Kitabı oku: «The Laurel Walk», sayfa 18
Chapter Twenty Three
Not too “Smooth.”
The storm had burst. Poor little Betty’s half-superstitious misgivings, that in their case “the course of true love” was “running too smooth” to last, for her and Horace, seemed to have been prophetic. For, as Frances, with her experience of her father’s peculiarities, had feared, once the idea had entered Mr Morion’s mind (suggested in the first place negatively by Horace’s non-allusion in his letter to his mother or his family) that but scanty welcome was to be accorded to his daughter, he mounted a very high horse indeed. He refused to entertain for an instant the idea of India for her; he went back upon the Littlewoods’ shorter pedigree and deficient quarterings; he worked himself up to refuse his sanction to any engagement of any kind!
Horace, as his letter showed, was in despair. Betty was palely miserable, though between the two themselves the opposition but strengthened their trust and devotion. Frances suffered for both to an extent which really blotted out the sting of her own disillusionment more completely than she as yet realised.
Things were in this position when one afternoon, about a week after the receipt of Horace’s letter by Mr Morion, Frances, feeling self-reproachful for having omitted her usual visits to Scaling Harbour during the last few days, made her way thither, feeling, sadly depressed and almost hopeless. The sight of Betty’s white face was beyond the reach of her philosophy.
“I cannot bear to see her,” she thought to herself, “just when I thought her happiness, at least, was secured;” and it took considerable self-control to listen with her usual sympathy and attention to all the confidences, requests for advice, hopes and troubles, which were poured out upon her by her now familiar friends among the fisher-folk. And of all these there was to-day a more than usual amount, partly owing to her own temporary absence, partly owing to an unfortunate coincidence, which she now learnt for the first time, that during the last fortnight Mr Darnley had been forced to go away for change and rest.
Everything down here, too, seemed to have been going crookedly, and her face, as she turned the corner of the main street on her way home again, looked very unlike its serene self.
So absent-minded was she that she almost ran against a man walking rapidly in the opposite direction; it was not till his murmured “I beg your pardon” made her glance up quickly that she saw, to her amazement, that the newcomer was no other than Mr Ryder Morion. She gave a little exclamation of surprise, and somehow, almost in the same instant, the expression of his eyes, kind and somewhat concerned, sent through her a curious little instinct of hopefulness.
“Can he have heard about it?” she thought, and his next words did not dispel the idea, though they scarcely confirmed it. He turned at once as if to accompany her.
“You are not looking well, Miss Morion,” he said. “I am afraid you have been overworking yourself down here, with Darnley’s absence. I only heard of it on my arrival at Craig-Morion last night. There are several things that need seeing to at once, so I am doubly glad I came, even though I may miss him. But you mustn’t burden yourself too much.”
“On the contrary,” said Frances, her colour deepening, “I am reproaching myself with having done nothing here lately. I – we have been a good deal absorbed at home by other things. And I, too, did not know Mr Darnley had been ill. It does seem unfortunate – before his helper, the new curate, has come, too. Things always seem so contrary,” with a little attempt at a smile.
“That is not your usual way of looking at the world,” said her companion. “I hope – I am afraid – do not think me impertinent – I hope your home absorptions have not been painful ones.”
Frances’ lips opened and closed again. “I – I wonder if you know anything?” she said, with a kind of abrupt frankness; “but I must not take you out of your course – you were going in the opposite direction.”
“I had only one more thing to do,” he said, “and then I am going home. It was, in fact, a second thought – may I overtake you? I shall not be more than five minutes, and I want to talk to you about some of the people down here. I am sorry about the Silvers. I want to see Mrs Silver again for half a moment.”
Frances looked up.
“I was afraid there was something the matter there,” she said. “Though Jenny did not say much.”
“I will tell you about it,” he replied, as he hurried off.
As soon as he had turned the corner, Frances – who was feeling very tired, and yet, inconsistently enough, far less depressed than five minutes ago – sat down on one of the rocky boulders strewn capriciously about this part of the coast, even some little way inland. Down below, the little waves were rippling in gently, gleaming softly in the sunshine; the day was balmy rather than brilliant – there was a sense of afternoon restfulness over the whole, very soothing and congenial. She felt as if she could trust Ryder Morion, and the impulse grew stronger upon her to tell him everything, whether or not he was already prepared for it. But before she had time to come to any decision he was back again. She started to her feet at the sound of his approaching steps.
