Kitabı oku: «The Laurel Walk», sayfa 8
She looked at him, as the thoughts, as they had often done before, passed through her mind. He felt conscious of her involuntary scrutinising expression, and again he grew slightly irritated.
“That girl lives upon criticising other people,” he said to himself. “I wonder what she is inwardly arraigning me for now.”
To some extent he did her injustice; to a greater extent she was guilty of the same offence towards him. But there are people who, in obeying the command of concealing from the one hand the good deeds of the other, lose sight of the equally authoritative warning against hiding our light, humble as we may and should esteem it, “under a bushel.” And such people must often be misjudged.
“When do you think of going down?” Mr Morion went on. “I believe Horace mentioned a date, but I have forgotten it.”
“The end of next week probably,” replied Mrs Littlewood promptly, for she still kept the reins of family plans and arrangements well in her own grasp, her daughter being often in ignorance of them till the eve of their accomplishment. “Horace does not come south again – or at least only part of the way. He has an invitation to the Scoresbys for the next few days; then he will return to Craig-Morion and be there to welcome us – some of the servants go on Monday.”
“And how do you propose to employ – nowadays one is frightened to say ‘amuse’ to young women – yourself in my eyrie (I rather like the name), as you call it, Madeleine?” inquired their visitor. “Horace has his shooting, and a little hunting for a change if he thinks it worth a short journey for, and your mother quiet, and, I trust, the consciousness of invigoration. But what are you going to do?”
“Oh,” said she, “I have given no very special thought to it as yet. Of course we shall have books, as usual – by-the-by, have you a library there? And driving – we are taking down a little cart on purpose for me, and Horace is looking out for a stout pony, not afraid of hills. And – walking – I have a great idea that exploring a new country is better done on foot than any other way, and I love exploring. I expect I shall be able to make a guide-book for you of your unknown part of the country before we leave it.”
“But you cannot explore all by yourself,” said Mr Morion, “and I don’t suppose Horace will be always at your command.”
A very slight twinkle of amusement might have been discerned in Madeleine’s eyes by a close observer. She guessed that almost in spite of himself Mr Morion was leading back again to the rather delicate subject of his ignored relations, which seemed to have a kind of fascination for him. And she was not unwilling to play into his hands.
“Perhaps,” she replied, “once I have made acquaintance with them, your cousins may be good enough to accompany me in my rambles. Doubtless they know their own neighbourhood well.”
“Mr Morion’s cousins?” said her mother, before he had time to say anything. “Whom are you talking about, Madeleine? Oh, yes, I remember; Horace said something about a family of your own name, I think,” turning to her visitor, “who are living up near there. But they are scarcely within countable relationship, are they?”
“I’m afraid I have got into the way of thinking of them as not so, or rather of not thinking of them at all,” he replied. “But Madeleine has been obliging enough to remind me, at least tacitly so, that blood is thicker than water. Horace, too, has discovered that these cousins of mine, many times removed, are very poor, so on the whole I am beginning to feel rather guilty.”
Mrs Littlewood turned to her daughter with something in her manner which to Madeleine revealed a sense of annoyance, though her tone and words were gentle.
“My dear child,” she said, ignoring the latter part of Mr Morion’s speech, “you should be getting old enough by this time to realise that few of us have a mission for correcting other people. In very early youth such ideas are more excusable.”
Madeleine’s rather pale face flushed all over. She looked reproachfully at their guest.
“Mr Morion,” she exclaimed, “I really don’t think you are – ” and then she stopped.
“Mamma,” with considerable appeal in her tone, “truly I don’t think that I was so impertinent as – as it sounds.”
Mr Morion felt sorry for her, and again vexed with himself.
“I was more than half joking,” he said apologetically. “Forgive me. I must be becoming more bearish than I realise. You will have to take me in hand, Mrs Littlewood.”
The elder woman smiled pleasantly.
“On my side,” she replied, “I fear I am growing very matter-of-fact in my old age. But no harm is done. Of course you have only to tell us if you wish us to make friends with the family in question. Did not, by-the-by, one of the Avone family marry a Mr Morion? The Avones, as every one knows, are terribly poor for their position, so it sounds as if it might be the same.”
“It is the same family,” answered Mr Morion. “The mother was Lady Emma Marne.”
