Kitabı oku: «The Laurel Walk», sayfa 7
It stopped.
“Shall I have strength to get out of this horrible place?” thought Betty, for she felt her limbs already all but failing her, from her now excessive trembling. But desperation gives courage. She hurried on again; again, too, the footsteps behind became audible.
“Oh,” thought Betty, “if it tries to overtake me, I shall die. If I can but keep up for half a minute more, I shall be at the little gate into the churchyard, if only – oh, if only it’s not padlocked!”
Chapter Nine
They Begin to Mend
Alas! for poor Betty, the little gate, her only hope of escape, was padlocked. At the first moment she scarcely realised this. She seized its upper bar by both hands and shook it violently, and for half a moment she fancied it yielded; all her faculties were confused by fright, and even the short distance over which she had run so fast had been enough to add materially to the overwhelming beating of her heart, the surging of blood into her ears, which all but deafened her.
But as her repeated shaking proved of no avail, and the tumult in her veins somewhat abated, terror notwithstanding, again, to her horror, she became conscious of the advancing footsteps behind. True, they did not sound like those of any one in pursuit; but what then? – ghosts didn’t run! The steady tread of the advancing presence was scarcely a source of consolation, till, frightened as she was, she began to perceive that the footsteps were firm and unfaltering – there was something commonplace and matter-of-fact about them, by no means ethereal or feeble, such as one would picture those of a ghostly visitor, especially the ghost of an old lady, who, in the many years during which she was supposed to have perambulated the Laurel Walk, was not likely to derive any increased energy from her fruitless peregrinations.
A sudden impulse of courage, though perhaps but the courage of desperation, flashed through Betty.
“I will face it,” she said to herself, “and know the worst.”
She turned. The advancing figure was now but a short distance from her, and – oh! thank Heaven – it was that of a man! Cold drops slowly gathered on her forehead in the intensity of her relief. At another time she might have been frightened at the very fact for which she was now so thankful. But all visions of tramps or other nefarious-minded intruders had been banished for the moment by the overpowering dread of the supernatural.
Her heart still beat uncomfortably, but she moved forward a few steps.
“This gate is locked,” she called out, trying to master the quaver in her voice. “Is that you, Webb?” – though before the name had passed her lips she could distinguish enough to make sure it was not that of the newcomer. “Have you got the key with you?”
There was no immediate reply. Then came the sound of hastening footsteps, and an exclamation of surprise.
“Is it – can it be Miss Morion?” were the first words, “or – ”
“It is I, Betty Morion,” she replied mechanically, for her own astonishment was far greater than her questioner’s could have been, as regarded herself, when her eyes as well as her ears told her that he was none other than Mr Littlewood. “Oh!” she ejaculated, with a strange sense of weakness and relief, while her arms dropped to her side, “can it be you? I have been so terrified! I thought you were the ghost.”
“The ghost?” he repeated; “what ghost?” But then, seeing how really startled and upset the poor child was, he continued in a matter-of-fact tone: “No, no, I am no ghost, though dreadfully sorry to have frightened you. If I had had the least idea who it was, I would have called out before. But till a moment or two ago I was scarcely sure it was any one! Yes, I have the key of the padlock. I only arrived this afternoon, and I was going across to the vicarage to consult Mr Ferraby about a little matter. I used this short cut two or three times when I was here before. Allow me,” and he came forward to the gate, and in another moment it stood open and they passed through.
Betty, who was slowly recovering her wits by this time, glanced up half shyly at her companion.
“If I hadn’t been so frightened, I should have been still more astonished,” she said, “at seeing you. We thought – we were told that you had given up all idea of coming down here.”
“So we had,” he replied; “it’s rather a long story. I needn’t go into it all. My mother heard of another place which she thought would be better. I was awfully vexed when I went back to find it so. But it’s all right now. You will have us down here soon after Christmas. This time I have come with plenipotential powers to settle everything.”
Betty could scarcely believe her ears. What news for Frances and Eira! A real prospect of change and variety and break in their dull life at last, not to speak of the fascinating possibilities for the future which Eira and she had given up with such wistful regret.
“I – I am very glad,” she said timidly, and her words evidently pleased her hearer.
