager to see the girl, and told me it would be quite easy to write to the English chaplain in Florence and get him to make inquiries about the birth of the child and its baptism. Of course, I told him that if the father took the child straight back to England, he most likely would not have had it baptised in Florence. Anyhow, after breakfast yesterday morning, I went down to the Patches, and actually found the girl had decamped and had left no address.

"Father was dreadfully put out when he knew. She might have waited as I asked her to."

"I met her at the station."

"Oh, Stuart, what did she say?"

"She said she was 'on adventure bound,' that she wished she had never come to Marley, or seen any of us."

"That doesn't sound well. She may be an imposter."

"No, she is genuine," said Stuart gravely. "And if you were more observant, and not quite so self-absorbed, you would know it."

"Oh, Stuart, do I deserve that?"

"Yes, I think you do. You have trampled on her pretty heavily. Suppose that she is your niece, and, through adverse circumstances, nearly penniless, you have sent her back to London to sink or swim, and ten chances to one, she'll sink."

"But she has her father's relations. She has no appearance of poverty. That girl has been brought up and educated in the most comfortable circumstances. Unobservant as I am, I could see that."

"She told my mother that her father is dead, and also her uncles who have brought her up. She means to earn her living in London by needlework. A risky proceeding, I should say."

"What are we to do?" Barbara asked rather helplessly.

"Get Walter to look up the quarters of these defunct uncles; there may be someone there who will still be in touch with her. If we weren't in the middle of the hay, I would go to town for you. Why don't you go yourself?"

"What good should I do? It is like looking for a needle in a haystack."

"Do you want to find her?"

"Of course I do! Don't think me my stepmother over again. After Lilian's letter to me, I feel bound to discover her child, if it is alive. I'll write to Walter by the next post. Father has already written to Florence. There are many points in her favour. Do you know what her Christian name is? Damaris; Mrs. Patch has told me that. Lilian had a beloved school friend called Damaris Trenchard. She may have told her husband to call the baby that. It's a queer coincidence, anyhow, for it is not a common name."

"I haven't a shadow of doubt as to her identity. Haven't you a portrait of your sister in the house?"

"Yes, upstairs. That was my stepmother's doing. She banished it to our old schoolroom. Come and see it."

They left the dining-room and walked up the broad oaken stairs and along a gallery till they came to a baize door which led to the old nurseries and schoolroom. Here, in a shabby, empty room, they saw Lilian's portrait facing them as they came in.

It was a full-length portrait of her dressed in her riding-habit leaning against one of the pillars of the front porch of the house; two greyhounds were nestling against her. She held her head proudly, and there was a defiant rather scornful curve in her beautiful mouth. It was the picture of a girl in all the splendid indifference and glory of her youth, and it was Damaris to the life, only a little more hard and bitter than the Damaris of Stuart's acquaintance.

Stuart gazed at the portrait earnestly.

"The same wonderful starry grey eyes with the long curled lashes," he said. "Why, Barbara, if you knew this picture well, how could you fail to recognise the likeness?"

"I don't know the picture well," said Barbara, looking up at it with a wistful expression. "I haven't been in this room for years. I had only my memory to guide me. And I did recognise a resemblance when she bowed me out so haughtily. But all the same, we must have more legal proofs than we possess at present that she is really our relative. And meanwhile, the difficulty of her whereabouts is not solved."

"And she may be starving in London," said Stuart.

"Don't rub it in. We must find her, even if we employ Scotland Yard."

"We can hunt up her old uncles' will and see who proved it. This nephew, I suppose, who disinherited the girl. He must know where she is, or the lawyer. She must have a little money, and most likely draw it through him. You write to Walter, for no time should be lost; and then, if she's not found by the time the hay is done, I'll go up to town and hunt for her myself."

With this promise Barbara was fain to be content.

Her brother Walter was written to; he wrote back in a fortnight's time to say that the house had been sold, and young Hartbrook had gone abroad.

