Chapter VIII: In London

WHEN Damaris reached town, she took a bed-room for herself at the Paddington Hotel. She was so uncertain about her movements that she only booked it for one night. Her idea was to get hold of Stevens, whom she expected to find in her old home. And early the next morning, she made her way round there. To her dismay, she found an empty house in the hands of painters and decorators. She spoke to one of the men, and asked if he knew where Mr. Hartbrook was. The man said he did not know that name, but that the present owner of the house was a Captain Douglas.

Perplexed, and bitterly disappointed to find Stevens gone, Damaris made her way to a neighbouring dairy, from whom they had always had their milk. They told her there that all the servants had left a fortnight previously; that young Mr. Hartbrook, they believed, had gone abroad; and that the house had been sold.

Damaris was quite dazed. She felt as if she were suddenly flung out into an unfriendly world, and all her belongings swept away from her.

"What am I to do?" she asked herself. "I can never afford to live in an hotel. I must try to get some comfortable rooms somewhere. I expect Stevens has gone home to her people. I will write to her at once. I long to tell her now what I have been doing."

She walked round the square, wondering what she had better do. Her courage rose to the occasion, she would not allow herself to feel helpless and unnerved.

Then she went to a chemist at the corner of the square. She had known him for years. Her uncles had dealt with him, and she thought he might know of some respectable rooms. He was only too pleased to try to help her.

"I wish I did know of some rooms near here," he said; "but London is very full just now, and I think you will find difficulty in getting any. I suppose you wouldn't like a boarding-house? I know an inexpensive one in Bayswater. My wife's cousin keeps it. Of course, she may be full up; but you could ask her if she could take you. I'll get the address. I know she has several young ladies who go out to their work every day from her house."

"Thank you. I think I might try her," said Damaris hopefully.

She received the address and started off for Bayswater. It did not look very prepossessing when she reached it. It was a dingy house in a dingy terrace, but when the door opened, everything looked clean and shining inside, and a smiling little maidservant took her into a small back parlour where very soon Mrs. Jute made her appearance. She was a tall anxious-faced woman with short-sighted blue eyes. Damaris mentioned the chemist by name.

"I am glad you know him," Mrs. Jute said, "for it will make other references unnecessary. Is it as a permanent boarder you wish to come?"

"I can't quite say," said Damaris hesitating; "I want to stay in London for the present."

"I think I have a small single room at the top of the house," said Mrs. Jute. "Will you be in to meals?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Then I must ask two pounds for the week, fires and meals in bed-room extra."

Damaris considered.

"May I see the room?" she asked.

Mrs. Jute led the way. They toiled up three flights of stairs, the stair carpets giving way to cheap oilcloth as they ascended. When Damaris saw the room, she gasped. It had a sloping roof, and seemed stuffy and airless. There was a small iron bedstead, a washstand, and chest of drawers. The latter served as a dressing table, and the looking-glass upon it was cracked. A strip of stair-carpet was by the bed. Drab-flowered paper was on the walls; there were no pictures or ornaments of any kind. There were coarse lace curtains to the windows. The blind was stained and discoloured. All her life Damaris had been accustomed to beautiful furniture and luxurious surroundings. This room did not seem fit for a servant to sleep in. But it was clean; her quick eyes noted that.

"It is very small," she said.

"It is the only one I have."

"Then I think I will take it."

"Are you at work anywhere?"

"Not just yet. I embroider; and I was wondering how I could sit up here in the hot weather."

"Oh, but there is the drawing-room," said Mrs. Jute hastily. "You can always sit there. Most of my young ladies are out in the daytime. Miss Hardacre is the only one that uses it, and she's a very quiet little lady. I'll show you the drawing-room. It has a nice balcony in front."

She led the way downstairs. Damaris followed her with a sinking heart. She had scorned her uncle's exquisitely furnished rooms, now she began to wonder why she had. The drawing-room was in partial darkness; the venetian blinds were down. There was a round table in the middle of it with some fashion papers and a book or two. On a dingy green velvet sofa by the window lay a little old lady in cap and shawl. She hastily rose when Damaris came in, and the girl saw that she was slightly deformed.

"Please don't let me disturb you," said Damaris pleasantly.

"Oh, not at all—not at all—I was having a little mid-day nap. Would you like the blinds up?"

