Kitabı oku: «The Laurel Walk», sayfa 13
But, rather to his surprise, Betty’s expression had grown somewhat shamefaced.
“Oh,” she said quickly, “it’s just selfishness, I’m afraid. I often think I am rather the spoilt one at home; Frances and Eira are so good, and never think about themselves. I dare say disagreeable things are quite as disagreeable to them as to me. But they always save me from them in every way. I believe it began by my not being as strong as they when I was quite a little girl. And even mamma petted me much more than the others.”
“I don’t wonder at it,” said Horace; “there are some people made to be petted, and the world would be a worse place than it is without them.”
“But,” said Betty, again scarcely seeming to notice his words, and with a funny little air of dignity, “I am really not so babyish as you might think! With such an elder sister as Frances, how could I be? I do help a little, even in what they do here. I write out a good deal. We have made large sheets of directions in printed letters of what to do in accidents and so on, copied from our books, of course, and the others say I can print better than they can. So that is something,” with a touch of satisfaction.
“Yes, indeed,” said her companion, “a pretty big something, I should say. It must be tiresome work. I hope,” he went on, with a little hesitation, “that now Ryder has seen things for himself more thoroughly than before – indeed, I doubt if he ever walked through this village before to-day – I hope that he will give some substantial help.”
“I hope so too,” said Betty dryly. “Oh,” she went on, with a little gasp, “it would be nice to be rich!”
Horace’s face fell a little.
“Do you feel that?” he said quickly. “Don’t you think that people are often quite as happy, or happier, who are not very rich, especially if they are without great responsibilities? Of course few things would be worse than to be a large proprietor with lots of people you should look after, and no means for doing it.”
“Yes,” Betty agreed, “it reminds me of what mamma has often told us about grandpapa’s and Uncle Avone’s difficulties in Ireland. But with your Mr Morion it is quite different, of course – isn’t he very rich?”
“I should say so,” said Horace.
“I don’t think I should wish to be very rich like that,” said Betty simply. “There would be such a lot of trouble about it, and I should not be clever enough to manage things well – even a woman’s part of things. Now Frances, for instance,” she went on thoughtlessly, “would be perfection in such a position.”
“I can well imagine it,” said Horace cordially; but, instantly realising that she had said one of the things she had better have left unsaid, Betty looked up at him with one of those sudden changes of expression peculiar to her, and by no means always easy to interpret.
“Oh, but don’t misunderstand about her,” she said. “She’s not a bit ambitious or fond of being important, or – or anything like that. She would be quite happy in a far simpler kind of life. Indeed, I don’t know any sort of life she couldn’t fit herself into, though Eira and I can’t help feeling that she is thrown away here, in this little out-of-the-way corner.”
“But yet what would you do without her?” said Horace. “Could you – can you imagine for yourself – we’ll say – the ever being happy away from her?”
“Oh yes,” said Betty, eager to remove any false impression she might have given. “She often says it would be better for me to have to depend a little more on myself.”
“I can scarcely picture your ever being very independent,” said Horace. “I should not like to do so. But – you may not always have her to take care of you, and yet not be left quite to your own devices!”
He glanced down at her as he spoke, with some scrutiny in his smile.
“No,” she replied, in a matter-of-fact tone, “of course there would still be Eira, though she says she would make me be the elder sister.”
Mr Littlewood turned away half abruptly. “Here we are,” he remarked, “this must be Mrs Silver’s abode!”
He was right. The young woman who was to act as their hostess, or, as she would have expressed it, “to serve tea to the gentlefolk,” was on the lookout for them. She was a pleasing-looking person, though of a slightly different type from the people about, with fairer hair and skin, which rather curiously contrasted with her dark eyes. For her mother had been an “inlander,” to use the term of the fisher-people for any one not purely of themselves. Her husband did not appear. He had been out for two days, she informed her visitors, on some remark being made about the weather and the fishing prospects, but she expected him home that evening.
“Isn’t it dreadfully dull for you when he is away?” asked Gertrude Charlemont, “and don’t you get terribly frightened if you hear the wind at night?”
The young woman shook her head with a little smile.
“We get used to it, miss,” she replied. And Mr Morion, whom the girl’s questions had struck as scarcely judicious, came to Mrs Silver’s assistance.