“It’s very good of you to say so,” he replied heartily. “On my side I hope you will find us pleasant neighbours. My sister – I’ve one still unmarried – is looking forward very much to coming here.”
“I do hope the weather will be better,” said Betty; “it has been – oh! so horrid since you were here, so dull and depressing.”
“It has been pretty bad all over the country, I fancy,” he replied. By this time they were at the gate of Fir Cottage. “I hope,” he continued, “that Lady Emma and Mr Morion are well, and that I may have the pleasure of seeing them in a few days. I shall probably stay on here now, as I have a visit to pay in the neighbourhood. I mean I shall not go all the way home again before my people come down. And – though I mustn’t detain you now – you will tell me the story of the ghost some day, I hope – and how you came to be wandering in search of it?”
“Oh!” cried Betty in alarm, “please don’t speak of it! Please,” imploringly, “don’t ever tell any one that I did. I should be so scolded. I was really going to meet my sisters, and it was very silly of me to go near the Laurel Walk.”
“Oh, well,” he said, “I won’t betray your confidence, but on your side you must promise to tell me all about it some day soon. Perhaps,” – with a slight touch of hesitation – “I may look in to-morrow afternoon on the chance of finding some of you at home.”
A sudden inspiration seized Betty.
“Is – is there possibly anything that you would like to ask papa about?” she said abruptly. “I am sure he would be pleased to – to be of use to you, if there were:” and to herself she added mentally, “It is the only chance of propitiating papa, I am sure, for Mr Littlewood to seem to seek his advice. He rarely has the pleasure, poor papa, of being applied to as if he were of any consequence, and he’d be gratified at it.”
Horace Littlewood was by no means devoid of tact and insight into the peculiarities of those with whom he had to do. His first blunder, as regarded the feelings of his new acquaintances, had also sharpened his perceptions with regard to them – he read between the lines, so to say, of Betty’s innocent appeal; indeed, it was not difficult to put two and two together in this case, for Mr Milne had descanted at some length on the idiosyncrasies of the master of Fir Cottage. And even kindly old Mr Ferraby had given more than one hint of the same nature, greatly influenced, no doubt, by his earnest wish that circumstances might arise to break the monotony of the three young lives in which both he and his wife felt so natural and sincere an interest. So Betty’s suggestion fell on prepared ground.
“How very kind of you to think of such a thing!” he said quickly. “Well, yes, if it were not troubling your father too much – for I know he is something of an invalid – I should be glad of his opinion on some little local matters. There is one of the keepers I don’t quite like the look of, and yet, as you can understand, I don’t want to begin by making myself disagreeable.”
“There is one, I know, that papa doesn’t like,” said Betty eagerly, “though he has been a long time about the place. Of course papa never shoots now, himself, though he used to be a very good shot. But it will be far the best for you to ask him yourself.”
And delighted with having obtained a definite message for her father, she held out her hand in farewell, and ran up the little drive to her own door, brimful of her unlooked-for news.
They were all in the drawing-room when she got in, tea half over, to say the least, and Betty’s heart went down in some apprehension of paternal or maternal reproof. But the first words that greeted her came from Frances, and, simple as they were, something in her tone carried immediate conviction to Betty that the news she was so eager to tell had already reached her sister’s ears.
“Where have you been? How did you manage to miss us?” Frances inquired. “We had quite a nice walk; it is really getting to feel more like Christmas.”
“The missing you was my fault,” said Betty. “When I first went out it was fairly light, and as I couldn’t see you in the park I strolled about a little, and came home another way. And – oh, papa, I mustn’t forget to give you a message I have for you. I met Mr Littlewood on my way in,” and as she named him she took care to avoid looking at her sisters, and to speak in a studiously matter-of-fact voice; “he has just arrived here again, and his people are taking the big house, after all. And he wants to talk over something, something private about the keepers, as to which he thought you would be so kind as to advise him if it will not be a trouble to you – though he said he knew that you are a good deal of an invalid.”
“What does he want?” said Mr Morion, and though his tone was superficially testy, it was easy for his family to discern his underlying gratification. “Is he going to write to me, or does he expect me to call on him, or what? Of course he couldn’t apply to any one who knows more about the place, and the idle lot of rascals with no one to look after them – it will be an uncommonly lucky thing for him to be forewarned.”