"No, no," said Mrs. Jute; "this young lady is only looking round; we won't disturb you, Miss Hardacre."

They went downstairs, and Damaris arranged to come in that same day.

She felt almost as if she were in a dream. Was it only the day before that she had been at Marley? It seemed like a year to her. But she would not let herself stop to think. She went straight off to the Kensington Art School. She had brought a bit of her needle work as a specimen of what she could do, and to her great delight was given a commission at once to start a curtain border. The pay was small, but she felt it would be better than nothing, and she returned to Paddington to fetch her suit-case.

On the way to her new quarters, she began wondering what had become of all her clothes. She had left them all behind when she had gone off so suddenly, meaning to send for them later.

"I don't want to write to Dane; perhaps Stevens knows about them. I will write to her at once."

So when she reached her small bed-room, she got out her writing-case and wrote her letter. It was a little cooler now. The afternoon sun was hidden behind the opposite houses. She went downstairs and posted her letter, then she went into the drawing-room.

Miss Hardacre was now sitting in an easy chair by the window, reading.

Damaris took another chair and commenced her embroidery. Before very long, she and Miss Hardacre were chatting pleasantly together. She was told about each inmate of the house. There was Mary Watts, who was a daily governess to a London vicar's family; she was a Girton student, and had very advanced ideas of women's position in the future. Then there were Fanny and Florence Crane, two sisters, both employed in type-writing offices in the city.

"They are not very refined," said Miss Hardacre, "and seem to have their heads only full of men, and of dress and amusement; but Fanny is kind-hearted, and when once I had a very bad cold on my chest, she came in one night and poulticed me, and looked after me until I was well again."

Then there was a Mrs. Pounds, who had a private sitting-room and a pet dog, and only appeared at meal-times. And there was a Mr. and Mrs. Lawford; he was in some City business, and was a meek little grey-haired man entirely ruled by his wife who taught dancing in a good many suburban schools, and had no time for housekeeping or looking after a house of her own. Then there was a Miss Green, an art student, and her great friend, a Mrs. Wood, a widow, who was a journalist. These completed the party.

"I am an idler and drone myself," said Miss Hardacre; "but I have not the health for work. And I am thankful to have a roof over my head in these hard times. I used, years ago, to have a dream of a little cottage in the country with a rosy-faced smiling village girl as a maid, but it never came to pass. And at the time I was thinking of it, my only brother was in sad difficulty and I was glad to help him; and I have never had the energy or money since to start a home. I had furniture then, but I had to sell it."

"And is your brother alive?" questioned Damaris, with interest.

"He died two years ago out in Australia."

There was a pause, then Miss Hardacre said, "When I was your age, I lived in the country. My father was in the Indian Army, but he retired when I was quite half-small. I received my hurt—" she glanced at her shoulder as she spoke—"in a carriage accident. It kept me from marrying, of course, and from a good many girlish pleasures. But I am boring you with my reminiscences."

"I like to hear them," Damaris assured her.

"My parents both died when I was about thirty, and then I lived with a devoted friend of mine. She was more than a sister to me; such a clever woman she was—too clever for me. I became quite bewildered with her theories. The worst trouble in my life was when she died, and it was in such sad circumstances." A look of pain crossed her face. Then she said in a lighter tone, "Ah, well! Time heals, to a certain extent. I have out-lived all my hopes and aspirations, and when one expects nothing, one learns to be content."

"That sounds very depressing to me," said Damaris; "surely we can always hope. Good people tell one of the life to come."

Miss Hardacre looked over her spectacles at her.

"Do you think that life will bring us more than this world gives? As far as I see it, it will be one long expiation for all our misdeeds here—or, as the Bible tells us, an everlasting condemnation."

Damaris shook her head.

"Ah, I don't think that. I am not very religious, but good people all seem to have hopes of a better time coming."

"I don't know," said Miss Hardacre feebly. "I lost my faith long ago, when Annie died. I told you she was clever. She took up Christian Science, and never rested till she got me to believe it, too. She was much better than I. And she never expected illness would come to either of us. When it came to her—she died of an internal growth—she laughed at her symptoms and fought bravely till she could fight no longer. I can never forgive some of her friends. They came round her and told her she was failing in trust and right thinking. She knew she was not, but this made her very unhappy; and just before she died, she told me that everything had failed her. I cannot talk about it, but everything failed me too, and I have believed in nothing ever since. I don't know why we were brought into the world. Some of us are not necessary in this life. But I don't know why I am talking in this miserable strain to you. When one is young one does not trouble about serious subjects. It is only when we get old and lonely that thoughts come to us. I try not to think, but just take a day at a time. It is the only way."