“What is it about the Silvers?” she said.
“Nothing very grave, I hope; it is only that Jack came home – well, not sober – the other night. It is only the second time it has happened, but I don’t wonder at the poor little woman being uneasy. She was ashamed to tell you, but – I am sure you will not mind – she has promised me to let you know if it seems well to do anything in the way of giving him ‘a talking-to.’ It appears that Mr Ferraby knows them both well – he married them – and in Darnley’s absence his influence might be of use.”
For a minute or two they went on talking about the Harbour and its inhabitants. Then there came a little pause. Without appearing to do so, Mr Morion had by this time made his own observations, and drawn his own conclusions therefrom.
“She is very troubled,” he thought. “I feel sure that it is about this affair of Horace’s. I wish I understood better. Why could he not have told me the whole?”
Frances walked on, her eyes bent on the ground, thinking deeply. Once or twice her companion hazarded some remark in hopes of drawing her into speech again. But she scarcely seemed to hear him. Then, suddenly, she looked up as if she had come to a decision.
“Mr Morion,” she began, “I am anxious and unhappy, as you have seen. Worst of all, I am utterly at a loss how to act, or rather how to advise others to act who look to me for advice. I had not, of course, the slightest idea that you were here, but yet you were one of the very few whom I wished I could tell about this trouble. You – and Madeleine – the only two, perhaps. Shall I tell you the whole? – regardless of the rather peculiar position you are in to both sides, as it were.”
“Perhaps I know more already than you suspect,” he said gently. “That may make it easier for you. It is about Horace Littlewood, is it not? and – your sister. Please do tell me exactly how things stand. I gather that you are free to do so. And please forget that I am myself – except in so far as my position towards all concerned might give me more power of judgment. You see, I know all the Littlewoods well. Horace’s mother is a good woman and means to be a just one. Don’t exaggerate about her. I fancy she is not at present being true to her best self.”
“I hope so,” said Frances. “I hope so indeed. I will tell you all,” and so she did.
It was not difficult, once she had begun. He drew from her with infinite tact, the tact born of true interest, the conflicting shades of feeling which were complicating the whole. For she was too essentially dutiful a daughter to throw any avoidable blame upon her father, yet too fair-minded not to allow that his extreme attitude – his mixing up of personal feeling and family prejudice where there was no need to have brought them in – was every day making conciliation more and more difficult.
“He will not hear of Betty’s going to India,” she said, “and has now reached the length of saying that under no circumstances would he sanction the engagement. And surely that is not fair or right? Eira declares,” she went on in a lighter tone, “that it is a case which would justify the two principals in running away.”
“I almost sympathise with her,” said Mr Morion, “still – that would be an extreme measure! If Horace were independent, I mean practically so – so placed that he could marry without imprudence, I should say, do so! and trust to time and her real good feeling to conquer his mother’s unreasonableness.”
“Ah, yes,” said Frances, “but you are forgetting papa: we could not risk it with him, and Betty would be miserable through her whole life if there were any coldness with her own people. You see, papa is so sore. It is not that he is ungenerous: he wouldn’t mind if Horace had nothing, if he could give her enough. But he has been brought up to feel sore about things, and he cannot throw it off.” For the moment she had really forgotten to whom she was speaking.
In one direction her companion was glad of this; it was what he had asked her to do. On the other hand – “Am I growing very selfish and grasping?” was the thought that went through his mind. “I should like to say, or at least to feel, that all this has come from the old disappointment – our great-grand-aunt’s failing to keep her promise, and to regret it as heartily as George Morion himself could do. But I cannot. There is a strange survival in me of the old family feeling as to this queer place. I would sacrifice a good deal rather than let it go from the old name.”
“Some way must be found out of the difficulty,” he said at last, aloud. “We cannot stand by and see these two young lives clouded and perhaps spoilt, and Betty looks a fragile, sensitive little creature.”
“She is stronger than you would think; strong enough and deep enough to suffer a good deal,” answered Frances; but, as Mr Morion glanced at the grave young face beside him, it struck him that Betty would be by no means the only one on whom all this trouble would leave its mark.