Then the subject of the Fir Cottage people dropped, and was not again reverted to. Still the illusion to them had left its mark, in a decided amount of curiosity as regarded them, in Madeleine’s mind; some self-reproach and a touch of interest in Mr Morion’s; and a quick questioning, which darted across Mrs Littlewood’s, in connection with Horace’s name.
“I do hope,” she was already saying to herself, “that there are no pretty daughters among them. It would never do for Horace to entangle himself in any stupid way, when even Conrad, who had so much less reason to consider ways and means, made such a wise choice. But I need not be afraid. Horace is far too difficult to please to be attracted by any girl who has laboured under the enormous disadvantages of these poor Miss Morions.”
And she dismissed the unknown sisters from her mind, nor was the Fir Cottage family again alluded to, even between Madeleine and herself, when Mr Morion had taken his leave.
Madeleine thought about them, nevertheless, a good deal. She had extracted a certain amount of information from her brother – more than she had mentioned to the owner of Craig-Morion, more than she thought it expedient to retail to Mrs Littlewood. For while she thoroughly, and with reason, trusted her mother and greatly admired her, she had learnt by long experience that even with those nearest and dearest “least said is” not unfrequently “soonest mended.” There were directions of thought in which she felt intuitively that their two minds would not run together. For Madeleine, beneath her calm, occasionally, in appearance, almost too composed and self-contained manner, was at heart enthusiastic, eager, and impetuous. She knew this well, however; she was on her guard, and thus the very fact of her impressionable nature made her appear cold and even “stand-off,” while Mrs Littlewood’s though not unreal or insincere of its kind, often misled others into stigmatising the daughter as hard and dictatorial – “laying down the law” to the mother, with whom, in point of fact, she very rarely ventured to disagree, whose slightest wish or opinion was weighted for her with authority, but rarely, nowadays, existent in such a relationship.
Horace had not said much, after all. He had not seemed inclined to discuss the family whose acquaintance he had made the first time he went down to Craig Bay with “Old Milne.” And this of itself struck Madeleine as unlike him, and prepared the ground with her for greater curiosity concerning them. She had satisfied herself that one, at least, of the sisters was “pretty” – “very pretty, indeed, if she were decently dressed,” but beyond that, and replying to some of her questions as to the manner of living, etc, of the Fir Cottage Morions, she had found her brother more reticent than usual. Of this, the principal reason had been his own annoyance with himself for his clumsy blunder, as he styled it, to which he could not but attribute the “not at home” with which he had been met the second time he called, and which somehow he had not felt inclined to relate to his sister.
Had it been possible for Madeleine to have seen him this evening, she would have found his mood greatly changed, for, thanks to Betty’s inspiration, and the good tact of Frances and her mother, this third bearding of the lion in his den was crowned with success.
Horace left the cottage after a somewhat prolonged visit in the best of spirits, full of projects for introducing his sister and his new friends to each other – inclined, as he had never before been in his life, to see everything through very rosy-coloured spectacles.
The next few days passed monotonously enough for Madeleine. She missed her brother; the weather was wretchedly dull and gloomy; there was no interest in looking up such friends as were winter residents in London, and likely to be returning there after spending Christmas in the country, seeing that she herself was on the verge of leaving; there was no interesting shopping to do, as Craig-Morion was not likely to make great demands on her wardrobe. In short, everything seemed very flat and unexciting: an impression increased by the more or less dismantled aspect of the house in preparation for a long absence. Nothing seemed worth while, and Madeleine felt half ashamed of herself.
It was with feelings very much the reverse of those of one anticipating an “exile” – as some of their friends had chosen to call their voluntary banishment to an out-of-the-way part of the country – that both Madeleine and her mother found themselves at last fairly started on their journey.
“I don’t know how it is,” said the former, when they were comfortably seated in the railway carriage, “that I have never felt better pleased to leave London than just now; not even after a hot summer. Don’t you feel a little the same, mamma? Somehow I fancy you do.”
“Yes,” Mrs Littlewood replied, “I am glad to get away. I have a sort of longing to feel myself farther north, and, above all, free to do just as we like, and to see no one if we are not inclined for it. I suppose Conrad and Elizabeth will be coming to us, but not just yet, I hope. They are sure to prefer waiting till the days are a little longer,” and she turned to the book with which she was provided, with an evident and wise determination not to tire herself by talking in the train.
