THE DISCOVERY OF DAMARIS

BY

AMY LE FEUVRE

Author of "The Mender," "A Daughter of the Sea," "Her Husband's Property," "The Chisel," "A Happy Woman," "Tomina in Retreat," etc., etc.

R.T.S., 4, BOUVERIE ST., LONDON, E.C.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I. A LONELY GIRL

II. ENGAGED

III. FREEDOM AT LAST

IV. A COUNTRY LODGING

V. MAKING ACQUAINTANCES

VI. A SUDDEN DEPARTURE

VII. A CONSULTATION

VIII. IN LONDON

IX. THE RUNAWAY IS TRACKED

X. A SUCCESSFUL ERRAND

XI. THE FAMILY MEETING

XII. LIFTING THE LATCH

XIII. A BIG SCHEME

XIV. BARBARA'S ENGAGEMENT

XV. THE SQUIRE'S ACCIDENT

XVI. A DIFFICULT TIME

XVII. THE LAST RIDE

XVIII. THE RIGHT HOME APPEARS

THE DISCOVERY OF DAMARIS

CHAPTER I

A LONELY GIRL

DAMARIS sat at her window, work in hand. She was in a big upper room of a very old house in a quiet London square.

It was her own room, and in the soft spring sunshine of that March afternoon it looked very attractive and comfortable. A thick Persian carpet was underfoot; the walls were covered with coffee-coloured paper, and all sorts and sizes of pictures hung upon them, from tiny water-colour paintings to heavy oil and a few very valuable and ancient prints. There was a low bookcase on one side of the fireplace, with some beautiful old china bowls resting on the top of it. There was a writing-table in one window, and a jar of yellow daffodils upon it. A chintz-covered couch was drawn up to another window. One or two comfortable lounge chairs, a work table of Indian design in red lacquer, and a curiosity-cabinet completed the furniture.

Damaris herself was the centre of her room. She was a slim young girl, with a proud carriage and poise of head. A small head she had, with soft dark hair wound round it in coronet form; her eyes were dreamy and wistful—grey eyes, with long curling black lashes. Her face was white and small, her mouth beautiful in its sensitiveness and delicacy of outline.

An observer of human nature said of her, when he had seen her for the first time—

"A soul built to suffer. Too tenderly shod for life's rough stones."

And one who knew her better said—

"She is not awake. There are slumbering fires which, once roused, will startle all by their fierceness."

She had a beautiful bit of tapestry on her lap. Quickly and deftly her fingers were forming wonderful flowers of rich colours. But her eyes were not always on her work. The window was open. On the opposite side of the street was the entrance porch of a private hotel. Motors and taxis drove to and from it continually, and Damaris's grey observant eyes noted all the arrivals and departures. A little smile flitted over her face as she watched an old lady and gentleman descend with difficulty from a taxi. An elderly maid followed them into the hotel, laden with bags and shawls and leading a King Charles spaniel behind her.

"They've come up again," murmured Damaris to herself. "I wonder if their daughter will come and see them to-morrow? I am sure she does not enjoy their visits to town."

A smart motor now claimed her attention. A mother and two very pretty daughters, escorted by a handsome man, alighted, and with a great deal of laughter and talk swept into the hotel.

A little sigh came from Damaris's lips.

"Such a good time going on, so close to me; and yet I might be in another world altogether."

"If you please, Miss, your Uncle Ambrose wants you!"

Damaris started at the voice. An elderly parlourmaid stood inside the door. She lumped up lightly from her seat, letting her work drop upon the carpet, and, throwing her arms above her head, gave a yawn.

"I'm coming, Stevens. It isn't tea-time, surely?"

"Very close to it," said the maid. "But your Uncle Simeon has brought a visitor in."

"Oh!" sighed the girl. "Another old man, I suppose!"

She followed the maid out of the room. The stairs were dark polished oak, and uncarpeted; the banisters beautifully carved; and the dark-panelled walls were lined with many gems of art.

Lightly she ran down two flights of stairs, and pushed open the door of the big drawing-room, or library as her uncles preferred to call it.

Two old white-haired men were standing by the window talking eagerly to a young one. They all turned at Damaris's entrance.

"Damaris, this is your Cousin Dane. You have never seen him. He has taken us by surprise. Landed from India this morning. He got sick-leave suddenly."

Dane held out his hand in friendly greeting.