“I shall be here for a few days,” he said. “Will you trust me to think it well out, and see where or how I can be of use? I would go to see Mrs Littlewood if that could help matters.”
Frances looked at him with thankful eyes, and again there came over her, still more strongly, the sense of strength and protection she had already been instinctively conscious of. To her it was a strange and novel but none the less grateful sensation. Even with Horace she had never experienced it in the same way.
“I suppose it is that he is so much older,” she thought, “and that it has never come in my way before – for with poor papa it has always been us trying to shelter him!”
Their talk had carried them far on their road. Half-unconsciously Frances had passed through the lodge gates which Mr Morion opened for her, thus making her way home across the park, till they reached the usual short cut to Fir Cottage, where he came to a halt.
“I will not attempt to see your father for a day or two,” he said. “I will write to him asking when I may call.”
“Thank you,” said Frances, “that will be best. And in the meantime I will not mention having seen you. As things are, I think it will be better. But,” with a little touch of anxiety and appeal, new in her, but none the less charming, “you will be sure not to go away without letting me know?”
“Certainly not,” he replied. “I think very probably my first step will be to write fully to Horace, which may lead to my going to see his mother. If so, I will tell you.”
Five minutes later Frances entered her own home with a heart considerably lightened. Her burden was at least shared. She felt too that she had laid it in willing and helpful hands.
“How little, how very little,” she thought to herself, “did we ever imagine that Ryder Morion was the sort of man – would be the sort of friend he is!” And though she did not as yet feel free to tell Betty of the somewhat clearing horizon, her new hopefulness made itself instinctively felt.
“Things will come right somehow, I feel convinced!” she did say to her sisters, for poor Eira stood in need of cheering almost as much as Horace’s fiancée herself.
Frances’ sleep that night was disturbed, to an extent which rarely occurred with her, by strange and fantastic dreams. Her common-sense explained them, partially at least, by the unusually anxious and almost overstrained condition of her mind and nerves. Yet, as she lay awake the next morning in the early summer daylight, she could not altogether account for them in this way.
“I wonder if there really are occult influences of which we are only conscious when the more material part of us is inactive,” she said to herself. “It would seem so, though it would be dangerous to give too much thought to such a possibility. It would interfere with ordinary life and duties.”
Yet, despite this practical view of the matter, she could not succeed in throwing off what had been the predominant impression of her visions, even though these in themselves had grown vague and confused. She was haunted by a feeling that there was something for her to do, something that some one – who or where she knew not – was wishing her to do. Now and then in the stillness, broken but by the voices of the little birds outside, she could almost have believed that whispers, like a far-off murmur of the sea, were growing all but audible to some interior faculty of hearing which under normal conditions she was unconscious of possessing. The dreams themselves had been a fantastic mingling of fact and fancy, as indeed dreams commonly are. It had seemed to her that she was again on the sea-shore near the Harbour, but late at night instead of in the balmy sunshine. Cries of distress reached her, apparently from a boat some little way out at sea, and her first thought was of Jack Silver, who, she imagined, must be in danger. She turned to run homewards in search of help, when suddenly she found herself in the Laurel Walk, at the other extremity of which – the farther end from the house – she saw a light gleaming more distinctly and brightly than the faint reflection which it had puzzled both herself and Ryder Morion to account for that night when they were standing at the library window. She tried to follow the light, but found to her distress that she could not overtake it, her feet seeming too tired and heavy to move, though she was conscious that the beacon was intended to direct her towards the church. Then came another sudden change of scene and of time. She was a little girl again, playing in their own garden with her two still smaller sisters, Eira rolling on the lawn, Betty clinging to her as if asking to be carried. But with the effort to lift the child came again the painful sensation of powerlessness, till, glancing up, she saw a white figure standing beside them, whose sweet, pale face bent gently over the child, while a voice whispered softly: “Forgive me, and let me lift her!” At the words a shudder, not so much of fear as of awe, went through Frances, and the relief was great when, on her endeavouring to interpose, she saw that where the weird figure had been standing there was now in its stead that of Ryder Morion with a reassuring smile on his face. But before she quite awoke she seemed again to hear the pleading voice, though from a greater distance, and to feel, rather than hear, the words “Forgive me, and try – ” and with the unfinished sentence the dream broke off, and she awoke with the sense, as has been said, of some task having been laid upon her to accomplish.