Madeleine did not regret this, for she was not inclined to talk either. After a certain point on the journey, the country was new to her, and therefore interesting, and she regretted the early falling darkness which soon hid the outside world from view.
It was quite dark when they reached Craig Bay, quite dark and very cold when they stepped out on to the platform, where her brother had no difficulty in at once distinguishing them, as they were almost the only arrivals.
It was cheering to hear his voice in welcome.
“Come on quickly,” he said, as he gave his arm to his mother, “the carriage is waiting for you, and I have made everything as comfortable as I could. You must expect a tiresome bit of hill, though at first the road is on the level; it takes more than half an hour to get to the house.”
“I am glad of it,” said Madeleine; “I want to forget everything about trains and stations, and everything civilised and modern.”
Horace laughed.
“I don’t think the absence of civilisation will be as pleasant as you think,” he said; “but it isn’t as bad as that; it is really a place where comfort and antiquity might be excellently blended.”
And when at last they turned in at the lodge gates, and a few minutes later found themselves in front of the somewhat rugged granite steps leading up to the door, and then, in another moment, inside the lofty arched hall, of which the walls were hung round with trophies of the chase interspersed with old – and, it must be confessed, rusty – armour, a great wood fire burning in the vast stone hearth, an indescribable feeling of isolation and yet homelikeness pervading all – Madeleine drew a deep breath of satisfaction.
“It is delightful,” she said, turning to her brother. “I am sure we are going to love being here.”
Chapter Eleven
First Impressions
Breakfast-time the next morning found the brother and sister at table by themselves, for Mrs Littlewood, of late, did not make her appearance much before noon.
“How did you sleep, Madeleine?” asked Horace. “Nothing disturbed you, I hope?”
“Why do you ask? I am not given to bad nights. I slept very well, except that I think one never sleeps quite as soundly the first night in a new place,” she replied.
“H’m-m!” murmured her brother, but there was a good deal of meaning in the inarticulate sound, and a decidedly mischievous sparkle in his eyes when she again addressed him and he was obliged to look up.
“Horace,” she said, “you have some reason or motive for asking how I slept! You must tell it to me. Are you only wanting to tease, or is there something that you’ve kept to yourself about this house? Is it supposed to be haunted?”
Mr Littlewood’s face put on an expression of preternatural gravity, but Madeleine knew him too well to be deceived by this.
“Don’t be silly,” she said. “I believe you are trying to invent something just to frighten me. I know your little ways of old. If there had been – ” she hesitated.
“What?” asked her brother.
“I was going to say anything real,” she replied: “if there had been anything real of the kind, you would not have let us take the house, or rather Ryder Morion would not have done so without warning us.”
“Perhaps he doesn’t know,” said Horace mysteriously, with a shake of his head which expressed more than his words.
“Tell me at least what you know,” rejoined his sister, rather impatiently.
“Will you first promise me,” he replied, really in earnest, “that you won’t mention it to mother? Though she is so strong-minded, I honestly don’t think she’d like it, not having been well lately.”
Madeleine nodded in acquiescence.
“I promise,” she replied; “but do be quick.”
“Well,” he said, “to tell you the truth, up to now I know very little, but I mean to find out more, and I hope you will help me. It has something to do with an old story of the place being left away from the other branch of the family, to whom it had been promised by an ancestress. She, as far as I can make out, is credited with conscientious remorse for her misdeeds or non-deeds, and walks about a certain part of the grounds in the stupid way that ghosts always do. There, now, that is really all I know; but I am not inventing.” And Madeleine felt satisfied that he was speaking in good faith, as his story tallied with the allusions made by Mr Morion, that last time she had seen him in London, to some ancient family complications. “I know you’ve good nerves,” Horace went on, “and it may add a spice of excitement to our time here!”
“But how are we to find out more?” asked Madeleine. “It would never do to be cross-questioning the people about; that might annoy Ryder Morion seriously. Who told you what you do know?”
