Kitabı oku: «The Laurel Walk», sayfa 9
Chapter Twelve
Lady Emma “Gets it Over.”
A day or two passed. The weather fulfilled its amiable promises to the Littlewoods on their first arrival, and was all that could be desired, excepting that the cold increased.
But then, as Mrs Littlewood observed with warmth, what else could be expected up in the north, and in the month of January? For her part she enjoyed the bracing air – it was what she had wanted. Nor did Madeleine object to it: she drove with her mother in an open carriage in the afternoon, Mrs Littlewood well enveloped in furs, and she went long walks with her brother in the morning, so that before she had slept three or four nights at Craig-Morion she had already acquired some knowledge of the locality.
There came a day, however – the Friday after their arrival – when the forbidding aspect of the sky made Mrs Littlewood decide that it would be scarcely prudent to risk the possibilities of the heavy clouds, and more advisable to remain indoors. Her daughter received this ultimatum with philosophy, even though Horace was off on his own account, and not available for a walk or drive. The pony had not yet been found, though several had been interviewed. But this morning’s post had brought news of one which, according to the description, bade fair to unite all desirable qualifications, and Madeleine’s brother had gone at once – a journey of some little distance – to judge for himself as to its suitability.
Luncheon over, Madeleine, wrapping herself up warmly, started for a brisk walk to the village, which had not yet begun to pall upon her by its familiarity. Indeed, the shops were so far a source of amusement to her, combining, as most of them did, during the winter, a little of everything, including some things rarely to be found except in such “olla podrida.”
“It reminds me,” she said to herself, “of that queer little hamlet on the Devon coast, where Horace and I were sent for change of air after whooping-cough. I remember the wonderful little work-boxes, or button-boxes, with landscapes on the lid, which we considered perfect works of art, and which I am certain one could never have found in any London shops at any date. Horace and I joined together to get one for mamma, and I believe she has it still.”
She entered the shop in front of whose window she was standing, and made some trifling purchases – two or three baskets of different sizes and of rather quaint construction, which would be “just the thing,” she thought, for the treasures – botanical and others – which, even in midwinter, she seldom came home from a ramble in the country without. Then she took a fancy for some wonderful, many-coloured check material, which she caught sight of on a shelf: it was of the old-fashioned “gingham” make, and struck Madeleine as a pleasing variety for the aprons she contributed to her needlework guild. And she was much amused by finding, when she came to give her name and address for sending the somewhat bulky parcel, that doing so was quite a work of supererogation, as the well-pleased shop-woman intercepted the words of direction by a deferential, “Oh, yes, ma’am, quite right —Miss Littlewood, at the big house!”
Madeleine walked home briskly, but she had made a détour on her way to the village, and it was now later than she had imagined. As she paused in the hall on her return, intending merely to divest herself of her outermost wraps before glancing in to see if her mother was in the drawing-room, a door leading to the offices opened, and a footman – who, to tell the truth, had been posted by his superior in office, to look out for the young lady’s return, in order to pave the way for a possibly called-for mediation with his mistress – appeared, of whom she made the inquiry.
“Yes, ma’am,” was the reply. “Mrs Littlewood is in the inner drawing-room, and,” with the air of announcing an event which made Madeleine realise how far they were from London, “there are visitors, ma’am.”
“Who are they?” she inquired, with some apprehension of her mother’s displeasure.
“Lady Emma Morion and two young ladies. Bateson thought it right to say ‘at home,’ though we had no orders, owing to the name, ma’am.” But there evidently was some misgiving in his mind, not unshared by Madeleine.
“It is unlucky,” she thought, “that I should have gone out this afternoon, for I don’t want mamma to be prejudiced against these Morions, for the daughters’ sakes. Who could have thought of them calling on such a threatening day? I must do my best.” And without further delay she passed through the larger drawing-room into the smaller one, where her mother usually sat.