He saw and noted the pride and grace of the girlish figure. She wore a blue-grey gown, and a few yellow daffodils were tucked into her belt.

"Cousin Damaris, isn't it?" he said, a smile lightening up his dark and rather stern-cut features. "If not first cousins, we are second, are we not?"

"Of course, you are second cousins!" said Ambrose Hartbrook sharply. "Now, Damaris, see that a room is prepared for Dane at once. You can give him the Sheraton room."

Damaris wheeled round and left the room as quickly as she had entered.

"Does my Cousin Damaris live with you?" asked the young man.

"Yes, her parents both died when she was a child. She has been at school till about three years ago; since then she has made her home with us. A good useful girl, but rather sleepy in disposition. I daresay she will make a good wife to someone some day."

Damaris caught the words as she closed the door. Her small head raised itself proudly, and a hot colour came into her cheeks.

"If a good wife simply means a good housekeeper, then, Uncle Ambrose, never, 'never!'" she muttered to herself.

She was not seen again till dinner time. She entered the library then, looking very fresh and girlish in a soft white silk gown. Dane Hartbrook's eyes noted her every tone and gesture. She did not speak much during dinner, which was served in old-fashioned state, and took a full hour to get through.

Then she left her uncles and their guest to their wine, and went back to the library, where she sat in a straight-backed carved chair and gazed broodingly into the fire. She did not turn her head when the door opened, but started when a voice said, close to her ear—

"Thank goodness, a visitor has arrived who is talking furniture shop. Now you can tell me what I want to know. Are our uncles in trade? Their talk is of nothing but choice objects of art—chiefly chairs and tables."

Damaris looked at him and smiled. He stood opposite her on the hearth-rug but did not return her smile. His brows were knitted.

"Do they keep show-rooms?" he persisted. "They talk of the 'Sheraton room,' and the 'Chippendale,' and the 'Jacobean,' and the 'Grinling Gibbons,' and goodness knows how many others! Uncle Simeon is now discoursing upon some old copper urns."

"No, they're not in trade," Damaris said simply; "they've made a hobby of antique things, and spend all their money on it. To have a room with one flaw or false note in it makes them miserable. Every different room depicts a different age. They will show you through the house to-morrow. But they won't show you my room. I have taken care to ensure privacy there. I have been allowed to pick up odds and ends of no particular value scattered over the house, and I've bunched them all together, and I don't care a button what period they belong to!"

Her tone was so emphatic that Dane began to smile.

"Uncle Simeon writes articles in the 'Connoisseur;' he writes and reads more than Uncle Ambrose does. Uncle Ambrose hunts in old curio shops, and goes sometimes all over the Continent after some treasure which he has discovered can be bought. If you want really to bring horror to their hearts, give them some pretty article, new or faked."

She paused. A softer look stole over her face.

"They are very good and kind to me. I don't want to laugh at them or criticise them; but with all the world before them and around them, it seems such waste to live and breathe in an atmosphere of old furniture!"

Dane drew in a long breath.

"And what do you do with yourself?" he asked, letting his eyes rest on her with pleased interest.

Damaris raised her head proudly.

"I am never idle," she said, with sweet aloofness in her tone.

"I suppose you have friends of your own?"

For some reason Damaris resented this catechism. She did not reply. She would liked to have said, "I am an upper servant in the house—a servant without wages. I concoct special polishes for the maids to use upon the furniture; I superintend their work and dust the valuable china. I am not allowed to pay visits or ask anyone to the house. I am a good useful girl, and will stay here until they find a husband for me. And it will be a husband of their liking, not mine!"

All this she thought, but pride and innate dignity kept her lips closed. Then, with a flash in her eyes, she turned the tables upon him.

"My life is not very interesting. Tell me about yours. Where do you live? Why have you come to England? Are you going to stay?"

"I've been in India for ten years—had a coffee and rubber estate out there, but had to chuck it on account of bad health. It's rotten luck to be told I can't live out there. I sometimes wonder whether a short life isn't to be desired. My parents, like yours, are dead. I have a sister somewhere; I must hunt her up. We have never corresponded."

"That's interesting," said Damaris, with bright eyes. "I wish I had brothers and sisters—anyone belonging to me! What an adventure to go through the country hunting them out!"

He looked at her.

"I wish I could look upon it in the light of an adventure. If I had come home with pockets full of money, it would be a brighter outlook."

