CHAPTER III

"Lor! but women's rum cattle to deal with, the

first man found that to his cost;

And I reckon it's just through a woman, that the

last man on earth'll be lost."

G. R. SIMS.

Damaris was the only daughter of Squire Hethencourt. Her mother was an

Italian from the Udino, where the hair of the women is genuine

Titian-red and the eyes are blue; which perhaps accounted for her

colouring and some part of her temperament.

Her type of beauty was certainly remarkable--given, it must be

confessed, to a certain amount of fluctuation--and she danced divinely,

which gift must not be counted as a parlour-trick; she was slow in her

movements and quiet in her manner until she talked of horses or anybody

she loved; then her great eyes would flash and her laugh ring out, also

she would gesticulate as her mother had been wont to do, until the

climate, maybe, of a northern country had served to repress the

spontaneity of her Latin mannerisms.

She was simple and unsophisticated and would have made a splendid

little chum, if only one out of every three men who met her had not

been consumed with a desire to annex her for life by means of a gold

ring.

"Dads," she exclaimed, two months before the beginning of this story,

having enticed him to her bedroom one night and offered him cream

chocolates as he eat at the foot of her bed, facing her. "Dads, what

am I to do? Guy Danvers says he is coming to see you to-morrow, and

I--I am sure it will only turn out to be--well--you, know."

"But, Golliwog dear, I'm the one to be pitied. This makes the--how

many is it?"

"I don't know, Dads, and it isn't the number; it's the awful _habit_

they've got into--and I don't understand anything and I don't encourage

them, do I? Do lend me a hankie--this chocolate has burst--and what am

I to do?"

"Turn a deaf ear, or a cold shoulder, or put a brave face on,

until------" said Dads, retrieving his handkerchief.

"Until what?"

"Until the right man comes along, darling, as he surely will."

The girl's lids suddenly dropped until the lashes lay like a fringe

upon the white cheek over which very slowly but very surely crept the

faintest of rose-colours.

"Hum!" said Dads to himself, as he made great use of the hankie.

"Do smoke, dearest!"

"No, thank you, pet; I couldn't here."

The man who worshipped his wife and adored his little daughter looked

round the white and somewhat austere room, and ran his eye over the

bookstand at his elbow.

Books on horses, a treatise on bulldogs, the New Testament, essays in

French and in German, the History of Egypt in Arabic, Budge's "Book of

the Dead," and "King Solomon's Mines."

"But what am I do _meanwhile_, Dads?" and the girl threw out her hands

imploringly.

"Be cold, deaf or brave, Golliwog, as I have suggested."

"But I've been all that, and it's quite useless. Do you think it would

help if I let my hair grow and did it up in a tight knob?"

"I think it would help a lot if you shaved your head entirely, kiddie."

And the man leant forward and ran his hand through the red curls.

Once upon a time Damaris had read the advertisement of a certain powder

guaranteed to darken hair of any colour, and life having been one long

torment owing to her violent colouring, she had, greatly daring,

acquired a packet; had followed the directions by mixing the powder

with water and covering her head with the muddy result, and, "to make

assurance doubly sure," had sat with her clay pate for an hour instead

of ten minutes near a fire; had cracked the clay, washed her head, and

found her hair grass-green.

She had chopped the verdant masses off without a thought, and had ever

after refused to allow it to grow to hairpin length, and to her father

only had granted the privilege of calling her by the pet name of

Golliwog.

"Would you like to travel a bit, pet?" And the man smiled, though his

heart was heavy at the thought of the blank which his Golliwog's

departure would leave in the home and the daily round.

"Travel! Travel! Oh! darling--to Egypt?

"Why Egypt? Why not France or--or Italy?"

"Because I've _got_ to go to Egypt sometime or another, Dads. I've got

to see the desert and the mosques and the whites and blues and oranges

and camels. It's _in_ me _here_," and she thumped her nightgown above

her heart. "I shall never be happy until I have seen them all. Oh!

Dads, I wonder if you can understand; it--it sounds so--so silly------"

"Tell me," and the man moved over to the head of the bed and took his

daughter gently in his arms.