“Dwellers by the sea learn to have brave hearts,” he said; “and then there is always the pleasure of a safe home-coming to look forward to.”
“It will be an out-of-the-way pleasant one to-night, if all’s well, thanks to you, sir,” the young woman replied; and turning to Frances, she added, “It’s the pigsty I’m thinking of, miss. I’m that pleased about it. We’ve been wishing for one so long. It’ll be company for me when Joe’s away!”
It was impossible not to laugh at this, impossible for Mr Morion not to join, though he had been more than half-inclined to be vexed at the matter being mentioned.
“There must be something Irish about these good people as well as Spanish,” he said, in a lower voice, as Mrs Silver, to his relief, turned her attention to the tea-table.
“Scarcely so,” said Frances in reply. “In Ireland the absence of a sty would certainly not be any difficulty in the way of keeping pigs!”
“No,” Horace agreed, “they would be in and out all over the place. Genuine company if you like!”
This provoked another laugh, for when people are inclined to be happy it takes very little to give things a merry turn. And tea at Mrs Silver’s proved a great success. There was not much time to spare after it was over, if they were to get home by a reasonable hour. A little détour by the shore, sufficient to give them some idea of the picturesqueness of the rugged coast, was all that could be attempted, and Gertrude Charlemont declared that by hook or by crook she must come back to the neighbourhood in the long-day season, for sketching purposes.
“Oh, I wish you would,” said Betty eagerly. – “Craig Bay is quite a nice place to stay at, isn’t it, Mr Littlewood?” she went on, as, happening to glance round, she caught sight of him at her side, “and we should so enjoy having friends there!”
“I should say you could get very comfortable quarters there,” he agreed heartily; “and I hear there is excellent fishing – river fishing – a little way inland. I mean to find out about it, and come down here again, later on, perhaps, before my leave is up. You won’t think me too much of a bad penny if I do, I hope, Miss Betty?”
Betty raised her eyes to his with a half-inquiry in them, which he did not understand.
“Of course not,” she said, the little flush in her cheeks which came with the words rendering her very charming at that moment. “Of course not; we should be only too pleased to think that you like the place, though it is so dull and out-of-the-way. Your all being here this winter will have quite spoilt us, I’m afraid,” with a little sigh. “It has been – it is – so – delightful.”
“You delight me by saying so,” was the quick answer, heard by no one but Betty herself, for somehow or other by this time she found that he and she had drifted a little apart from the others.
“If only I were Eira,” thought Betty, “what a good opportunity I could make of this for finding out a little more! but I get so shy and silly immediately,” and when she spoke again it was with a little effort.
“It is very pretty about here in the summer,” she said. “Up at Craig-Morion – I mean down here the seasons don’t make so much difference in the look of things. I’m glad,” she continued, “that we don’t live nearer the sea; it frightens me.”
“You have never been a voyage, I suppose?” said her companion. “You would soon get used to it, I dare say. Now-a-days, with the splendid boats there are, many people go backwards and forwards from India for the mere pleasure of the thing, you know.”
“Thank you,” said Betty, laughingly. “I’ve no ambition of the kind! Dull as it is here, I should rather stay safe on dry land. Frances longs to travel, and I wish she had more chance of it! She is so clever, you know, she would find – ”
“But you yourself,” persisted Horace, “you don’t intend surely to spend all your life in this little nest of a place? The Eyrie, as Madeleine calls it.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Betty. “If I must, I must! Don’t make me discontented. I am afraid I am rather so already,” with a touch of penitence.
“And why shouldn’t you be?” he responded eagerly. “Think how young you are, and how – ” here he checked himself – “how much there is to see in the world,” he added, rather lamely.
“But, you see,” said Betty, “I should scarcely be fit for it! – for making my way in society, or anything of that kind. I get frightened and stupid about nothing at all.”
She felt that he was looking at her with kindly sympathy, and, impressionable as she was, it encouraged her. Almost before she knew what she was about, she found herself giving him her innocent confidences to an extent which she had rarely, if ever, done to any one, certainly not to any man. And the way home seemed marvellously short that winter afternoon.