"Oh, but how dull it is when you have all you want! And there's so much work to be done in the world, waiting for people to take it up. I'd like to walk out of this house to-morrow, and do something."

He sat down in an easy chair opposite her.

"I've heard that women talk like this at home. They don't out with us. Tell me what you would like to do."

Damaris looked at him steadily and gravely.

"I don't think I will—thank you," she said.

He felt sorry he had quenched her, but he was amused at her attitude.

"I will tell you what I want to do?" he said. "I want to settle down in a home of my own, somewhere. I shouldn't mind farming a bit of land, or something of that sort; but no city life for me!"

He stopped short suddenly.

Mr. Ambrose Hartbrook entered the room, followed, in a few moments, by his brother Simeon.

"Now," the latter said, rubbing his hands together, "what shall we do first, Dane? I want to show you my books. Ambrose wants to show you the house."

"Wouldn't the house be better seen in daylight?" queried Dane doubtfully.

Mr. Ambrose smiled.

"We never have full daylight in this house," he said. "No, I think the electric will serve our purpose perfectly. I should like to show you the rooms. We haven't a faked article in them; each a different period, and every detail as perfect as we can make them. Let us start at once. I will lead the way."

Damaris watched the two eager old men leave the room, the rather unwilling young man following them. She smiled to herself, and then sighed.

"If I could see the beauty in it all as they see it, I should be happier, I do believe," she murmured to herself.

Then she took up her embroidery, but the needle dropped out of her fingers. She leaned back in her chair and dreamily watched the dancing firelight in front of her.

Damaris did a good deal of dreaming, and her spirit was always ready to leap away from her narrow surroundings and career in a Will-o'-the-wisp fashion all over the world. To-night she went into the country to a thatched roof farm with diamond panes in casement windows. The rooms were sweet and dainty, but no antique furniture rested on their floors. There was a dairy with yellow bowls of cream, there was an orchard full of apple-blossom and daffodils, and there was a young woman sitting out in it with a child—no!—a cluster!—quite five sweet children hanging round her! And then a husband came marching through the soft green grass. But his face was indistinct—and it was not—no, it certainly was not the face of Dane Hartbrook!

When she got thus far, she shook herself impatiently and picked up her work.

It was some time before her uncles returned, and when they did, she stood up and announced her intention of going to bed.

"Oh, not yet," exclaimed Dane; "it is barely ten o'clock."

But Damaris would not stay. She knew the conversation would be entirely upon the worth of the antiquities just shown; and her Uncle Ambrose patted her on the shoulder in great good humour.

"Beauty sleep must not be forgotten, eh, Damaris? Run away to bed like a good child. We shall sit up for a couple of hours yet. Here, Dane, sample these cigars. They come from the East."

So Damaris disappeared, and Dane settled down to listen, with all the patience he could muster, to a long dissertation on the old men's hobby.

The next morning at breakfast Dane looked across to Damaris and said boldly—

"Will you come out with me this morning? I want to find my sister, and am going to run down to Richmond on the chance of finding her there."

Damaris hesitated to reply.

"You can go," said her Uncle Simeon.

So, an hour later, Damaris started from the house with bright eyes.

Dane looked at her with half-concealed approval. She was neatly and quietly dressed in navy-blue cloth coat and skirt, and a dark blue velvet hat. But a dainty little lace collar, and good gloves and boots, and a nameless air of distinction with which she carried herself made Dane feel proud and pleased as he walked beside her.

"I have never had a day out like this before," she said in an apologetic tone. "You must forgive me if I seem ecstatic over it. Uncle Ambrose has old-fashioned notions. I am allowed to shop alone, but never to go sight-seeing. Stevens must come with me then, and our time is limited to two hours. Are we going to have lunch out? How delicious! And may we go on the top of a 'bus? Stevens won't, but I always do, when I get a chance. I shut my eyes sometimes and fancy myself on the top of an old-fashioned coach or four-in-hand. Oh, isn't a spring day like this ripping? Look at that basket of flowers! Don't the violets smell?"

Dane stopped, bought a big bunch of Neopolitans, and presented it to her.

Damaris took it with a blush and pleased smile. As she fastened it in her jacket, she said—

"You don't think I expected you to give them to me? You must let me admire everything to-day, and take no notice. It's my way when I'm feeling happy."

She was like a child, so frank and free were her comments on all around her.