"I'm so out of the picture, somehow, here, dearest," said the child,

striving as best she could to describe what was really only the passing

of the border-line between girl and womanhood. "This terrible

colouring of mine, for one thing. Why, amongst other girls, I am like

a Raemaeker stuffed into a Heath Robinson folio, like a palette daubed

with oils hung amongst a lot of water-colours. I want to find my own

nail and hang for one hour by myself, if it's on a barn-door or the

wall of a mosque--as long as I am by myself."

"Good Lord!" said the man inwardly, as he patted his daughter's arm;

then, aloud. "As it happens, Golliwog darling, I had a letter from

_Marraine_ yesterday, asking me to let you go out to her in Cairo for

the winter and see as much as possible of the ordinary sights. We'll

talk it over with Mother to-morrow."

"Oh, Dads--how wonderful! And can't you and Mother come? And oh!

_can_ I take Wellington?"

"I think so, dear, if he hasn't hydrophobia," and the man bent to pat

the head of the great dog which had crept from under the bed at the

sound of his name.

And later Dads stood at his window, smoking two last pipes, whilst a

glimpse into the future was allowed him.

"Can it be--can it possibly be," he said, puffing clouds of smoke into

the creeper, to the annoyance of many insects, "Big Ben Kelham?--and

the estates run alongside. Wonder if Teresa has noticed anything.

And--by Jove!--of course!--he's at Heliopolis, getting over his hunting

accident. I wonder------"

And Damaris sat at her window, with her arms round the dog, who longed

inordinately for his mat.

"The desert," she whispered. "The pyramids--the

bazaar--life--adventure. How _wonderful_!" There came a long, long

pause, and then she added, as she turned towards a coloured picture of

the Sphinx upon the wall, "And who cares if the nail is a tin-tack or a

screw?"

As it happened, it was destined to be the jewel-hilted, double-edged,

unsheathed dagger of love.

And Fate, having mislaid her glasses, worked her shuttle at hazard in

and out of that picture of intricate pattern called Life, and having

tangled and knotted together the crimson thread of passion, the golden

thread of youth and the honest brown of a deep, undemonstrative love,

she left the disentanglement of the muddle in the hands of Olivia,

Duchess of Longacres.

Her Grace was over eighty.

Of a line of yeomen ancestors ranging back down the centuries to the

William Carew who had fought for Harold, she had been, about sixty-five

years ago, the belle of Devon. Against the warnings of her heart and

to the delight of her friends and family, she had married the Duke of

Longacres, whose roving eye had been arrested by her beauty at a meet

of the Devon and Somerset, and his equally roving heart temporarily

captured by the indifference of her demeanour towards his autocratic

self.

She had lost him, to all intents and purposes, two years after the

marriage, but blinding her eyes and stuffing her ears, had held high

her beautiful head and high her honour, filling her empty heart with

the love of her son and the esteem of her legion of real friends;

showing the bravest of beautiful faces to the world, until a happy

widowhood had set her free.

Some years of absolute happiness of the simplest kind had followed; the

marriage of her son and birth of her grandson, who had cost his mother

her life. Then the following year had come the Boer War, and the

heroic tragedy of Spion Kop, which left her childless; after that, many

years of utter devotion, to her grandson, who adored her; then the

Great War and the Battle of the Falkland Islands, which left her

absolutely bereft, with the care of the boy's greatest treasure, even

the grey parrot, Quarter-Deck, Dekko for short.

Methuselah of birds, it was possessed of an uncanny gift of human

speech and understanding, and had been promoted through generation to

generation, from sailing-vessel _via_ Merchant Service to British Navy.

As time and tragedy worked hard together to silver her hair and line

her face, so did a veritable imp of mischief, bred of her desolation,

seem to possess the old darling. She cared not a brass farthing for

the opinion of her neighbours, so that after the death of the great

Queen, who had been her staunchest friend, she had instructed Maria

Hobson, her maid and also staunchest friend, to revive the faded roses

of her cheeks with the aid of cosmetics. Things had gone from bad to

worse in that respect, until her pretty snow-white hair had been

covered by a flagrant golden perruque and the dear old face with a mask

of pink and white enamel. Her eyes were blue, and keen as a hawk's,

undimmed by the tears shed in secret during her tumultuous and tragic

life; her teeth, each one in a perfect and pearly state of

preservation, were her own, for which asset she was never given the

benefit of the doubt; her tongue was vitriolic; her heart of pure gold,

and she owned a right hand which said nothing to the left of the spaces

between its fingers through which, daily ran deeds of kindness and

streams of love towards the unfortunate ones of the earth.