Long, it must be owned, it was not found by any of the little party. Gertrude and Eira were enjoying themselves under the escort of Horace’s friend, young French, who could make himself very entertaining; Mr Charlemont and Mr Darnley, on each side of Madeleine, were interesting her by a discussion on one of her pet hobbies in a philanthropic direction; and Frances, bringing up the rear with Mr Morion, found herself more nearly on common ground with him – thanks in part, no doubt, to the unexpected side-light Horace had thrown on his character – than a few hours previously she could have believed possible. And it was pleasant to her to feel that the young man’s influence bid fair to dissipate the prejudices she had half-unconsciously harboured. Once or twice even she glanced round with a half-formed wish that Horace should notice how well she and her far-off cousin were getting on. But he was some way ahead with Betty.
“I can tell him about it afterwards,” she thought, with a curious little thrill at the realisation of the confidence already existing between them. Though even without this new prepossession in his favour, Ryder Morion would probably have won his way towards her esteem and liking by the quiet, unassuming manner in which he told her of his increasing interest in, and sense of responsibility for, the till now almost terra incognita of his northern possessions. It would have been affectation for him to avoid the subject after what the curate-in-charge had said, and the meeting himself on the very spot where help was most needed. And despite her own preoccupation of mind, Frances was too well trained in habitual unselfishness not to feel warmly delighted, almost indeed breathlessly so, at the projects as to which he consulted her, and the means which he proposed to lay at the disposal of herself and Mr Darnley.
Altogether the expedition seemed to have been eminently successful, and no one felt this more heartily than Eira, whose spirits were always ready to rise, and not easily depressed, save perhaps by chilblains, or the apprehension of them!
“Betty,” she said, when they were dressing rather hurriedly for dinner, “isn’t it all going on too beautifully?”
Betty was seated on the end of her bed looking somewhat fagged.
“Yes,” she agreed, “we have had a very nice day; but I must be quick!” starting up as she spoke.
“I thought it so considerate of him,” continued Eira, “to walk home with you, not to make Frances, you see, too conspicuous, as it were. Was he talking of her all the way?”
“No – no, not all the way, I don’t think,” said Betty, in the intervals of coiling up her long black hair. “I – I don’t quite remember.”
“How tiresome you are!” said Eira; “you can’t have forgotten so quickly. I thought you’d have such a lot to tell me, and that you’d be in such high spirits.”
“I never feel in high spirits when I’m tired,” said Betty, “though no doubt it isn’t right. – I don’t know,” she added to herself, “why I don’t feel as happy about it as Eira does. He couldn’t have been nicer, but can it be that he’s only friendly about us all?”
Chapter Seventeen
The Laurel Walk Again
The Littlewoods’ guests left the next day, all, that is to say, except the owner of Craig-Morion himself, who, finding more to interest and occupy him than he had anticipated, was glad to avail himself of his hostess’ sincerely meant invitation to remain as long as it suited him to do so. For one reason or another he had called two or three times at Fir Cottage, and each time he had gained ground with his kinsman, more than once, indeed, inveigling the valetudinarian into a walk all over the property, such as for many years past he would have thought himself incapable of.
And the effect of this humanising influence on the elder man was of the happiest, not only as regarded himself, but for his family also. Yet in those days something at Fir Cottage felt out of gear; now and then it almost seemed as if Frances and her next sister had to some extent exchanged natures, Frances’ spirits were fitful and uncertain, at times verging on excitement, then again lapsing into unusual dreaminess and absent-mindedness, while Betty was quiet, self-possessed, and, to all outward appearance at least, calm and equable. She had, too, a fit of extreme industry: from morning till night she was busy about something or other, so that Eira found it difficult ever to buttonhole her for one of their “good long talks.”
“I don’t understand you, Betty,” she said one day. “Just now, when we have something more interesting to discuss than ever in our lives before, there is no getting a word out of you. What are you always fussing about? could almost fancy – ”
“What?” asked Betty.
Eira laughed.
“Don’t be vexed,” she said: “you make me feel as if you were preparing in good time to take Frances’ place, but you know you couldn’t possibly do so without my help.”
To her surprise, Betty faced round upon her with some indignation.
“I don’t see that at all,” she replied. “I am tired of being treated like a baby. I am fit for much more than you think. But I am not going to talk about possibilities any more. We have done so too much, and – and I think it is rather indelicate.”
“You are very unkind,” said poor Eira, looking more than half ready to cry, “and from now I vow that I shall pay you out in your own coin. You may try as you like, but you won’t get me to talk about it or him any more, and I won’t tell you anything I get to know.”
