Chapter II: Engaged

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

It was Stevens who came in upon Damaris as she was working in her quiet upper room. The girl was feeling dull and rather flat. Dane had been with them as an inmate of their home for two months. Now he had gone—he was still fruitlessly looking for his sister. But latterly, he had seemed to lose interest in her, and had been rather engrossed with some friends of his whom he had known in India, and who were now at home. He was at present with them in Scotland.

Damaris had met them once, and had not been very favourably impressed by them, but that was perhaps because they had not made themselves very pleasant to her. Mrs. Welbeck was a very smart-looking widow with three marriageable daughters, all of whom were older than Damaris, and very lively go-ahead girls. They seemed to have plenty of money, and were looking about for a country house in which they hoped to settle.

Damaris had felt, as she listened to their talk, how little she knew of the world in which Dane had lived, and how ignorant and unsophisticated she must appear to these wide-awake knowledgeable girls. When Dane had gone, she found herself continually wondering whether he would soon write and announce his engagement to one of these girls. She felt that either of them would have him, but was not sure whether he meant to marry at present, he seemed so well contented and satisfied with his present state. He had ingratiated himself into the good graces of his uncles, and had delighted them by his keen interest in some of their treasures. And they, as well as Damaris, had missed him very much since he had left them.

Damaris's thoughts, as she sat at her window and worked, had been in Scotland. She roused herself with a frightened start at Stevens's words. Illness of any sort had never come near her. She did not know how to deal with it. Her Uncle Ambrose used to boast that he had never had a day's illness in his life. Her Uncle Simeon was not so strong. He would get heavy chest colds, but Stevens would nurse him through them, and Damaris felt no responsibility about them.

"Oh, Stevens, what do you mean?"

"I've just found him on the floor in the library. Mr. Simeon has helped cook and me, and we have got him into his bed-room and on his bed. Mr. Simeon has rushed off for the doctor, but Mary and cook are no good at all, they're all in a shake, and I must get hot bottles to his feet. I want you to sit with him till I come back."

Talking rapidly, Stevens led the way to the bed-room, and Damaris followed her feeling dazed and bewildered.

Then ensued some very weary troubled days. The doctor came and went; Damaris developed into a very capable nurse. She and Stevens attended upon the invalid entirely between them. He was unconscious for some days, then recovered consciousness, and with difficulty tried to make his wishes known.

One afternoon Damaris was alone with him. He had been sleeping and was lying with closed eyes, when she suddenly heard him trying to pronounce her name. She bent over him.

"Yes uncle, dear? What is it? Can I do anything for you?"

He looked up at her.

"You must marry him," he said feebly. "A nice boy—knows the worth of things. We've talked it over—he's willing—and then—you'll get your share."

Damaris felt the blood rush into her cheeks. She felt that her uncle's mind was wandering.

He looked up at her uneasily.

"Yes—yes," she said, soothingly; "it will be all right. You are getting better, Uncle Ambrose. You will soon be all right again."

He shook his head feebly in dissent, but lay still. Then he spoke again—

"Simeon—he knows—codicil—he will tell you."

"Yes," said Damaris again; "it will be all right. I will ask him. You try to sleep again for a little."

He said no more, but after a time his breathing became so laboured and hard that Damaris slipped out of the room and called Stevens.

Those were his last words to her. He died two hours afterwards.

Mr. Simeon Hartbrook was inconsolable. He wired for Dane, but Dane was touring through the Highlands with his friends, and could not be found quickly.

Damaris and her uncle were the only ones who attended the funeral. She felt an immense pity for her Uncle Simeon. He seemed to be literally crushed by his loss, and was quite unable to settle any of his brother's affairs. It was very wet and stormy at the cemetery and he contracted a chill.

Stevens put him to bed like a child when he came home, but he insisted upon seeing Damaris, for he said he had business to discuss with her.

When she came to him, he looked at her helplessly.

"I am feeling very ill, my dear. If I don't get well, I want to tell you about—" He hesitated. "I can't remember—but Dane knows—he will explain—we felt he would value our things more than you would. He would not sell them. And you've been a good girl, and when you are married, he will do everything for you. He seemed to come just when we wanted him. It will be all right for you—but Ambrose thought it best."