“Two or three people,” he replied. “The old vicar knows the whole story, I strongly suspect, but I couldn’t get much out of him. The best people to apply to, but we must do it carefully, are the Miss Morions – the other Morions, you know, at the cottage over there,” inclining his head as he spoke in the direction alluded to.
Madeleine’s interest increased.
“Would they not mind talking about it?” she asked. “Family ghosts are ticklish subjects sometimes, and in this case there really is some sore feeling still existent, it appears.”
Horace looked up in surprise.
“How do you know that?” he inquired.
And then she told him what had passed between her and Mr Morion on the subject.
“The daughters, at least one of them,” said her brother, “I know would not mind talking about it to us privately. She has half promised to tell me all she knows; but I certainly would be very sorry to allude to it to the father, or to their mother, for that matter. They are both so peculiar, though quite different.”
“Well, I hope we shall get to know the girls,” replied Madeleine, “whatever the parents are.”
“That reminds me,” said Horace, in a would-be offhand tone, “I was to tell you that Lady Emma hopes to call on my mother. Will you tell her so? She surely won’t mind having to know these people, the only ones really in the place that there would be any question of knowing. Of course there are others farther off, at the other side of the county, or, indeed, some in the next county, nearer at hand, whom we know already, the Thurles and the Laughtons – the Scoresbys are almost too far off to count – and these we can arrange to see or not, as we like, later on.”
Madeleine’s expression was somewhat dubious.
“Of course, when Lady Emma comes, mamma must see her, and return the call,” she said; “but there, as far as mamma is concerned, the acquaintance would probably end. She really does want – mamma, I mean – to be perfectly quiet here. Anything more than that, Horace, I can scarcely answer for.” And she watched with some curiosity the effect of her words.
A shade of disappointment crossed his face – as to that there was no doubt – but he threw it off quickly.
“I don’t see that that matters,” he said. “The old bear and his wife – a very submissive wife, too, I should imagine her – wouldn’t interest my mother, or be interested themselves. I believe they ask nothing more than to be left alone. But as regards the daughters – to tell you the truth, Maddie, I can’t help being very sorry for them, and it would really be kind of you to cheer them up a little.”
“I have no objection,” said Madeleine cordially; “on the contrary, it would be a pleasure and interest to me to make friends if – you are sure you are not reckoning without your host, Horace? – if – I was going to say – these girls, on their side, would care about it.”
“I am sure they would,” said her brother.
“I don’t know,” Madeleine went on. “The way they have lived may make them extra shy – proud – I don’t know what to call it! – ungetatable. But I promise you to do my best, and that carefully in every way. I don’t want mamma to begin warning me against flying into sudden friendships! – at my age it is absurd; but then, mamma never remembers that I am no longer in my first youth.”
As she said the words, something in her mind seemed to contradict them, and gradually she recalled what gave her this feeling. It was the remembrance of her mother’s remark the afternoon that Mr Morion had called, as to her no longer having the excuse of “early youth” for thinking she could set other people to rights.
“I wonder what made her say that?” thought Madeleine to herself, but Horace’s next words put the subject out of her head.
“I don’t think you need anticipate any holding back on their side,” he said. “Certainly not on the part of – two of them. The youngest is almost childlike, and the eldest, oh! she is really charming and out of the common. I am sure you will take to her.”
“And why do you except the middle one?” asked Madeleine.
“I don’t feel as if I could judge of her,” he said indifferently. “She seems a changeable sort of girl.”
“And they are all pretty, more or less, I think you said?” continued his sister.
“I don’t know that I did say so, though – well, yes, I suppose they are. But Miss Morion is the sort of person whose looks you forget in what you feel she must be in herself, and the others – they really are so atrociously dressed!” he broke off rather ruefully, and yet with a little laugh. “You won’t be hypercritical, Maddie, but I don’t know about my mother.”
Madeleine was standing looking out of the window by this time. For a midwinter day it bade fair to be a very pleasant one. The sky was clear, though the lights were thin, and in the air there was a decided touch of frost.
“I am glad to be here at last,” she said. “You are not doing anything to-day, I hope, Horace – shooting or anything? For I want you to show me all over the place.”
“I’ve kept free on purpose for that,” he answered. “Shall we go out at once?”