The family lawyer had informed him that Damaris had simply disappeared one day, leaving word behind that she was very content with the plans she had made for herself, and preferred to give no address. He added that she had taken a certain sum of ready money with her, but otherwise was penniless, and had not given her cousin the chance of providing for her. With regard to her identity, the lawyer knew that Hubert Hartbrook had arrived with her as a small baby many years ago, and his uncles had taken him in, and given their great-niece a home from that day.

When Sir Mark heard this, he became more anxious than ever to find her.

"To think that she came down to make herself known to us, and then, directly that was done, she should run away and leave no traces behind her! I wish she had come to me, poor little soul. You deal so harshly with people, Barbara—you frightened her away. I suppose she thought we would not own her!"

"Yes, I was harsh," said Barbara honestly. "I am sorry for what I said now: but we will find her, father, and if she proves to be Lilian's child, you may be sure that I will welcome her. I don't know how it is, but I never take to young girls, and I did not take to her. I thought she was an imposter."

"You always believe the worst of people," said her father gravely; "it's a bad fault for a woman, Barbara."

"Now, father, you have scolded me enough; I am angry with myself. But I'll do my best to trace her. It was temper that took her off—unless she really went to find the proofs we ought to have. She may have done that. If so, we will hear from her again. And I think we had better keep this matter to ourselves. I don't want the whole village to get hold of it. I know Stuart does not intend to tell his aunt, because she is such a chatterbox."

"I met Mrs. Dashwood," Sir Mark said, "when I was out this morning, and I told her all about it; only I asked her not to let it go any farther."

Barbara smiled.

"I believe Mrs. Dashwood is like a Father Confessor to you! But she's safe enough. As she knows, I think I'll go and see her this afternoon. I believe she heard from her."

Barbara found Mrs. Dashwood in.

"I'm not a very frequent visitor to the Rectory, am I?" she said, when Mrs. Dashwood had expressed her pleasure at seeing her. "But my self-confidence has received a shake, and as father has told you everything, I thought I would like to know what you think about it."

"I am so glad you have come to me. I am longing to hear more details. And I am troubled about her disappearance, as I don't believe she had anywhere to go to."

"But she can't be quite friendless."

"She told me she had led a very secluded life with her two old uncles. They would not allow her to make friends—the old are very selfish sometimes—and she had very little knowledge of the world. I don't think I shall be betraying her confidence when I tell you that she left her old home because it had become the property of her cousin, and she would be beholden to him for nothing."

"But that was foolish and proud."

"I gathered that there had been an engagement between them, and that neither of them were happy together, so she thought the best thing was to break it off and come away. All the money and property was left to him. She was in an awkward position."

"I wonder," said Barbara, musingly, "if she is really Lilian's daughter?"

"You have reason to be proud of her if she is. I wish you had known her as I did. You could not have failed to be interested in her."

"I had one interview with her and that was a disastrous one to us both. Did she ever give you a hint of why she had come into this part of the world?"

"No; but I knew there was something on her mind."

"Why didn't she come to us at once with her story? That is what puzzles me. It was not straightforward."

"You must make allowances for her youth. Of course, you would not have acted so; but I think her courage failed her. She said once to me that you looked very alarming, and that she wondered if she would ever know you. I said that you were not fond of calling upon anybody, and that you never called on the few lodgers who came and went. You don't, do you?"

"No," said Barbara, in her blunt fashion: "why should I? You do it because they become your parishioners for the time being. I should never have called upon her if she had taken root here. I was petrified when she told me she wished to speak to me."

"Poor little Damaris! So reserved and dignified in some ways, so frightened and childish in others. I can't bear to think of her in London alone. She is very sensitive and highly strung, and it is only the rougher natures that can stand the working life in London."

"Oh, every girl does something nowadays!" said Barbara. "But, of course, she is too young and pretty to be without any friends in London. I am very sorry about it all. I don't know how we are to find her."

"Have you thought of advertising in the daily papers."

"Do you think that any good? Personally, I never look at the advertisement column in any paper, but perhaps she might. I'll mention it to father."

"And I'll pray about it," said Mrs. Dashwood simply; "that is my way, you know. God knows where she is, and He can, if He will, make her whereabouts known to us."

"I wish I had your faith," said Barbara lightly, and then she took her departure.