Her dress was invariably of grey taffeta or brocade, bunched at the

back and trailing on the ground; there were ruffles, of priceless lace

at the elbow-sleeves and V-shaped neck; a plain straw poke-bonnet

served for all outdoor functions, and an ebony stick, called "the wand"

by the denizens of the slums, who adored her, completed her picturesque

toilette.

The majority feared this _grande dame_, a minority, if they had had the

chance, would have fawned upon her in public and laughed at or

caricatured her in private; those who really knew her, and they lived

principally east of London town, would willingly have laid themselves

down and allowed her ridiculously small feet, invariably shod in

crimson, buckled, outrageously high-heeled shoes, to trample upon their

prostrate bodies, if it would have given her pleasure so to do.

She adored young things, and had an enormous family of godsons and

goddaughters, out of which crowd Ben Kelham and Damaris Hethencourt

were supreme favourites, and about whom she had been weaving plots when

she had written her letter of invitation to the Squire.

She smoked Three Castles, which she kept in a jewelled Louis XV

snuff-box, and had a perfect tartar of a maid, who simply worshipped

her.

Of a truth, a long description of a very old and very wise old woman,

of whom the great Queen had once remarked to her Consort:

"I wish I were not a queen, so that _I_ might curtsey to Olivia."

And in this wise old woman's jewel-covered hands Fate placed the

twisted threads of passion, youth and love, and a wiser selection she

could not have made.

A bronchitic cough had taken her to Cairo just as a sooted-up lung,

left behind by the pneumonia which had followed the hunting accident

had taken Ben Kelham to Heliopolis, and for recuperation of body or

mind there is nothing to equal an Egyptian winter, even in a

tourist-ridden centre.

Ben Kelham, Big Ben for short, on account of his six-feet-two, was heir

to Sir Andrew Kelham, Bart., whose estate joined the lands of Squire

Hethencourt, whom he looked upon as his greatest friend, and vice

versa. Educated at Harrow, Ben Kelham and Hugh Carden Ali had been

known on the Hill as David and Jonathan; so that the crimson, golden

and brown threads were more than uncommonly twisted.

Ben was heavy in build and slow in every way, but he was still more

sure than slow, and had never been known to give up when once he had

set his mind to the accomplishment of a task, and although he had stood

in absolute awe of beautiful Damaris since the day she had lengthened

her skirts, yet had he determined to make her his wife, even if it

meant following in Jacob's footsteps to the tune of waiting many years.

He had confided his determination to his godmother, who had immediately

taken the case in hand, and proceeded to throw bucketsful of cold water

upon his suggestion of being on the quay or doorstep to welcome the

girl to Egypt.

"My dear man," replied the tactful old lady as she rasped a match on

the sole of a crimson shoe and lit a fragrant Three Castles, "do

remember that everything will be new to the child; she will be one vast

ejaculation for at least a month. Let her get over that, let her

realise that you are close at hand, but not the least bit anxious to be

under her feet, and you'll see. Remember, she is very young, just like

a bit of dough which must be stuffed with the currants and raisins of

knowledge and then well-baked in the oven of experience before it can

be handed across Life's counter to anyone. Further, take care not to

blunder into any little trap she may set you out of pique."

"But, dearest, I always _do_ blunder when I'm out of the saddle."

"Well, even if you do, for goodness' sake keep your mouth shut. Be the

strong, silent man; women love 'em. We revel in being clubbed and

pulled into the cave by the hair; we may squeal a bit for the sake of

appearances, but we cook the breakfast nest morning without a murmur!

But just ask us to honour the cave by placing our foot over the

threshold, and as sure as anything, you'll find yourself making the

early cup of tea."