It was not till long afterwards – an “afterwards” bringing with it relations which allowed the tragic element to melt into the comic, on looking back to that afternoon’s history – that Madeleine fully knew the relief her appearance brought with it to the very unhappy-looking group in the boudoir.
“You came in like a ray of sunshine or a breath of fresh, sweet air,” she was told in that hereafter-to-come “afterwards.”
She meant to do her best, and she did it, and she was not one to do such things by halves. As far as “good-will” went Frances Morion was certainly not behind her; but then Frances was at a disadvantage from her want of social experience – more at a disadvantage than the quiet calm of her manner might have led one to suppose, as this only made her appear somewhat impassive and phlegmatic. Madeleine, on the contrary, forearmed by a certain amount of knowledge of the ground, discarded for once the self-containedness which was usual to her, and which she had learned to adopt as a cloak for her real impulsiveness. Nothing could have been easier, kindlier, more girlish even, without a touch of self-assertion, than her greeting of the three strangers – Lady Emma stiffly established on one end of her hostess’ sofa, her eldest daughter a chair or two off, cudgelling her brains for some observations which might possibly draw forth a spark of kin-making “nature” in the direction of sympathy from Mrs Littlewood; Betty seated at a much greater distance, dreamily gazing out into the wintry garden, apparently indifferent, in reality throbbing with disappointment for Frances’ sake at “Mr Littlewood’s” non-appearance, and at the well-bred unapproachableness of the two seniors of the party.
She had begged to be allowed to come, and Lady Emma had given in, little suspecting the girl’s real motive of hoping, by some innocent tact and diplomacy, to help the position, perhaps to “throw them together,” as Eira expressed it, seeing that it was almost a case of “three being no company.”
“For mamma and Mrs Littlewood are sure to talk,” said Eira, “and then Miss Littlewood would absorb Frances, and Frances in her usual dreadfully unselfish way would think herself bound to talk only to her, and he would feel himself snubbed very likely.”
And, alas! “mamma and Mrs Littlewood” found nothing to say; and for once even Frances seemed discomfited, and no “he” appeared, and his sister evidently did not want to make friends. For her mother forgot to mention – or refrained from doing so – that Madeleine was out.
Altogether it was a terrible fiasco, and Betty’s one great longing was to get out, and rush home, and burst into tears in the arms of the sympathetic Eira, when – the door opened, and, with it, light and life and “sugar and spice and all things nice” seemed almost immediately to pervade the atmosphere.
Madeleine’s first greeting – to Lady Emma, of course – had just that touch of deference which gratified the elder woman. Mrs Littlewood, who, to give her her due, was feeling far more conscious of being bored and stupid herself – for to tell the truth she had been more than half asleep when the visitors were announced – than of any positive irritation at them, gave an inaudible sigh of relief. Frances, when the newcomer turned to her with something in her eyes which said tacitly, “I hope you will like me, I mean to like you,” was won on the spot. Only Betty’s half-childish gravity, her big dark eyes fixing themselves on Madeleine with dubious inquiry – only Betty struck Madeleine as somewhat baffling and unresponsive. The thought darted quickly through her mind:
“I wonder if this is the youngest of the or the middle one, whom Horace spoke of as a ‘changeable sort of girl not easy to understand.’ I fancy she must be that one. She is pretty, very pretty, but the other one is almost beautiful.”
We all know how much more quickly thoughts pass through our minds than it takes to relate them. The sound of the door opening seemed still in the visitors’ ears as Madeleine seated herself in the best position for talking to Frances, and at the same time keeping an alert though dutiful eye on the two mammas.
“I am so sorry I was out when you came,” she began. “I wish I had happened to meet you in the park; I should have turned back, as I had really nothing to do of the least consequence.”
“I am very glad you have come in,” said Frances, in a tone that gave the commonplace words real meaning. “But we have only been here a few minutes.”