Damaris looked a little troubled.

"I have lately come across two very happy people," she said; "one an old bed-ridden woman, the other a young active one. And they both believe firmly in the Bible, and stake all their hopes of future happiness upon its promises."

"Yes—yes," said Miss Hardacre hastily; "I used to read it once." Then, wishing to change the subject, she said, "I met a nice girl once who had the same name as yourself. Have you any relations of the name of Hartbrook?"

"Yes, one or two. Where did you meet this girl?"

"It was before I came here—about three years ago. I was in lodgings in Bloomsbury for a short time, and she occupied an attic room above mine. She was in deep mourning like yourself, and was just beginning to earn her own living. She was rather an amusing creature—very kind to me."

"Do you know where she is now? She might be a cousin of mine; we were hunting for her everywhere a short time ago."

"No, I have lost her address. But it's rather a strange proceeding—our birthdays happen to fall on the same date, and we made a compact that we would write to each other for them once a year. My birthday will be next week, so I shall, most likely, hear from her, but I am afraid I shall not be able to write to her in time. It was very careless of me."

"I should like to find her out if she is my cousin," said Damaris wistfully. "It is nice to have somebody belonging to one, is it not?"

"I will certainly let you have her address when she writes. She is not at all like you in appearance."

"No, I am supposed to be very like my mother, and she was not a Hartbrook."

When, a little later, Damaris sat down to a long table in the shabby dining-room downstairs, she again cast her mind back to the carefully-appointed and well-cooked dinners in her uncles' house. Here there was a strong smell of cabbage-water, and burnt fat on the fire. The table cloth was soiled and creased, the silver like dingy pewter, the glasses dull, as if washed in greasy water. A half-dead maiden-hair fern was in the centre of the table, and some faded roses in four specimen glasses were round it.

The dinner consisted of some very greasy soup, boiled leg of mutton, and a treacle roly-poly. To most of the hungry workers, who had had a scanty lunch in the middle of the day, this fare was both acceptable and sustaining, to Damaris, it was most unappetising. She sat at Mrs. Jute's left hand, the usual place for the latest comer, and on her other side was Miss Watts the governess who overwhelmed her with talk and questions about herself and circumstances. Damaris noted how several of the other boarders stopped their conversation to listen to her replies, and she resented the inquisitiveness of both questioner and listeners. Her replies grew shorter and colder until at last Miss Watts turned from her with a little impatience, and she was left to finish her meal in peace.

After dinner was over, a certain proportion of the diners came into the drawing-room. A bridge table was moved out, and Mr. and Mrs. Lawford, Miss Green and Mrs. Wood sat down to play. Mrs. Pounds seated herself on the sofa and talked to Miss Hardacre, but she soon went upstairs to her own room, and Miss Hardacre went up herself at nine o'clock. Nobody spoke to Damaris, and she worked at her embroidery till half-past nine; then she, also, retired to her room, and surprised herself by a sudden burst of tears when she was alone.

"Oh, I shall never stand it! I hate these people! I can't bear their talk, it's all sordid and horrid. I don't mind poor little Miss Hardacre, she's the only nice one amongst them; but it's dreadful to feel so lonely! I wish I hadn't come away from Marley so hurriedly. How delicious the country was! And the people! I might have made nice friends if I had stayed on there, and yet I couldn't have done it when Aunt Barbara looked upon me as an imposter. I don't know what will become of me! I used to think it would be so delightful to be independent, and able to do exactly as one liked. But I don't find it so pleasant now. And when my little store of money is gone, I shall never earn enough to keep me going."

She went to bed very miserable; the heat and airlessness of London kept her awake. She felt as if she could not breathe in her tiny room. At last, she dropped off to sleep.

And when she woke the next morning things did not look so black. The buoyancy of youth asserted itself, and, after a couple of days had passed, she became accustomed to her atmosphere, made friends with her fellow-boarders, and was happier in consequence. On the third day, Stevens appeared. She had come up to London on purpose to see her young mistress, and Damaris cried when she saw her.