"Yes, I'm sure it is all right," murmured Damaris.

She began to wonder if her two uncles had really been trying to make up a match between her and Dane. Her pride rebelled against such an idea, but she could say nothing to disturb her uncle at this juncture. She had a hopeless helpless feeling that everyone round her was going to die. If it had not been for Stevens, who never lost her cheerful composure, Damaris could hardly have got through those days.

When Dane eventually made his appearance, he was met at the door by Stevens who said reproachfully—

"You are too late, sir. You have been wanted badly. Both the masters are gone. I knew Mr. Simeon would never outlive his brother for long, and poor Miss Damaris has had everything to do and settle, with nobody to help her. She's fair worn out with the shock and distress of it."

"Goodness!" ejaculated Dane, aghast. "What a tragedy! And in such a short time!"

He went into the library and sat down on a chair as if he were stunned. Damaris came to him there. It struck him that she carried herself regally, and spoke to him in rather a cold, detached tone—

"Stevens has told you. Did you get none of our wires?"

"Only two," he answered. Then he sprang up and seized hold of her hands.

"You poor child! How I have failed you! Just when I ought to have been by your side, doing everything for you! And I was longing to be back—to put my fate in your hands. I wanted to have spoken before I left; but somehow I was afraid. I hoped being away a little might show you—well, you know—you did not seem ready to meet me half-way. Oh, what am I saying? Damaris, dearest, you will never be alone or friendless if you make me a happy man. I want to have the right to shield—protect—love you. Will you let me have that right?"

One would have thought that Dane had chosen a most unpropitious moment to begin his wooing; but Damaris was feeling unhinged and desperately lonely. She had hardly known how to pass her days. The shock of her uncles' deaths had been great. She had always been treated like a child, and not allowed to act independently or have any responsibility. Now she was alone in this big house, and had to settle and arrange everything, with no help from anyone but Stevens. She felt incompetent, ignorant and forlorn, and longed for someone to be at her side to advise her. She had hoped that Dane would write or come; she had watched expectantly for some news of him day after day.

His impulsive speech and compassionate eyes, his tender hold of her, drove away the slight feeling of annoyance she had been cherishing. She had thought him selfish and unfeeling to stay away at such a crisis; now she realised that he had brought with him a sense of comfort and safety, and that she never wanted him to leave her again.

When his arm drew her gently to him, she did not resist; she only gave a long quivering sigh, and said—

"It is good to have you back again, Dane. I thought I could stand alone, but I find I can't. Take care of me."

And then she began to cry, and Dane rested her head against his shoulder, and kissed away her tears and comforted her.

A little later Stevens was taken into their confidence. She did not seem surprised at their news.

"Mr. Ambrose mentioned it to me before he was taken ill. He seemed so pleased you appreciated the house so much, Mr. Dane. He said to me, 'twas good to know you'd care for the things they had loved, when they were gone. It seemed as if he felt he would be taken soon."

And Stevens wiped her moist eyes as she spoke. She had been with her masters for over twenty years, and had a sincere affection for them.

Dane went away, but only to settle himself into the hotel opposite, and the next day he came over to the house and had a long interview with Mr. Hunter the lawyer.

Mr. Hunter was a little wiry wizened man with a very big forehead and beetling eyebrows, beneath which his piercing eyes would transfix and awe all who transacted business with him.

"I suppose I can see the will?" Dane said. "I understood from my uncles that, in the first instance, they had left everything to their niece, Miss Hartbrook, but that they were so anxious that we should make a match of it that they told me that they had drawn up a codicil in which we were made co-legatees upon our wedding-day. Is this correct? They need not have troubled to alter the will, Miss Hartbrook and I would have come together without it. A case of love at first sight!"

He gave a little awkward laugh, and felt annoyed at Mr. Hunter's glittering gaze.