They took the train to Richmond, and then hired a taxi to take them to a certain address which Dane produced out of his pocket-book.

"My sister was lodging here five years ago with an old aunt. It's just a toss-up whether she'll be here still."

She was not, and the people of the house knew nothing of her. They were new inmates themselves, had barely been there a twelvemonth.

"I'm so sorry for you," said Damaris. "What will you do now?"

"We'll have a drive through the park, and then we'll have lunch. The 'Star and Garter' is no more, I hear, but we'll get food somewhere. Oh, I'm not worrying. I'll have another shot or two before I give up. My father had some old lawyer living in Bloomsbury. I'll look him up and see if he knows of her whereabouts."

Damaris enjoyed every moment of the day. Dane told her of some of his Indian experiences. He was a good talker, and she listened entranced. She in her turn became a little more communicative. She told him that her father had always lived with her two great-uncles, and that he was their favourite nephew.

"He met my mother abroad, and I was born in Florence. I always feel glad I was born in such a beautiful place. My mother died when I was born, and my father brought me straight back to London with my nurse. He died when I was five years old. I can remember him quite well. He painted beautiful pictures. But he was never very strong, and he caught cold when he went down the river one day to sketch, and he never got over it.

"The uncles handed me over to an old friend of theirs who kept a home school for Indian children. She was the only woman friend they ever had. She was very good to me, but I always spent my holidays with the uncles, and when I finished school came home to them for good. You see, not very much has happened to me yet. But I hope it will. I'm always hoping the doors will open and I shall get through to something different."

"Do you think the door is ajar to-day?" Dane asked, looking down upon her with amused interest.

She looked up at him and laughed.

"Perhaps it is open a crack, just enough for me to see through," she said; "but I shall walk out of it free one day."

They had lunch at Richmond; then, in the afternoon they returned to town, and he took her to a matinee. It was late when they returned, and Damaris had only just time to dress for dinner.

Her uncles were most punctilious, and nothing vexed them more than any irregularity in their usual hours.

For the rest of the evening, Dane devoted himself to them. Damaris sat very silent, retracing every detail of her wonderful day.

And when she sat working in her room the next day, she looked across at the hotel opposite with new feelings in her heart.

"I have experienced now what the girls experience over there. I shall not envy them so much now. I know how it feels to be taken out for the day and treated everywhere," she murmured to herself, with elation in her soul.

In the days that followed, she went about a good deal with her cousin Dane. Instead of disapproving of their intimacy, her uncles seemed to be encouraging it. Dane was not loth to have Damaris as a companion. She was fresh and amusing in her somewhat naïve comments on all she heard and saw, and he admired her grace and daintiness. He regarded her as a typical English girl.

Damaris began to wonder why she did not like him better. She came to the conclusion that it was because he was so very worldly-wise. In all his dealings with men and women, Dane seemed to have this principle underlying them: "How can I use them to my best advantage?" And this jarred on the girl's high ideals, and upon her conceptions of life as it ought to be lived.

"You are a dreamer," said Dane, laughing, one day. "Dreamers are generally failures in this world."

"Are they? Why?"

"Because their eyes are always on the unattainable, and they miss the opportunities of improving their present actual circumstances."

Damaris thought over this.

"The man with the muck-rake in Bunyan's 'Pilgrim's Progress' was condemned," she said thoughtfully. "He missed the sight of the crown!"

"I always did think Bunyan lacking in judgment," said Dane. "That man was making the most of his opportunities, and it is those who make the most of the poorest surroundings that get on in the world."

"'Oh, deliver me from that muck-rake,'" quoted Damaris softly to herself.

And Dane looked at her with impatient amusement. He was being continually surprised by her independence of thought.

At first, he treated her as a young unsophisticated girl. His tone was slightly patronising. He was ready to give her information on every point, and expected her to acquiesce humbly in all that he said. But he found she had a way of looking at him through her long eyelashes as if she were summing him up. And more than once, the enigmatical smile and silence with which she had met some of his assertions left him doubtful, and slightly uncomfortable.

Yet they were the best of friends. When he was away from her, he found himself counting the time to when he should be with her again. And she enjoyed the novelty of interchanging thoughts and ideas with someone who did not, like her uncles, consider that a woman's voice should be silent in the society of men.

CHAPTER II

ENGAGED

"MISS DAMARIS, my dear, trouble is on us! Come quick! Mr. Ambrose has had some kind of stroke!"