Chapter Nine.They Begin to Mend.Alas! for poor Betty, the little gate, her only hope of escape,waspadlocked. 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, “pleasedon’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 peoplearetaking 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 Iwasglad 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’llscarcelybe able to believe it.”Betty turned to Frances, with intense curiosity in her eyes.“What is it? Whatcanit 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.“Itisgood 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.”“Youtoo?” 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 youpromise, 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 spendnoton ourselves!”“Though I warn you,” said Betty again, “thatIcould 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.“Itwassilly 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! Ithink, if need were, I could almost make up my mind to speak toher, 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 whatIheard 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.”
Alas! for poor Betty, the little gate, her only hope of escape,waspadlocked. 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, “pleasedon’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 peoplearetaking 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 Iwasglad 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’llscarcelybe able to believe it.”
Betty turned to Frances, with intense curiosity in her eyes.
“What is it? Whatcanit 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.
“Itisgood 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.”
“Youtoo?” 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 youpromise, 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 spendnoton ourselves!”
“Though I warn you,” said Betty again, “thatIcould 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.
“Itwassilly 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! Ithink, if need were, I could almost make up my mind to speak toher, 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 whatIheard 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 proposof 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 believeshisgrandfather 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.”“Anddoeshe?” 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, youareignorant 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.“Iwonder,” 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?”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 therearepeople 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 doyoupropose 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 areyougoing 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. Inveryearly 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 saidmuch, 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 himthisevening, 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 wasquitedark 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.”
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 proposof 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 believeshisgrandfather 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.”
“Anddoeshe?” 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, youareignorant 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.
“Iwonder,” 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?”
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 therearepeople 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 doyoupropose 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 areyougoing 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. Inveryearly 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 saidmuch, 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 himthisevening, 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 wasquitedark 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 ofhim. 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 youngestisalmost 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.“Whata 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 shouldnotlike, 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 thereareany 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 callthisgloomy,” 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.”“Youarevery 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 ofworkin 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 Bayshouldlook 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.
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 ofhim. 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 youngestisalmost 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.
“Whata 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 shouldnotlike, 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 thereareany 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 callthisgloomy,” 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.”
“Youarevery 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 ofworkin 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 Bayshouldlook 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.