"I am glad to hear it. Very glad," said Mr. Hunter. "I have known Miss Hartbrook from a child. She, in my opinion, deserves to be sole legatee; but your uncles were peculiar in their attitude towards women. They seemed afraid that she might marry someone unsuitable—someone who might not appreciate or value their hoarded treasures—so they wanted to safeguard her; and when you told them you hoped to make her your wife, they seemed to think her future was secure."

He paused, then cleared his throat.

"You may like to see the codicil. Everything is left unconditionally to you."

"Not unconditionally?"

Mr. Hunter handed him a copy of the will. The brothers had made their will together in a very quaint fashion, but it was all perfectly legal.

Dane read the codicil in silence, then he handed it back to the lawyer.

"Of course, it will make no difference to Miss Hartbrook," said Mr. Hunter; "for her uncles seemed quite assured that she would marry you. Apart from you, she will be left penniless."

"But she never will be apart from me," said Dane hastily. He got up from his seat and paced the room. Then he stood still.

"Does she know this? Has she seen this codicil?"

"No," said Mr. Hunter; "as she does not benefit directly by the will, I saw no need to let her read it. She has never asked about it, but I think that she imagines that the estate is divided between you. I don't approve of the codicil myself, and I told your uncles so. I was such an old friend of theirs that I felt I had a right to speak. But, as I say, I hope it will make no difference to Miss Hartbrook."

"She need never know," said Dane quickly.

Then Mr. Hunter and he began to discuss business matters together; and when the lawyer eventually left, Dane still paced the room with a frowning brow, and set determined lips.

"What a fool I was to be in such a hurry," he muttered to himself.

But when he next met Damaris, he was the tender demonstrative lover. She was very sweet, but still bore herself somewhat proudly. He felt that he did not yet wholly possess her heart.

Stevens watched over her like a dragon. She allowed her to go out with Dane, but did not encourage him to come much to the house.

"You are alone here," she said; "and I know how careful young ladies have to be. I wish Mr. Dane would find his sister. She would be good company for you."

Damaris felt very lonely in the big house. She sometimes went through the beautiful rooms with Stevens, but she could take no pleasure in their contents.

"It is a waste of life, Stevens," she said one day, "to spend all your money and strength on things that you have to leave behind you when you die. I keep thinking of that verse in the Bible:

"'Then whose shall those things be which thou hast provided?'"

"They are yours, Miss Damaris—they will be when you're married," said Stevens, who could not follow her young mistress's train of thought.

Damaris looked round her with a little whimsical smile. She was standing in an oak-panelled Jacobean-furnished room. The great bed with its tapestry hangings, the old chests, and beautiful chairs, the heavy silver candlesticks on the carved oak mantelpiece, all seemed to her gloomy in the extreme, though the bright sunshine was streaming through the windows.

"I wouldn't sleep in this room, or take it for my own, Stevens, for a hundred pounds," she said; "and yet how Uncle Ambrose used to love it!" Her voice faltered. "Oh, Stevens, I do want them back. I feel frightened of the future. They were always so safe, so reliable!"

"They were very fond of you, Miss Damaris; and there, now—did I not tell you what Mr. Simeon said to me not long before his end? He said, 'Tell Miss Damaris that her mother's escritoire in my study is hers, as well as the furnishing of her own room. The rest will be her husband's property.' I don't quite make out what he meant, poor gentleman, for the whole house is yours, surely."

"I haven't seen the will," said Damaris, in hesitating tones; "but Mr. Dane seems to think they are his. And of course, when we marry, there will be no question of to whom they belong."

"Miss Damaris, my dear, I've known you from a child, but you don't appear to be over-eager about this marriage. If so be as you'll have enough left to you—and surely the masters have put you first—I'll be willing to go with you anywhere you like. But don't marry if you're not sure whether it will be a happy thing for you."

"You're a dear, Stevens," said Damaris, tears rising suddenly to her eyes; "but I am in no doubt as to what I ought to do. I am glad you told me about my mother's writing-table. I would like it moved up to my room as soon as possible."

Stevens bustled away to see that this was done.