“Oh,” said Betty, “of course he didn’t expect you to go out of your way; he only seemed afraid of bothering you. He asked if he might call to-morrow afternoon on the chance of your being able to see him.”
“He must take the chance,” said Mr Morion, evidently by no means displeased. “If I’m well enough, I will see him; if not, he must wait till I am.”
“Is he to be here for some time?” asked Lady Emma. “And when do his people mean to come?”
“He said soon, I think,” Betty replied; “but no doubt he’ll tell papa all about it,” and then she turned her attention to the tea, which Frances, with her usual thoughtfulness, had managed to keep hot for her, though she nearly scalded herself in her eagerness to swallow it quickly, so as to leave the room on pretext of taking off her outdoor things, sure that she would at once be followed by Eira at least, if not by Frances.
And in this expectation she was not disappointed, for before she had had time to unbutton her boots the bedroom door was burst open, and in rushed Eira, followed more deliberately by Frances.
“Oh, Betty,” exclaimed the former, “what an afternoon! Just fancy you having met him, and we having heard it. The only pity is that neither of us had the pleasure of telling the other. But how well you managed to smooth down papa!”
“Eira, dear,” said Frances, “do be a little more careful how you speak. I don’t like the idea of managing or planning, though I was glad that Betty had a definite message, for of course, as the Littlewoods are coming, it would be most disagreeable, and a great loss to us all probably, if we were not on friendly terms with them.”
“Who told you?” asked Betty.
“The old Webbs, of course,” said Eira. “But, Betty, there’s some other news! Only Francie must tell you herself. You’ll scarcely be able to believe it.”
Betty turned to Frances, with intense curiosity in her eyes.
“What is it? What can it be?” she ejaculated.
For all reply Frances held out a large thin-looking envelope, from which she proceeded to extract, with great care and deliberation, a sheet or two of what is called “foreign” writing paper.
“This is,” she said at last, “a letter from Mrs Ramsay. Look, Betty,” and here she displayed a smaller slip of paper which told its own tale. “She has done it so thoughtfully,” Frances continued; “it is an English bank-note, you see. I wonder how she managed to get it out there in New Zealand? A bank-note for ten pounds, so there will be no trouble about cashing it, or anything of that sort! And, Betty, it is a Christmas present to be divided between us three! Isn’t it – oh! isn’t it good of her?”
Betty, as yet, had not gotten beyond a gasp. The full realisation of this fairy gift of fortune was still to come to her.
“You must read the letter,” went on Frances. “She doesn’t want us to tell papa and mamma; she is so terribly afraid of it vexing them. And, of course, it isn’t as if we were children now, I especially.”
“Of course not,” Eira chimed in.
“It is good of her, so good that I can scarcely believe it,” said Betty, who by this time had found her voice; “but, Francie, I don’t think you should divide it equally. I think you should keep five pounds, or four, any way, and Eira and I have three each. Think of how you gave us what you once made by your lace – and of the lace itself you have given us, which, after all, you might have sold.”
“No, no,” Frances replied. “Don’t talk such nonsense! Of course it must be in equal shares, though I’ll tell you what we might do, if you two agree to it. We might spend one pound on books and things for our ‘ambulance society,’” and she laughed, “which would leave three pounds each to do as we like with. And I certainly think you two should spend it on your clothes.”
“You too?” said Eira.
“Well, yes,” Frances agreed. “There are lots of little things, gloves and shoes, that we can scarcely do without if we are to see anything of the people at Craig-Morion – things that are matters of course for other girls.”
“Let us settle it that way,” said Betty. “If you promise, Francie, to spend your three pounds on yourself, on your own adornment, I don’t mind using the odd pound for – in a sense – charity: at least, for something which we hope will be of use to other people some day! It may bring us good luck!”
“Better than that, I hope,” said Frances softly. “A tenth is a nice proportion to spend not on ourselves!”
“Though I warn you,” said Betty again, “that I could never be of the least use in your medical or surgical lessons. I hate everything to do with illness or suffering! – unless you like to make a dummy of me for bandaging me up, and rolling sheets under me without my knowing it, and so on.”
