Luncheon at Fir Cottage was not an attractive meal. Perhaps the least
so of the three principal repasts of the day. There was a certain
flavour of early dinner about it, recalling the days of the sisters'
childhood, when roast mutton and rice pudding formed, with but little
variety, the _piece de resistance_ of the daily menu, though for Mr
Morion himself there was usually some special and more attractive little
dish.
But to-day the walk in the fresh invigorating air had given the two
elder sisters a satisfactory appetite, in which, chilblains
notwithstanding, Eira was seldom deficient.
Frances and Betty had returned only just in time enough to make their
appearance punctually in the dining-room, and in the first interest of
hearing how her commissions had been executed, Lady Emma forgot to
question them as to the result of their intended inquiries at the
Craig-Morion Lodge. Not so Eira. She was fuming with impatience all
the time that Frances was repeating the laundress' excuses for the
faulty condition in which Mr Morion's shirt-fronts had been sent home,
or Betty explaining, for her part, the reason why she had brought a
packet of oblong instead of square postcards. Eira's opportunity came
at last.
"And what about the big house?" she exclaimed.
"Oh, yes," said her mother, eagerly enough; for which her youngest
daughter mentally blessed her, saying to herself that, after all, "mamma
was not without some points of sympathy."
"I have been wondering all the morning if there was going to be anything
to hear. Did you see the Webbs?"
"We saw Mrs Webb," said Frances, "on our way home. She really is in a
flutter of excitement," and here Frances became conscious of a
half-suppressed movement on her father's part, showing that he, too, was
listening with interest. "It appears," she went on, "that Mr Milne is
expected here this evening--"
"About time," interrupted Mr Morion. "There are several things waiting
for him to decide. Tomlinson shelters himself behind Milne in an absurd
way, whenever he's asked to do anything. There's that gate--coming this
evening, do you say?" he broke off. "Why should any one be excited
about that?"
"You didn't let me finish, papa," said Frances, for in her quiet way she
could sometimes hold her own very effectually with her father. "Mr
Milne is coming for a special reason; he is accompanied by, or
accompanying, a Mr--somebody else--Mrs Webb couldn't remember his
name--who is thinking of taking Craig-Morion for a time."
Her father started.
"They are going to let it?" he exclaimed, for he had all the old-world
prejudice against the modern fashion of everybody living in somebody
else's house. "They're actually going to let it? More shame to them--
the real birthplace of the family as it is--and just because it's small
they care nothing about it in comparison with their other houses."
"But it isn't like selling it," said Betty. "For my part, I shall be
only too delighted if they do let it. Anything for a change, and at
worst a _chance_ of nice neighbours."
"Yes," said Lady Emma, agreeing for once, not uncordially, with her
daughter's point of view. "I don't see why you need feel sore about it,
Charles. Far better for the house to be lived in and aired, than to be
shut up in that damp dreariness."
"We do very well without neighbours," said Mr Morion hastily. "Far
better have none than objectionable ones."
"Why should they be objectionable?" said Eira. "There must be plenty of
nice people in the world as well as disagreeable ones."
"Yes," said Betty, "why should we take for granted that, if new people
come to Craig-Morion, they shouldn't be nice and pleasant?"
"Nice and pleasant they might be," replied her father, "in their own
world of wealth and luxury and among themselves. But in such a case
your common-sense might tell you that it is most unlikely that they
would give a thought to your existence, or even know of it, living in
poverty as we do. And one thing I shall never allow," he went on,
working himself up into assuredly very premature irritation, "I give you
fair warning, and that is I will allow no sort of patronising."
Not only his three daughters but even poor Lady Emma looked aghast at
this unexpected fulmination.
"It is too bad," thought the younger girls to themselves, "that we
should be scolded beforehand for a state of things which will probably
never come to pass."
"And it is no good," said Betty afterwards, when she found herself alone
with Eira, "no good trying to get up the tiniest little bit of
excitement or variety in our lives. Papa is too bad! I'm going to give
up trying for anything, except a sort of stupid lethargic contentment.
Perhaps that's what people mean by the discipline of life."
"I can't quite think that," Eira replied. "Look at Francie, now. You
can't say she's in a state of lethargic resignation. She looks out for
any little pleasure as eagerly as for the first primroses in the
spring." For Eira was on the whole less impressionable than Betty, or
perhaps constitutionally stronger, and therefore more able to repel the
insidious attacks of not-to-be-wondered-at depression, before which
Betty felt frequently all but powerless.
But this conversation took place later in the afternoon. At the
luncheon table her father's bitter and hurting words incited Frances as
usual to exert her calming influence.
"It would be such a terrible pity," she thought to herself, "for papa to
begin nursing up prejudices against these possible neighbours."
"I scarcely think," she said aloud, gently, "that any people coming to
Craig-Morion _could_ altogether ignore us, or rather," with a bright
inspiration, "that it would be possible for us altogether to ignore
_them_. Our very name would forbid it; and surely, papa, you, who know
far more of the world than any of us, would hesitate to say that even in
this material age money is everything."