“No,” replied Madeleine, with some regret in her tone, “I don’t think that would quite do. Mamma may want me. I had better wait until after luncheon, except for a mere stroll near the house. And in the first place I want to see something of the house itself. Is this the only dining-room?” glancing around her as she spoke.
“Yes,” Horace answered; “none of the rooms are very large, except the hall and the library. That is really the most curious room. I can’t make it out: it seems disproportionately big, and perfectly filled with books, the most modern of which must be fifty years old, I should say. Lots of rubbish among them, no doubt, and probably some of value if we had an expert to look them over.”
“Long ago,” said Madeleine, “no books were considered rubbish. They cost too much, and the bindings were so heavy that they took up much more room. Let us go and have a look at them. Just ring the bell to let the servants know that they can come in.”
Horace led the way through a little anteroom, on the opposite side of which high doors led into the two drawing-rooms – all the rooms at Craig-Morion were lofty – down a short passage leading into a longer and wider one, then up two or three shallow steps to a sort of little dais or landing railed round with heavily carved balusters. Then, with a certain air of proprietorship, he threw open the heavy oaken door facing them, and stood back for his sister to pass in.
She gave a little cry of surprise.
“Yes,” she said, “this is quite a unique room. And oh! what a musty smell, Horace!”
The mustiness was quickly accounted for. Up to a certain height the walls were lined with books, except at one end, where two long painted windows looked out on to a dark and gloomy path among the shrubberies. The room, even in full daylight, would have been almost dark had these windows been its only source of illumination. But this was not the case, for the walls rose to the full height of that part of the house, and the arched roof was completed by a glazed dome, through which some rays of wintry sunshine lighted up the dusty old volumes into an almost uniform tint of orange-brown which would have delighted the eyes of many a painter.
“I wonder,” continued Madeleine, “if possibly in old pre-Reformation times this was a private chapel?”
“How clever of you to think of it!” said Horace. “It never struck me before, but it may very well have been so, I should say, though I am no archaeologist. We will suggest it to Ryder when he comes down. That gloomy walk,” and he crossed to one of the windows as he spoke, “is the short cut through the grounds to the church, which stands just outside the park wall. So the chaplain, if chaplain there was, must have found it convenient, as you see there is a door in this window.”
He opened it, and Madeleine looked over his shoulder at a short flight of broken, moss-grown steps leading to the ground.
“What a gloomy place!” she said, with a little shiver, caused partly no doubt by the sharp air which met her, “and how long and straight the walk is! I should not like, Horace, I confess, to pace up and down here in the twilight, and scarcely, indeed, at any time of the day – it can never be anything but twilight here!”
“They call it the ‘Laurel Walk,’” said her brother. “It is – ” but he stopped short, and Madeleine, who had retreated inside the room again, did not notice his breaking off.
“It’s too gloomy here,” she said. “Why isn’t there a fire? A huge fire would mend matters a little and be good for the books too, though the room does not seem damp, I must say.”
“No,” Horace replied, “the whole place is wonderfully dry. You see, it has splendid natural drainage from standing so high. There is a fire once a week or so, I believe, but we can have one every day if you like, though I fear the books, if there are any valuable ones, are gone past redemption with the long neglect.”
“I should like to get to the brighter part of the house – the other side,” said Madeleine, moving towards the door by which they had entered; but, to her surprise, Horace crossed the room to the other corner – that farthest from the windows, and appeared to be fumbling among the book-shelves.
“Oh come,” she said impatiently, “it is so cold, and I don’t want my first impression of the house to be a gloomy one.”
“Nor do I,” he answered; and then, glancing in his direction, Madeleine was almost startled by a sudden glow of light and warmth behind him. “You don’t call this gloomy,” he proceeded, and Madeleine, hastening forward, saw that his apparent fumbling among the books had in reality been the feeling for a spring, by which to open a door, concealed by rows of “dummy” volumes, which now stood wide open, giving access to a cosy and inviting looking sanctum or smaller library, where a splendid fire was burning, and where, moreover – for this was at an angle of the building – the morning sun penetrated brightly, through windows facing east and south.
“Oh, how charming!” cried Madeleine, hurrying over to the fireplace. “Is this where you have established yourself, Horace?”