She took her out into Kensington Gardens, and there in a quiet part under the shade of the trees, they talked over matters together. Stevens was astounded to hear that Damaris had discovered her mother's family, but very vexed that she had not been taken into her confidence.

"If you had taken me with you, Miss Damaris, I would have made things all clear. I could have told them that I received you as a little baby from the hands of your father. You went off so hastily that you did not even take your jewel case with you. And there is a necklet of pearls which belonged to your mother, and two rings. Your aunt would have recognised them.

"You were baptized at St. Stephen's Church, and I was there holding you, and you were as good as gold and cooed up into the vicar's face as he took you in his arms. I think I had better go down to this place you've been staying at. I feel I could give them a piece of my mind for daring to doubt your word."

"Now, look here, Stevens, I absolutely forbid you to do anything of the kind! They don't wish to have anything to do with me. I could see my aunt did not. And I am not going to live on their charity. I am not going near them again, and I don't wish you to do so. It makes me wish I had never told you, when you talk so."

"My dear Miss Damaris, you're very young, and much too pretty to be knocking about London alone. You've always had your comforts, and you can't go on living where you are. I know what they boarding-houses are like—'specially the cheap ones. And 'tisn't fit for you. I'm simply furious with Mr. Dane to sell up the old masters' things and turn you out of the house without a penny!"

"I turned myself out. Would you have liked me to marry him, Stevens?"

"No; I had uncomfortable moments thinking about it. He was too selfish and pleasure-loving to make a good husband. I'm glad I gave him a piece of my mind. I spoke straight out when I had your letter, and he deserved every word I said. It was a sorry day when he came into the house. But that's neither here nor there. What we've got to do is to think what will become of you. Your bit of money won't last long, Miss Damaris. It seems to me you had best come home with me for a time. But your relations are bound to do something for you. 'Tis no good to be proud, there's no shame in taking from your own flesh and blood. The sooner you and they comes together the better for you all."

"Stevens, do you know that hundreds of girls, no older than I am, are earning their own living in London? I mean to do it, too. I shall go on working for the Art School for as long as they want me. If that fails, I shall get some other job; I am no early Victorian girl. I mean to do as others do. And you see if I don't weather through all right. Now I want to ask you about my clothes. I never imagined that cousin Dane would send you off, or I should not have left them behind."

"I packed three big trunks myself, Miss Damaris, and they're stored for the time, but your jewel case I took with me, knowing as you would write sooner or later and let me know where you were. I've brought it up with me."

Stevens produced it. She looked terribly anxious, and Damaris laughed at her anxiety, feeling much more ready to go on living by herself in the face of her opposition.

Nothing would induce her to yield to Stevens's entreaty that she should be allowed to go down to Marley and interview Sir Mark Murray herself.

"'Tis the gentleman you should have gone straight to, Miss Damaris, not the lady. Men always see the rights of things quicker than us women. They aren't so prejudiced and suspicious as we are. A man goes straight over an obstacle in his way, a woman looks round the corners and tries to edge round it."

"I don't see the simile," said Damaris, smiling. "Sir Mark would have made shorter work of me, I expect. We won't discuss it any more; but before you leave me, you must promise not to communicate with any of them without my permission."

It was some time before Stevens would do this, but at last, Damaris wrung the promise out of her by threatening to move her present quarters and not tell her where she would be. Just before Stevens left, an inspiration seemed to come to her.

"Miss Damaris, I've saved a good bit, and have got rather tired of service. I was only telling my sister so the other day. How would it be if I were to come up to London and take a nice little house somewhere and let lodgings? You could be my first lodger, and maybe I could get others, and I have a cousin a first-rate cook; I believe she'd join me. I should be comfortable about you, then. And by-and-by, you'd see different, and would want to live with your relations."

"I think it would be charming, Stevens, if you could do such a thing. Go home and think about it, and meanwhile I shall stay on where I am, till your idea can be carried out."

Stevens went off, smiling; but once away from Damaris, her face settled into one of the most anxious gravity.

"She's such an innocent child, and has been so sheltered all her life, that 'tis terrible to think of her on her own. It's to be hoped it will not last long. And if I can't bring her and her grandfather together without breaking my promise—well, I'm not so clever as I'm given credit for!"