Nor did this leave her during the next few days, though from time to time the impression somewhat faded. Rather to her disappointment and surprise, she heard nothing of any note or letter to her father from Ryder Morion. No one but herself seemed to have known of his being in the neighbourhood! She could almost have fancied that her walk and talk with him had been a curiously rational episode in the strange dream which had visited her that same night. But all doubt of the reality of his material presence was put to flight by a letter which she received on the fourth morning after having met him. A letter which fortunately did not attract her father’s attention, as the Fir Cottage bag was rather unusually full that day, and which she was able to read without any one noticing it. It contained but a few lines:
“Dear Miss Morion, —
“I am afraid you will scarcely feel inclined to trust me any more, when you see that I have left Craig-Morion without seeing you again or writing to you,” – for the letter was dated from the writer’s club in London. “I was summoned quite unexpectedly up to town. I think, however, the matter which we were talking about will not suffer from this; on the contrary, it may turn out for the better. I will write again before long, —
“Yours very sincerely, —
“Ryder Morion.”
This explained the silence, and Frances was fain to take refuge again in the patience of not wholly unhopeful waiting. More than this, she succeeded in cheering poor Betty, and that not groundlessly, for her confidence in Ryder Morion suffered no diminution.
Still those were trying days, at best.
Late one afternoon, just as tea was over, Frances was told that a young woman was asking to speak to her, waiting at the back door.
“Is it any one you know by sight?” she inquired of the parlour-maid.
“I think she has been here before, miss,” was the reply. “She comes from Scaling Harbour, but” – with a little hesitation – “she seems rather in trouble. I don’t think she would give me her message,” and at these words there returned to Frances’ memory the promise Ryder Morion had made to Jenny Silver of help and advice, should need arise, from herself.
She started to her feet with some self-reproach for having forgotten, in the pressure of other thoughts, the poor girl’s anxiety. And further back in her mind there lurked another remembrance, which did not till later on take distinct form. It was that of the association of some trouble menacing the young couple of which she had dreamt, though but for this visit she would probably never have thought of it again.
As she expected, the figure awaiting her was that of Jenny Silver.
“Oh, miss!” she exclaimed. “I am ashamed to trouble you, but the gentleman told me I might come to you if things got worse.”
“You were quite right to come,” said Frances, and as she spoke she glanced round. “I will come out with you a little,” she said. She still wore her out-of-door things. “We shall be quieter in the garden.” And she took the poor woman to a seat hidden in the shrubberies.
After all, things with the Silvers were not in one direction as bad as she had feared. Jenny had come to her partly because her husband’s old father was very ill – dying, in short. Her Jack, she went on to say, had not offended again, but he had remained sullen and unlike himself. This had troubled the old man, and Jenny had come to ask if Miss Morion thought it would be possible to get Mr Ferraby to go to see him the next day.
“Father thinks a deal of the old vicar,” said the young woman, “and he thinks maybe it would be a good chance for Jack to start fresh again. Father can’t be with us long, and the vicar might know how to get hold of Jack just at this time.”
Frances quite agreed with her that the opportunity should not be lost, and after a little more talk it was settled that she should walk up to the vicarage with Jenny, and explain things in the first place to Mr Ferraby, as it was a good while since he had seen any of the Silver family. Jenny was full of gratitude for Miss Morion’s help, and fortunately they found the old vicar at home. A few minutes’ talk between him and Frances while Mrs Silver waited outside put him in possession of the state of the case, and he expressed himself as eager and ready to help and sanguine as to the result of a good talk with the young man.
“He is far from a bad fellow,” he said, “though I am not surprised at Jenny being anxious. Her own people, the Bretts, have always been so very respectable and sober that the contrast between them and what she sees down at the Harbour must be painful. But put them off your mind, my dear Frances; Darnley and I will see to it that he is pulled up in time.”
So Frances was able to say a hopeful word to the young wife before she sent her into the vicarage, promising to look her up at home before long; and when Jenny disappeared through the glass door of Mr Ferraby’s study, she turned away again with a feeling of relief, so far as her poor friends were concerned.