“Yes,” he replied, “hence my intimate acquaintance with the library, and the short cut down the Laurel Walk. This is one of the jolliest rooms in the house, and you see I’ve got all my own belongings here already. And you don’t know all its attractions yet! There is a hidden door in the corner here too, opening on to a private staircase up to a couple of capital rooms – bedroom and dressing-room – which I’ve taken possession of. They communicate as well with the main part of the house, where all your rooms are. But it is jolly, isn’t it? I don’t believe Ryder has any idea how comfortable this old place might be.”
He seemed as pleased as any school-boy with his new quarters; and Madeleine, on her side, was girl enough to enter into the little excitement in connection with their temporary home with equal zest. She insisted on following her brother up the little staircase to see his other rooms, then down passages and across landings to the main staircase, down which they came again to visit the drawing-rooms. Of these there were two, on the whole the most attractive rooms on the ground floor, for they had windows on both sides, and though their furniture was somewhat scanty and quaint, and there was naturally an air of unusedness about them, Madeleine’s quick eye soon decided that with a little rearrangement, some high-growing plants and ferns here and there, books, photographs, and so on, it would be easy to give them a homelike and gracious aspect.
“I thought,” said Horace, “that mother could probably use the smaller one as a sort of boudoir, and if you want a den of your own, Maddie, there’s rather a nice little corner room close to where you are, upstairs. A plainly furnished little place, as you prefer, I know, for your various avocations, which don’t always find favour in the maternal eye.”
Madeleine laughed.
“Show it to me,” she said. And upstairs again they went. The little room was greatly approved of. “Yes,” agreed Madeleine, “it is just what I like. Not so very little, after all – large enough to have a friend or two at tea privately. You must hunt me up a few more chairs and a sofa from somewhere. Yes, this room is a capital idea. I can bring in any botanical spoils, or cut out my poor work, without fear of annoying mamma by my untidiness.”
“You are very untidy, you know,” said Horace, who had all a soldier’s precision and orderliness. “I don’t mean in your dress, of course, but I do sometimes sympathise with mother.”
“Oh, don’t preach, Horace!” answered his sister, for her untidiness was an old story. “By-the-by, are there any poor people about here?”
“Scarcely any in the place itself,” said Horace. “But there is a queer fishing village not far off, the old vicar tells me, full of attraction for the artistic as well as the philanthropic. The people keep very much to themselves, and are delightfully picturesque, awfully dirty, and generally barbaric.”
“Why doesn’t he look after them, then?” said Madeleine rather sharply.
“Poor old chap,” answered Horace, “he can’t. He would if he could, even though it isn’t his business. But he has plenty of work in his own parish, even though there’s very little actual poverty.”
“Of course,” said Madeleine, “the cure of souls is the same responsibility whether it concerns the well-to-do or the poor. What is the name of the fishing village?”
“Scaling Harbour. The people are supposed to be partly of Spanish descent,” said her brother, “and they look like it.”
“Is there no church, then, or mission-room, or anything?” inquired Madeleine.
Horace shook his head.
“Certainly no church; and mission-rooms don’t seem to have found their way up here. The parson at Craig Bay should look after it, I suppose! He is certainly not overburdened with money, though.”
“And whom does the place belong to?” asked his sister.
“Partly to Ryder,” Horace replied, as if rather tired of the subject. “You can tackle him about it – you generally have a crow of some kind or other to pick with him, it seems to me.”
Madeleine flushed a little.
“Don’t say that,” she began. “To tell you the truth, I fear I have already annoyed him rather about his ‘absenteeism’ as regards this place.”
Horace laughed.
“Upon my word, Maddie,” he said, “no one can accuse you of not having the courage of your opinions. It isn’t everybody – not I, I confess, for one – who would venture to pull up Ryder Morion for anything he does or does not do, or choose to do.”
Madeleine still looked annoyed.
“I think it must run in the family,” she said, in a tone of irritation.
“What – and what family?” inquired her brother.
“Bearishness,” she replied curtly – “bearishness in the Morion family, of course.” Horace shrugged his shoulders.
They were crossing the landing to go downstairs again; but at that moment Mrs Littlewood’s maid met them with a request that Madeleine would go to her mother’s room for a moment. So, telling her brother that she would join him in a few minutes for their projected stroll round the house, she left him, to do as she was asked.