“What a gloomy day it is!” resumed Madeleine. “My mother was afraid of going out, though really, mamma,” she went on, turning to her, “it is scarcely colder than yesterday.”
“Do you dread the cold much?” inquired Lady Emma. “I did when we first came here, but once I got used to it a little I found it really less insidious than the damp of the winters of my own old home.”
Mrs Littlewood brightened up.
“In Ireland that was, I believe?” she inquired, with more interest than she had yet shown. “How one’s life changes! I was brought up principally abroad, a good deal in hot climates, as my father had several diplomatic appointments in South America and elsewhere, and yet now I prefer a cold, or at least a bracing, climate to any other.”
“So do I,” said Lady Emma, “though it necessitates some care. I make a rule of never staying out – ” But Madeleine listened to no more – the good ladies were sufficiently launched on their way probably to as much intimacy as they would ever achieve. This reflection, however, did not trouble Mrs Littlewood’s daughter.
“It is not the least necessary,” she thought, “for them to see very much of each other. Neither wishes it, I am sure, and it will do just as well, or better, to be just on friendly terms, and leave me free to see as much as I can of the daughters, at least of this eldest one. I quite agree with Horace about her,” and she turned with a pleasant feeling of relief again to Frances, feeling at liberty now to give to her her whole attention, not troubling herself specially about the younger girl with the dreamy, just now almost gloomy eyes, who still sat gazing out of the window, as if absorbed in the wintry scene before her.
The next few minutes passed rapidly for the two elder girls. Something in Frances’ quiet eyes told Madeleine that the attraction she felt was reciprocated, and not likely to be effervescent, and already they touched upon several topics which promised to call forth their common sympathy – like glades in a forest clearing, gently lighted by the sunshine, inviting and promising further charm in exploring at one’s leisure.
Then afternoon-tea made its appearance, and Madeleine’s duties in dispensing it, tactfully aided by Frances, for still the little figure in the window sat motionless, scarcely arousing itself even when summoned to come nearer the tea-table.
“Can I help you in any way?” she – Betty – asked, half mechanically. Then, seeing that everybody’s wants had been supplied, she retreated again, cup in hand, to the corner.
“What a queer girl she seems,” thought Madeleine. “Perhaps she is only desperately shy.”
Suddenly the door opened, and Horace made his appearance. By this time the fading daylight was giving a shadowy look to the room, and for the first moment the young man’s eyes were a little at a loss. But the fire was burning brightly, and another glance or two revealed to him the position of things. It all looked very comfortable and friendly, and a feeling of satisfaction stole through him, though his manner was studiously quiet, almost deferential as he shook hands with Lady Emma and her elder daughter. Then turning in quest of Betty, whom he had early perceived by her window, to his surprise he found her flown. For with one of her sudden movements – Betty’s impulses were not confined to speech – she had darted at his entrance across the room towards the tea-table, and was now established as near to Madeleine as she could manage, looking up in her face, greatly to the latter’s surprise, with a curious air of determination to find something to talk about to her!
Considerably amused, a little puzzled, but nothing loath, Madeleine responded to Betty’s unexpectedly friendly overture.
“She is a funny little thing,” she thought. “But Horace will enjoy talking to Miss Morion;” and she devoted herself with kindly unselfishness to encourage Betty’s spasm of sociability.
“Do you care for pictures?” inquired the younger girl, so abruptly that Madeleine for an instant or two scarcely took in the sense of the words.
“Pictures,” she repeated absently, “what kind of pictures?” with the sort of smile with which one encourages a timid child.
“Oh! I don’t know exactly,” said Betty, “any kind of pictures. I – I suppose you see lots in London?”
“Do you mean in exhibitions?” said Madeleine. “Yes, of course, they are always interesting. I don’t paint myself, though; do you?”
“Oh dear, no,” said Betty, with rather unnecessary emphasis; “and I don’t know anything about pictures. I don’t think I care for them much.” And then, as she fancied that Madeleine’s head was veering in the direction of Frances and her brother, she burst out into another little rush of polite conversation.