The joke was of the mildest, but the new sensation of happy excitement made them all laugh. Then Eira got out paper and pencils, and began a series of abstruse and most interesting calculations as to how many pairs of gloves, including a possible pair each for evening wear, shoes, re-trimmings for hats, and additions to Frances’ lace for the one presentable evening dress possessed by each could, by dint of good management, be coaxed out of three pounds a head.
The result proved on the whole very satisfactory. The sisters even went the length of discussing what shops they should write to for the various treasures so unexpectedly placed within their reach.
“It is too late for to-night’s post,” said Eira, “and perhaps, after all, we had better wait till Christmas is over.”
“Yes,” said Betty, “let us each make a definite list of what we want, by – let us see – next Monday; and then, Francie, darling, you will write for us, won’t you? You would do it so much the best, and then you know the shops.”
For once upon a time, four or five years ago, the eldest sister had spent a never-to-be-forgotten fortnight in London, every detail of which was impressed upon her memory with an almost pathetic vividness.
The wonderful subject of Mrs Ramsay’s gift discussed and dismissed for the time being, Eira’s curiosity had to be satisfied as to all that had passed between Betty and Mr Littlewood, for by this time Frances had left the two younger ones by themselves.
Eira’s eyes grew round with excitement and sympathy, as Betty related the fright she had had.
“It was silly of you,” she said, when she had heard the whole, “really very silly of you to go to the Laurel Walk after dark, when you know how nervous you are. I don’t know what Frances will say when she hears about it.”
“She will say nothing,” said Betty, decidedly, “because she is not going to hear anything. You are not to tell her, Eira. I especially don’t want her to know; and, besides the delight of that money coming, I am very glad that it prevented her cross-questioning me any more about my walk.”
“But if Mr Littlewood calls to-morrow,” said Eira, “is he not pretty sure to talk about it? Or did you ask him not to?”
“Yes,” said Betty, “I did, and he promised he would not, on condition that I would tell him all about our great-grand-aunt’s ghost some time or other.”
“It’s all very queer,” said Eira meditatively. “Till the other day when Mr Ferraby told us about it, we really knew very little ourselves. But why do you specially not want Frances to know of your fright?”
“Because,” said Betty slowly, “I’ve got a curious feeling now that some day something else will happen, and I don’t want to be hedged in by promises to Frances, promises of not doing anything ‘foolhardy,’ as she would call it. Now that I have got over my fright, I feel as if I were braver than I was before! I think, if need were, I could almost make up my mind to speak to her, to the poor old thing, if I knew she were there!”
She fixed her dark eyes impressively on her sister as she spoke. But Eira shook her head.
“What are you doing that for?” asked Betty.
“Because,” replied Eira, “from what you say, from the feeling you have about it, I am more and more convinced that what I heard in the church was something real. You couldn’t possibly think of trying it again if you had felt what I did. I know I wouldn’t for worlds – not for a dozen Craig-Morions – risk meeting the ghost. And I am naturally both stronger and braver than you.”
Chapter Ten
The Eyrie
A tall girl was standing at the window of a drawing-room in a large house at the corner of a certain London square.
It was a good house, though with nothing very distinctive about it; one of the class that now, at the end of the nineteenth-century, people are beginning to look upon as somewhat old-fashioned. There was nothing “Queen Anne” about it, or its furniture; though, to make amends for this, it gave the impression of dignity and stateliness: perhaps, after all, the points that it is safest to aim at in a definitely town house, where light and height and air are the great desiderata. And there was nothing grim or gloomy in the colouring of the room, though a perhaps too studied avoidance of mere prettiness, which would, I fear, have been designated by its mistress as “tawdry frippery” or something analogous thereto.
And this was the home – since his father’s death, that is to say – of Horace Littlewood, who at this present moment was successfully accomplishing the afternoon call which, with Betty’s assistance, he had arranged to pay at Fir Cottage, primarily, of course, on the master of the house, whose favour he had gained to such an extent that, after a discussion of local matters in his study, his host had begged him to join the ladies of the family at tea in the drawing-room.
Madeleine Littlewood, his only unmarried sister, was the tall girl who stood gazing out into the gloom of the late winter afternoon. From the position of the house she could see more ways than one. In the square itself the lamps were now in process of being lighted. One by one she saw them twinkle out, though the result was but faint and dim in comparison with the brilliance of the adjoining street – a wide and important one, where the presence of shops made the contrast with the silent square the more striking.