Damaris crossed the room and opened one of the windows. Then, kneeling on a low stool, she leant her elbows on the window-sill and propped her chin in her two hands. She gazed down into the busy streets below dreamily. Her spirits had been so crushed by the calamity that had befallen her that at first she had simply acquiesced in all that came to her. Even Dane's proposal had almost left her unmoved. She regarded it as inevitable, because she felt that her uncles had wished him to share in their personal estate, and that it was the only way in which justice could be done him.

And Dane was very affectionate and tender with her for the first few days. She was soothed and comforted by his presence. Lately she had not seen so much of him. Mrs. Welbeck and her daughter were back in town, and he spent a good deal of his time with them. He naturally did not feel his uncles' deaths so deeply as Damaris did, and was vexed with her for refusing to go to entertainments with him.

Now, as she looked out of the window, the lethargic state of her mind seemed to be passing from her. A sudden vista of freedom and independence came to her, of taking Stevens as her maid, and travelling, of seeing some of the places to which she had always longed to go. She drew a long breath. She looked backwards half-fearfully into the sombre bed-room behind her.

"Did my uncles expect me to live in this house for ever and ever? Shall I never have any change? If I marry Dane, shall I still have to stay in these old rooms, and sit at home with my work, whilst he goes out and enjoys himself with other women? I feel that this will be my life. And oh! I just long to break away from it all! How often I used to wish that some change would come into my life. Now it has come—the door seems open—and yet I can't go out! And I'm afraid I don't like the idea of marrying Dane. I don't feel quite sure of him—but I have promised—and I seem shut-up to it!"

She sighed at such thoughts, then saw Mr. Hunter crossing the street towards the house.

She knew he was still busy over some of her uncles' papers. They had made him their chief executor, and he came nearly every day to the library to overhaul the contents of a big writing bureau that stood there. A sudden impulse took her downstairs. She determined to ask him the exact terms of the will. She had asked Dane more than once, but he had waived the subject, and she had a longing to know exactly how she was situated. When she entered the room, she found Mr. Hunter just settling down to work, but he turned at once towards her with a fatherly smile.

"Well, Miss Damaris, how are you? Why are you not out this lovely morning?"

"I hope I am not interrupting you," said Damaris, with dignity; "but I think I have a right to know about my uncles' will. I have never been told, and I should like you to explain it now. Have they left everything between myself and my cousin? Uncle Ambrose told me some time ago that I should come in for it all, but from what he said to me when he was ill, I fancy he must have made some alteration. They were so fond of Dane. They seemed to think he appreciated all their treasures more than I did."

Mr. Hunter hesitated.

"You place me in an awkward position," he said. "Has not your cousin told you? It will make no difference to you. Happily you two young people fell in love with each other before the codicil was drawn up."

"What is the codicil?" asked Damaris. "I really have a right to see it, if it has anything to do with me."

"Well, you are not a child, my dear, and so I will tell you. As I say, it will make no difference to you. Your uncles revoked their former will, and instead of leaving everything to you, left it all to your cousin unconditionally. I did not approve of the alteration, I protested against it; but your uncles were determined. Mr. Dane took their hearts by storm. You know their old-fashioned notion, that women were helpless as far as money or business was concerned. They were convinced that your welfare would be considered by your cousin, and that your marriage to him would be an accomplished fact."

Damaris looked at him with clear steady eyes.

"Then you mean to say that I am penniless, and that it will be no advantage to my cousin if he marries me? Can you tell me when he knew this?"

"When I showed him the codicil. It was a surprise to him as it is to you. He had always thought that you would be the chief benefiter by the will."

"And upon what date did you show him the will?"

Mr. Hunter referred to his pocket-book and told her.

Damaris stood before him very straight and slim. And as Mr. Hunter's keen eyes met hers, he knew that this was no weak helpless girl who would sink under the blow which she had just received.

"I think you ought to have told me this before," she said gravely.

"I think I ought," he replied. "It was weakness on my part not to have done so. But you asked no questions, and I knew what a troublous time you had had of it, and thought it best to defer the information. It will make no practical difference to you, will it?"

"All the difference in the world," she said.

And she walked out of the room, still carrying her head like a young queen, but with a heart as heavy as lead.