“Very glad to hear it,” said Betty, though in her heart she already wished that she had not snubbed Eira quite so fiercely, for the younger girl had opportunities of judging and remarking the drift of events, as Betty herself, in some ways increasingly self-conscious and less of an outsider than she would have liked to own, was unable to do. Eira, hurt feelings notwithstanding, was not slow to find consolation even in Betty’s unwonted petulance.
“She really thinks it’s serious, and she is beginning to feel unhappy at the thought of Frances leaving us,” thought Eira. “I am not even sure but that Mr Littlewood has said something about it to Betty, and that she is desperately afraid of breaking his confidence. She has a funny look sometimes when he is with us – half-frightened, as if she wanted to get away. Perhaps,” reflectively, “it has to do with his going back to India.” For that such a possibility was in question, words let fall by Horace himself, and by his sister, had made no secret of.
On the whole, just at this time the domestic atmosphere of the big house was more genial than that of the little one, despite the improvement in Lady Emma’s husband. For one thing Mrs Littlewood laid herself out to be agreeable to the elder Mr Morion, and declared to Ryder – not a little, strange to say, considering how recently his own attitude to his cousins had been one of slightly resentful indifference, not a little to the younger man’s gratification – that she had no idea “the old bear” could have proved so well worth knowing.
“He is really quite interesting, once you start him on subjects he is well up in,” she said, “so long as you can keep him from the terrible topic of his ailments. And my admiration for Lady Emma increases daily: she is really a saint of unselfishness, quite beaming with pleasure if she thinks her husband is enjoying himself.”
“It is very good of you,” was the reply, “to draw out the best of them in this way; as you must know there are very few people who could have done it with your perfect tact.”
“Tact,” she replied, “in spite of the fashion of exalting it into a positive virtue, is to my mind a mere question of ‘knack.’ Superficial tact, at least, which often serves the purpose as well as or better than anything deeper!”
“You do yourself injustice,” said Ryder. “I don’t believe your tact has no more sturdy root.”
“You are right perhaps to some extent,” she said. “I am glad to please Madeleine in the matter. If you want the best kind of tact, that which springs from real honest kindness of heart and thoughtfulness for others, you will find it in her. Though she does not show it to every one, I must allow. For instance,” with a smile, “she does not care a farthing if she rubs you the wrong way, but she would not hurt by the shadow of a touch any one whom – ” but here she hesitated, scarcely liking to allude to her companion’s now thoroughly recognised relatives as in any way objects for pitying consideration – “well, any one whom things have gone hardly with.”
“Madeleine is very good, very good indeed,” he answered cordially; “and so far as I have any right to be so, I am really grateful in the present instance. She has brought a good deal of brightness into those young lives already, and that with no jarring note. Though,” and here in his turn he smiled, “I must own it would be difficult to show kindness to Frances Morion in which there was the slightest touch of condescension: thoroughly gentle and sweet as she is, there is yet a rather remarkable dignity about her for a young person. Don’t you agree with me?”
“To tell you the truth,” said Mrs Littlewood, turning back the lace ruffles which fell so becomingly over her beautiful white hands, “to tell you the truth, I have seen too little of the eldest Miss Morion personally to be able to judge of her, and the characteristic that has struck you in her is not one that appeals to me in a young girl – not, of course, that she is very young, though living so entirely out of the world, of course, detracts from a girl’s savoir-faire. One may have the deficiencies of youth even when youth itself is past.”
Mr Morion listened in silence, and Mrs Littlewood, fearing that for once she had allowed prejudice to overcome her good sense, with a glance at his impassive face, went on again in a different tone.
“I will tell you whom I have taken a great fancy to,” she said; “and that is that charming little Betty! There is no need to see much of her to fall in love with her! She is so perfectly sweet and naïve, candid and transparent as the day.”
Mr Morion smiled rather enigmatically.
“I agree with you there,” he replied; and Mrs Littlewood felt relieved, though she detected a reserve of expression on her hearer’s face, which she was quite at a loss to understand.
He rose as he spoke, and strolled towards the door. The tête-à-tête had taken place in Mrs Littlewood’s boudoir.