The girl gave a little sigh.
“Dear me,” she said to herself, “how well I remember watching the lamplighter when we were children! We each used to try to catch sight of him first. There seemed something mysterious about him. I think it began the first winter we were ever in London; it was all so new, and then for so long we only came up in the summer, and everything was different. And now again it will be quite a new experience to be in the country for so long together in the winter. I wonder how we shall like it, and if mamma won’t find it dreadfully dull, after all.” She turned from the window as she spoke, partly because at that moment the front door bell rang sharply, and, as a rule, at this hour, she and her mother were supposed to be “at home.”
“I wonder who that is,” she thought.
She was not long left in doubt, for a minute later the door was thrown open, the butler announcing – “Mr Morion.”
“Bring the lamps,” she said, as she moved forward a little to greet the newcomer, “and let Mrs Littlewood know Mr Morion is here.”
“Horace is away, I suppose,” were the visitor’s first words.
“Yes,” she replied, “the day before yesterday; in such spirits too. He seems to be greatly taken with that eyrie of yours up in the North. He was quite disappointed when mamma gave up thought of it.”
“I hope you’ll all like it,” was the reply, though the tone was indifferent enough. “But you mustn’t blame me if you don’t.”
“Well, no!” she replied. “I can’t say that you painted it for us in very attractive colours; in fact, you have not praised it up at all.”
“I could scarcely have done so,” he said; “I know it so little. But hearing what you, or rather what your mother wanted – bracing northern air, with a touch of the sea, and to be left at peace, it would have been rather dog-in-the-manger of me not to suggest it.”
“Oh! it was very kind of you to think of us,” she replied, more cordially than she had yet spoken. “You must come down when we are there and learn to know your own home, or rather the home of your forefathers, for Horace tells me it was the cradle of your race. It is odd,” she went on, reflectively, “that you should never have cared to know it better.”
Something in her words or tone slightly jarred on the owner of Craig-Morion.
He pushed his chair back a little, and hesitated in his reply.
“A great many things seem odd to outsiders,” he said, dryly.
Madeleine smiled. Somehow, though she scarcely could have said why, for she had no real antipathy to her sister-in-law’s brother, she and Ryder Morion never “got on,” though underneath this surface antagonism each had for the other a solid foundation of respect and even liking.
“Yes,” she replied coolly, “it is not always the case that they see ‘the most of the game.’ I am afraid I am a born gossip,” she added, with a little laugh. “I like to know the ins and outs of my friends’ affairs. And oh, by-the-by, à propos of Craig-Morion, you have relations there of your own name, I hear! Do tell me something about them.”
“You could not apply in a worse quarter,” he said. “I know literally nothing of them, except that the father is a peculiar, and, as far as any personal experience of him goes, a very disagreeable man. There was an old – complication. He believes his grandfather should have inherited the place, instead of my people, though really, as it all happened ages before I was born, I don’t see why he visits it on me.”
“And does he?” inquired Madeleine.
“Well, yes, I fancy so. He was very rude to me once, at all events, and naturally that didn’t add to the attractions of Craig-Morion, for these people live almost on my own ground. But really,” he went on frankly, “there are no reasons for my avoidance of the place, except negative ones. I get into grooves, I fear, and feel lazy about things that I have not always done.”
There was silence for a moment or two, then Miss Littlewood spoke again.
“Horace has interested me in those relations of yours,” she said, “from what he has told me of them. Let me see, cousins, are they not? But not at all near? Or is the father a sort of great-uncle to you?”
“Oh, dear, no,” replied Mr Morion, speaking more briskly than he had yet done. “The father is actually of my own generation, though old enough almost to be my father. I have never counted the cousinship – it must be of the third or fourth degree by this time – in fact, as I said before, I have had little or nothing to do with them.”
Madeleine did not reply. A certain occult suspicion of unexpressed disapproval in her mind made itself felt by her companion. He glanced at her rapidly.
“They are very poor, from what Horace says,” she remarked.
“Are they?” Mr Morion answered indifferently. “I really can’t say. I don’t suppose they are rich, but there is no son, and little girls are easily educated.”