She went up to her own room, which was filled with the afternoon sunshine. Stevens and the maids had been there, for her mother's beautiful secretaire was in the window. It was of Chinese workmanship, so beautifully inlaid with mother-of-pearl that it was iridescent. Inside, it was fitted with sapphire-blue velvet. As a little child, she had loved to pass her small fingers over its surface. But now, for the time, she did not heed it.

She sat down at the open window with troubled eyes. She knew now that Dane had proposed to her before he had been told of the codicil; that he had been under the impression that he was offering himself to a young heiress. Was this the explanation of his gradual coolness and indifference to her? She could not but acknowledge to herself that, as a lover, he left much to be desired.

"But then," she told herself, "I am not in love with him. I don't know why I said 'Yes,' except that I knew the uncles wished it; and I was feeling so lonely and miserable, that it was nice to feel that somebody cared for me. What a shock it must have been to him when he was shown the codicil! Oh, I hope I don't wrong him, but I think—I think that money is more to him than a wife. I never have felt that I am worth very much in his eyes. I am not smart enough, or amusing enough to capture his heart. He much prefers to be with the Welbecks. It is good of him to have kept me in ignorance of my position. But I am thankful that I am ignorant no longer!"

As she sat, thinking deeply, she longed as she had often longed before, to have some woman to advise her.

And then Stevens came to the door.

"Mr. Dane has called. Will you see him?"

"Certainly," said Damaris with decision. "Don't show him up here. I will go to him."

Dane came forward, when he saw her, with outstretched hands.

"Damaris, dear, will you come out with me? I have been so busy the last few days that I fear you will think I have forgotten you."

He drew her to him and kissed her.

Damaris turned a little from him so that his kiss only touched the edge of her cheek; but he did not appear to notice anything amiss.

"I don't think I will come out this afternoon," she said, "it is too hot."

"I thought you might like to come round to the Welbecks. Mrs. Welbeck has called upon you, hasn't she? She's so anxious to befriend you. For my sake, you won't repel her advances, will you? She really would be a good friend for you, Damaris. She knows everyone worth knowing, and you can't always shut yourself up in this old house away from the world."

"But, Dane, it is barely a month since my uncles died. Nobody could expect me to be out and about just yet."

Dane made an impatient movement.

"You're so old-fashioned! Mrs. Welbeck was only saying yesterday that it must be very bad for you to be so much alone."

"Perhaps it is," said Damaris quietly; "but I am accustomed to it. I wish you could find your sister. It would be nice to know her."

Dane looked a little uncomfortable.

"I meant to have told you," he said. "I did trace her—at least, I heard all about her. But our family trouble has driven it out of my head. And I don't know that I should do her any good by going to see her. It might just unsettle her."

"Your sister, Dane?"

Damaris showed the amazement she felt.

He gave a short laugh.

"She's doing all right for herself. She's working in the City. The honest truth is, if I turned up, she would think I ought to keep her—especially now. I didn't know she was so badly off. The aunt she lived with left her nothing—old wretch! Her money went to her son who's abroad somewhere. I don't feel like having Nellie on me for good and all. She would expect to live with me—and how would you like that?"

"Do you think she is very like you, Dane?"

"Haven't a notion. Why?"

"She might be very different. She might prefer her independence. I can't think that you mean to leave her alone, and never let her know that you are in England."

"Oh, I'll see her some time or other," said Dane vaguely.

There was silence between them. He was conscious of her disapproval, and was annoyed with her in consequence.

"Now, I ask you again, Damaris, to come round to the Welbecks with me. Do it to please me."

"Is it their 'At Home' day?"

"Yes."

"Then I really cannot. Mrs. Welbeck ought not to expect me. I won't keep you, Dane, as you're going. Come round another day, and let us go out of London for a day. I should really enjoy that."

She parted from him pleasantly with a smile on her lips, and watched him go out of the house and walk down the street. She fancied she could see the relief he felt, in his light easy step and the swing of his broad shoulders.

And then she turned to go upstairs again, and these words escaped her—

"You will soon be rid of me, Dane. You will not have long to wait."