“Then I may really feel satisfied,” he said, as he turned the handle, “that my remaining a few days longer is in no way outstaying my welcome?”
“Certainly not,” was the reply; “I mean,” with a smile, “that you could not outstay your welcome with us.”
“You are very good,” he said, and as he passed through the outer room there was a smile on his face. He was at no loss to understand his hostess, for whom, nevertheless, he had a sincere regard.
“I may as well set her mind at rest. She thinks she has annoyed me,” he thought, and, turning back, he glanced in again. Mrs Littlewood was still sitting as he had left her, and she seemed to be absorbed in thought.
“By-the-by,” he said, and at the sound of his voice she started slightly, “I shall be looking in at Fir Cottage this afternoon; have you any message?”
“I have, as it happens,” she replied. “Will you ask Lady Emma if she would care to drive with me to-morrow? If it is fine and not too cold, that is to say; the wind is still so uncertain, though for myself I scarcely dread it. You don’t know how much the better I feel for this bracing air of yours, Mr Morion!”
“I am delighted to hear it,” he answered. “I shall not forget your message.”
“There are two or three calls,” Mrs Littlewood resumed, “at some distance, which I really must not neglect longer. You might mention incidentally,” with a little hesitation, “that I thought of driving in the Heatherbridge direction, for I fancy Lady Emma might be glad of the opportunity of paying calls about there too.”
Mr Morion bent his head and finally disappeared, fully appreciating the situation and tacit amende.
His cousin, as he anticipated, was at home, and after some talk, in which the younger man’s interest was not feigned – for his relative, as has been said, was really cultivated, and possessed, despite his egoism, of much valuable if somewhat eccentric information in more than one direction, and by no means destitute, when he chose to use it, of solid, practical good sense – they adjourned to the drawing-room, where for once only the two younger girls were in charge of the tea-table.
As he handed a cup to Lady Emma, the newcomer delivered his message. It was received, he saw, with satisfaction, for though she did not say so, these distant calls had for long weighed rather heavily on the lady’s mind.
“Pray thank Mrs Littlewood,” she replied. “I should enjoy the drive very much.”
“Her daughter would thank you for saying so,” Ryder Morion replied. “One of Madeleine’s fads is a dislike to a long country drive in a big carriage, though she doesn’t say so to her mother.”
“And,” said Eira quickly, “she and Frances have planned to go to Scaling Harbour to-morrow, I know, and Mr Littlewood too, perhaps.”
Betty, in her corner, said nothing.
“Oh, indeed!” remarked the visitor, glancing round. “I was just going to ask for your sister. I thought possibly she was busy about something of the kind to-day.”
“No,” replied Eira, “I don’t know where she is. Betty and I have been looking for her. She may have gone up to the vicarage. Poor Mrs Ferraby has had such a bad cold. Yes, I am almost certain she must be there.”
“We all seem straying in different directions to-day,” said Ryder, the little suggestion of familiar companionship falling not unpleasingly on the ears of those present. “Madeleine is shopping vehemently at Craig Bay. Horace, I know,” and as he mentioned the name he turned half involuntarily to Betty, as if to draw her into the conversation, “is off to Heatherbridge himself this afternoon, by rail. He is, I fancy, a little anxious about his leave, and preferred telegraphing from a better office than yours here.”
Betty looked up with evident interest in her eyes, and spoke for the first time.
“Is he afraid of having to go back to India soon?” she inquired.
“Not to India, as yet at least, but there is some possibility of his having to put in an appearance at the depot, or something of the sort.”
“I think it would be perfectly horrible to have to go to India?” exclaimed Betty abruptly.
“That depends, I should say,” Ryder replied, “like most things in this life, on circumstances.” And Betty felt that his eyes were keenly fixed on her.
She got up, and walked across to the window. “Eira,” she said, “don’t you think we might go up to the vicarage to meet Francie and walk back with her? I am going to, any way.”
“I am afraid I can’t,” said Eira. “I must finish my letter to Mrs Ramsay. It is a specially interesting one this time,” with a quick look in their guest’s direction; “she will be so glad to hear about Scaling Harbour,” the last words almost in an undertone.
“And you, Betty,” interposed her mother unexpectedly – there was a touch of Betty’s abruptness about Lady Emma sometimes – “you must not think of going out this evening. It would be madness, when I have kept you in all day on account of your throat! Sore throats,” half turning to Ryder Morion, in an explanatory tone, “need of all things to be stopped at the beginning.”