“Little girls!” repeated Madeleine, with a slight laugh. “Why, you are ignorant about them. The eldest certainly, if not the middle one, is as old as I, four or five and twenty.”
“Really?” he said, in the same tone. “I thought their father married late in life, and I am getting to an age when youth at any stage seems some distance from me. Poor girls! their life must be dull enough up there with that old bear. You may be able to show them some kindness, Madeleine. I know you are one of those people whose benevolence is somewhat abnormally developed.”
“I should like to be kind to them,” she said, simply, and Mr Morion believed her and admired her, as he often did. But yet something in her very downrightness had a slightly irritant effect upon him, and of this in return Madeleine was not unconscious.
“I wonder,” she thought to herself, “why Mr Morion and I always rub each other the wrong way? I never feel sure if he is talking in good faith or sarcastically. I suppose one must put down a good deal to the change in him caused by his wife’s death. And yet that is long ago now, and she was so very young, and the marriage only lasted a year or so. Still – ” Her train of thought was interrupted by the door opening to admit her mother, who came forward with an expression of pleasure as her eyes fell on their visitor, for Mr Morion was decidedly a favourite of hers, and on the whole he preferred her society to that of her daughter, though by no means unaware of the latter’s great intellectual superiority.
Mrs Littlewood was still very pretty, though she by no means obtruded this fact, for her taste was good, and her tact excellent. As a rule, she was a very gentle woman, but a strong will underlay the gentleness, genuine though it was. She liked to be liked, and disliked making herself disagreeable, in consequence of which perhaps, when her disapproval or opposition was once aroused, it was not easily resisted.
“We have, of course, been talking about Craig-Morion,” said Madeleine, when she had provided her mother with tea. “But I can’t get much information about it.”
“I really know it so little,” repeated Mr Morion. “My chief feeling about it now is the hope that you will like it, and not be disappointed.”
“That is not likely,” said his hostess. “To begin with, I am one of those philosophical people who never expect perfection, and what we do want I think we are sure to find there: fresh, bracing air, quiet, and some amount of amusement for Horace.”
“I hope it won’t be too bracing for him,” said Mr Morion, “or too cold rather, though they do say that the first winter home from India one never feels the cold so much – still, there was his illness.”
For Horace Littlewood had but recently returned home from his regiment in the East, in consequence of an accident at polo, complicated by a sharp attack of fever, and at present his future career was, to some extent, in abeyance. His mother, whose favourite son he was, was most anxious for him to settle down in England, to which, however, the very fact of his dependence upon her – for Mrs Littlewood had been more or less of an heiress – caused him to hesitate in his consent. He hated the thought of an idle life, and was not, moreover, without experience of the love of power, but little suspected by many who imagined that they knew her well, latent in Mrs Littlewood.
“I think he will be all right,” Horace’s mother replied, “with us – Madeleine and me – to look after him, and he is very pleased with the shooting. Oh, yes, Mr Morion, I am sure we shall be quite satisfied, and, if you won’t take it on hearsay, the only thing to do will be for you to come down and judge for yourself.”
“Thank you very much,” he replied, adding, somewhat to Madeleine’s surprise, if not to that of her mother, “Yes, I think I should like to come down for a little while you are there.” For, as a rule, any invitation to Mr Morion was either politely put aside or accepted on such general terms as to leave but vague probability of his ever availing himself of it.
Mrs Littlewood glanced at him as she responded cordially that she was delighted to hear it. And across her own mind there flashed again a reviving hope – a hope which she had once cherished eagerly, though for some time past it had all but faded.
“Can it be,” she thought, “that, after all, he does care for Madeleine? They say that such things often begin by a kind of antagonism. And in many ways, au fond, they would be so well suited.”
Madeleine’s unspoken reflections ran in a very different direction.
“I wonder,” she said to herself, “if it has possibly struck him that he should know something of those poor relations of his. He is not the sort of man to shirk a duty, or even a piece of kindness, once he recognises it; but he has got into a curiously indifferent sort of way of looking at things. Lives and circumstances are oddly arranged. He is just the type of man who would have been quite happy and content, and probably more useful in his generation, had he had moderate means and been able to devote himself to study – as, indeed, I suppose he does; but then comes the question, Has he a right to do so, considering that he is a large landed proprietor, with so many, in a sense, dependent upon him?”