“I have never been in London,” as if this fact was sure to enlist her companion’s interest, which, to tell the truth, it did.
“Really?” said Madeleine. “I rather envy you. I often do envy those who have not seen much or travelled much till they were old enough to understand something of what they saw.”
At another time Betty would have understood and probably taken up the suggestions in this remark, but just now her brain, by no means a deficient one, was too absorbed by one dominant idea.
“They are getting on nicely,” she thought as some snatches of the tête-à-tête a few chairs off caught her ears. “I must keep Miss Littlewood talking to me, or Eira will think me stupid when I tell her about it.”
“Frances was there once,” she said, “for a fortnight. She got to know several of the shops, which was a very good thing, wasn’t it? She wrote down the names and addresses of some of them, and just lately we have written for things – we had – ” here she stopped and grew crimson, and Madeleine, wondering what could be the cause of this sudden embarrassment, said kindly:
“Yes? I hope the results were satisfactory. About Christmas-time, in the country, one seems always to have so many wants.”
Betty laughed. Her laugh was extremely pretty, and it seemed to set both her and her companion more at their ease.
“Wants!” she said, with, for the first time, some of her own natural manner. “I don’t think our wants are confined to Christmas! They go on all the year round, but – ” then with a little flush again, and a mental “she looks so kind” – “I don’t see why I mayn’t tell you,” she went on aloud, though with a slightly lowered voice. “This Christmas we were so lucky. A friend – an old friend – sent us a present to spend as we liked, and you don’t know how delightful it has been! We have so enjoyed ordering things! The only fear was that mamma wouldn’t like it, but it has come all right. Frances explained it so nicely to her!”
“How nice!” said Madeleine. “That kind of present often gives far more pleasure than anything else. I remember when I was about – I suppose about your age – the intense delight of my father’s giving me money one birthday, when he had not been able to choose a gift as usual.” – “She is a dear little thing, after all,” she thought to herself: “she cannot be more than eighteen or nineteen: she is surely the youngest!”
“How interesting it must be,” she went on again aloud, “to have sisters to consult with about such things. My two sisters were the eldest of us all, and I am the youngest. They married before I grew up, so I almost feel like an only daughter at home. And you are like me, are you not? the youngest, though you still have your sisters with you.”
Betty shook her little head sagely.
“No,” she said, “I am not the youngest. Eira is nearly two years younger, just twenty-two.”
“Just twenty-two!” repeated Madeleine, “and you two years older! You don’t mean to say you are twenty-four! I can’t believe it.”
“But it’s true,” said Betty, with a smile; then, a sudden misgiving seizing her that by her way of speaking Miss Littlewood might infer that Frances’ age was more mature than it was in reality, she went on quickly: “We are all three near in age, though Frances is so much better and wiser than Eira and I – especially than I – that it often seems as if she were a second mother to us!”
“I see,” said Madeleine thoughtfully, her eyes straying in Frances’ direction. Then a smile irradiated her whole face, adding greatly to its charm. “I dare say you wouldn’t suspect me of such a thing,” she said, “but do you know, if I let myself go, I should really be afraid of getting too enthusiastic about your sister? She is so – beautiful, in the best way; beautiful with goodness as well as literally!”
Betty’s heart was now completely won.
“Yes,” she said simply, “what you say is true.”
Just then there came a little break in the conversation between Frances and her host, which had hitherto been progressing most propitiously. Horace glanced in Betty’s direction.
“Madeleine is greatly interested in this house,” he observed. “I suppose you all know it well?” and, as he addressed himself directly to the younger sister, she had no choice but to reply, and at the same moment, Frances moved to a chair nearer Madeleine’s, and the two went on with their interrupted talk.
“No,” said Betty, “not so very well, though of course we have been all over it.”