“I quite agree with you,” he said, and as he spoke he rose to take leave. “Perhaps, Miss Betty,” he added in a slightly rallying tone, as he shook hands with her, “a little taste of your dreaded warm climates would do you no harm!” He kept his eyes on her for a moment, and noticed, by no means to his dissatisfaction, that her colour deepened a little.
When he left the house he turned half mechanically towards the vicarage. The evenings were much longer now, though not always correspondingly milder, for in this hilly, often storm-tossed northern country, weather and seasons are by no means to be depended upon in any orthodox way. And to-night it was not only chilly, but already, thanks to the darkening clouds which were gathering about the sunset, dusk had fallen earlier than might have been expected.
Ryder Morion stood still and looked about him, though there was no view to speak of.
“It is a queer part of the country,” he thought, “or so at least it strikes me, and yet – I feel at home in it too. I am glad to belong to it. No doubt that’s natural when one thinks for how many generations one’s people have been here, and I should be sorry to give it up, sorry at least for it to belong to another name, though if old George had had a son, I don’t quite know – ” And he walked on again till he came to the point in the road where on one side the little gate at the end of the Laurel Walk led out of his own grounds, and a few yards farther on, across the road, stood the small group of buildings consisting of the church, the vicarage, and one or two adjacent cottages.
Why he had chosen this way home he scarcely knew, but as he lingered for a moment before entering the gloomy little avenue, he caught sight of a figure just emerging from the lych-gate on the other side. A woman’s figure, and something light-coloured, a white fleecy “cloud,” which she had thrown round her neck, recalled to his memory the curious experience of a week or so ago – the night that he had first met his cousins at the big house, when he and Frances, standing at the library window, had gazed in perplexity at the luminous object moving down the walk.
“I never had a chance of asking her what she thought of it,” he said to himself, “or rather it went out of my head. I wonder if it was some reflection from indoors?” And as this passed through his mind he recognised the newcomer as the “she” of his cogitations.
Half-impulsively he moved forward to meet her.
“Good-evening, Miss Morion,” he said. “You weren’t startled, I hope, by seeing me here? It is so dark and gloomy already this evening.”
“Scarcely startled,” was the reply, with a smile, “but I did wonder who you were. You see, that path is so seldom used, I suppose that the people about avoid it purposely, though indeed it is only convenient as a short cut from the house to the church.”
By tacit consent they both came to a halt in front of the little gate again.
“I have just been at Fir Cottage,” said Mr Morion: “your sister Betty wanted to come to meet you, but Lady Emma negatived it.”
“I am very glad she did not come,” said Frances. “She has a little cold, and it is a chilly evening.”
“And I am keeping you standing,” he said; but still neither moved, and the eyes of both were turned in the same direction.
Frances seemed on the point of speaking, for she slightly parted her lips, only, however, to close them again. But some sort of “brain wave” was in the air, for a sudden impulse made her companion turn towards her with a query.
“Miss Morion,” he said, “though I had forgotten about it between times, I have more than once meant to ask you, if you don’t mind my doing so, what you thought about that queer light – reflection – that we both noticed the other evening?”
“I was just thinking about it,” said Frances in her straightforward way.
“And how do you account for it? For I think it struck you even more than it did me. Horace asked me what we were both staring out at, but – I don’t quite know why – I turned the subject. I thought I would ask you first.”
“Horace,” said Frances hastily – “Mr Littlewood, I mean – knows that the Laurel Walk is said to be haunted,” but with these words she stopped again. Her hearer’s interest increased.
“Surely,” he said, “I must have heard something about it, but it is very vague. Who is our family ghost? And,” with some hesitation and a smile, “was it on its account – I don’t know what gender to use – that you seemed startled that evening?”
“Well, yes,” she acknowledged, replying only to his last question. “I suppose it was. I have never myself seen anything or heard anything of the ghost before, though Eira was once very frightened by some inexplicable sounds in – in church, in the family pew, which is supposed to be one of the limits of its wanderings. But,” she went on quickly, for she was anxious to avoid direct reference to the old story itself, “I cannot in any way account for what we saw that evening, and I believe in such cases the witness of two is very rare.”