“My sister was much struck by the library,” he resumed, in his turn changing his seat for one nearer hers.
Betty’s shy eyes glanced at him questioningly with latent reproach. She knew that he knew the association that the room must have for her with the dreaded Laurel Walk, and she looked upon his avoidance of the other evening’s adventure as tacitly promised, till an opportunity presented itself of her explaining more to him.
“I don’t like the library,” she said, in a lower tone. “I don’t like that side of the house at all.”
He understood her.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said, dropping his voice also. “I am not going to tease you about it, though I should like to know more of the story.”
A grateful glance out of those same eyes was his reward, and at that moment Lady Emma rose from her seat.
“Dear me!” she exclaimed, with unwonted affability. “I had no idea it was so late. Frances, my dear, Betty, we shall be benighted if we don’t make haste!”
“I hope you have plenty of wraps,” said Mrs Littlewood. “Are you driving?”
“Oh no,” Lady Emma replied, though the inquiry did not displease her, “it is nothing of a walk. Mr Morion hopes to find you at home some day soon, I was nearly forgetting to say.”
“I shall be delighted,” murmured Mrs Littlewood, not sorry, however, that the farewells to Frances and her sister obviated the need of saying more. Her eyes rested a moment somewhat coldly on Frances as they shook hands, then glanced off with more cordiality to Betty’s solemn little face.
“Good-by, my dear,” the last two words escaping her almost involuntarily. Then, to everybody’s surprise, her own possibly included, she gently touched the girl’s soft slightly flushed cheek, with a little gesture of caress in her pretty fingers. “You will come to see us again soon, I hope?”
And Betty, lifting her eyes, realised for the first time the delicate charm of “Mr Littlewood’s mother,” as she smiled in response.
“What a lot I shall have to tell Eira!” thought Betty, as she followed her mother and sister out of the room. “After all, it has gone off capitally, and I thought everything at first was turning out wrong.”
Their host accompanied them to the hall door. “You are sure you don’t mind crossing the park alone, now it is so nearly dark?” he said, with some little hesitation.
“Oh, not in the least,” replied Lady Emma, with decision; for, truth to tell, she had had enough and to spare of “society” for the time being, though on the whole it had been less antipathetic than she had expected.
“Oh dear, no, we are so accustomed to it,” Frances repeated, though as her mother walked on she was obliged to delay a moment to listen to Horace’s last words.
“There is a pony in the yard,” he said, “waiting for Madeleine to see. Otherwise I hope you would have allowed me to escort you home.”
Betty had already run on.
“Oh, we are quite right, I assure you,” said Frances. “I hope the pony will please your sister.”
Horace stood for a moment looking after them, then turned into the house again to summon Madeleine.
“Well?” he began, when they were on their way to the stable-yard. “What do you think of the Fir Cottagers?”
“I like the daughters extremely,” said Madeleine heartily, “both of them, though they are so different; and mamma and Lady Emma took to each other quite satisfactorily – quite as much as is necessary.”
“I’m glad of that,” her brother replied simply.
On their side the three wending their way homewards were discussing their new acquaintances in greater detail.
“I think them charming,” said Betty eagerly, “even the mother, and somehow I didn’t expect to like her. But didn’t she speak kindly at the end? And, oh! how pretty she must have been, Frances.”
“Yes,” agreed Lady Emma, one of whose good qualities, negatively speaking, was an absence of any spirit of small feminine jealousy. “Her daughter is not nearly so pretty.”
“But she, Miss Littlewood, has a very nice face,” said Frances. “On the whole, I am sure we shall find them pleasant neighbours.”
Lady Emma gave a sigh.
“I am glad to have got the call over, any way,” she said, in a tone of relief, adding, reflectively, “and I daresay if your father has no objection you may enjoy seeing something of the girl. It might be mutually pleasant,” mentally resolving to put things in this light to her husband, whose terror of being patronised was a mania.