Mr Morion fell unsuspectingly into the innocent little trap laid for
him by his eldest daughter.
"I have never said such a thing, or thought such a thing," he replied,
turning upon her sharply. "Money by itself everything? Faugh!
Nonsense! All I say is, what every person with any common-sense must
say, that without money very few other things are worth having from a
worldly point of view. It is certainly the oil without which no machine
can be worked, let it be the most perfect of its kind," and having
emitted these sentiments, he looked round for his family's approval,
having talked himself almost into a good humour.
"There is a great deal in what you say," murmured his wife, while
Frances remarked that she scarcely saw how it could be otherwise from a
worldly standpoint, and she did not add the second part of her
reflection, namely, Was the worldly standpoint the truest or best from
which to look out on the problems of life? The younger girls had given
but scant attention to their father's dictum, or the comments it had
drawn forth.
As the day went on, the look of the outside world grew gloomier again.
"I really agree with you, Betty," said Eira, "that there's not much use
or satisfaction in our trying to do anything with this terrible old
room. It _is_ so ugly!" and she gazed round her in a sort of despair.
"No," said Betty, "I don't quite think so. It is more dull than
offensively ugly. A few things would make a great difference--more than
you realise. Pretty fresh muslin curtains to begin with--I think it's
the greatest mistake not to have them in winter as well as in
summer--_besides_ the thick ones, of course--and two or three big
rich-coloured rugs, and a few nice squashy sofa cushions, and--"
"My dearest child, start by providing yourself with Aladdin's lamp in
the first place," said Eira; but Betty had worked herself up into a
small fit of enthusiasm, as was her "way," and would not be snubbed.
"Yes," she went on, "I could do wonders with the room without any very
important changes; you see, its present monotony would do well enough as
a background, and--oh, Francie, do come in, and listen to my ideas about
this room."
Frances, who had been employing herself since luncheon, if not really
usefully, at least with the honest intention of being so, by writing
various letters to her father's dictation--for a new source of personal
uneasiness had lately suggested itself to Mr Morion in the shape of
fears that his eyesight was failing--Frances came forward into the room
and looked about her.
"Those trails and bunches of leaves are lovely," she said heartily,
"they make all the difference in the world, and it will all look still
prettier when the fire has burnt up a little," for one of the changeless
rules at Fir Cottage was that the drawing-room fire should only be
lighted at four o'clock.
She moved towards it as she spoke, and gave it an audacious touch with
the poker.
"Dear me, how chilly it is!" she went on. "Aren't you both half-frozen,
or is it the change from papa's study, where I've been sitting? He does
keep it so hot. And oh! by-the-by, you will be interested to hear that
I've just been writing a note to his dictation making an appointment for
to-morrow with Mr Milne, for a letter came by the afternoon post saying
he was to be down here this evening for a couple of days, and would see
papa about those repairs that the bailiff couldn't order without his
authority, and--now wouldn't you like to know the name of the man who's
coming down with him?--all that old Webb told us was quite correct."
"_How_ interesting," exclaimed Eira, "how extraordinarily interesting!
Yes, of course, do tell us his name at once."
"He is a Mr Littlewood," Frances replied. "I don't know his first
name, nor whether he is young or old, or indeed anything about him,
except that--"
"What?" said Eira quickly.
"Oh, it is only the tone of Mr Milne's letter which papa showed me. He
seems to take for granted that we know something about this man, and
when I asked papa he said he had some vague remembrance of one of Mr
Morion's sisters having married some one of the name several years ago.
One of the elder sisters he thinks it was, so in this case Mr
Littlewood must be a middle-aged man," Frances added.
"I'm sure I don't mind in the least whether he's old or young," said
Eira, "if only they bring a little life about the place. I only hope
they're not going to turn out invalids coming down here for perfect
quiet and rest, and all that kind of thing."
"It's sure to be something of that sort," said Betty, speaking for the
first time, rather drearily. "What else, in the name of everything
that's sensible, would any one come to Craig Bay for?"
"Craig-Morion isn't quite the same as Craig Bay," said Eira. "A country
house makes its own _entourage_. There are lots of places--delightful
to stay at--which must look more isolated and out of the world than this
place does, when they are shut up. But do tell us, does he actually say
that Mr Littlewood's going to take it?"
Frances considered.
"If you want his very words," she replied, "I think they are that Mr
Littlewood is coming to see the house with `a view to a possible
tenancy.' Dear me! what a long day this has seemed! Isn't it tea-time
yet?"
"It's," said Betty, peering up at the timepiece, for the room was
already growing dusky, "it's a quarter or twenty minutes past four.
There's one thing I do thank papa for," she added, speaking more briskly
at the prospect of afternoon-tea in ten minutes, "that he keeps the
clocks going correctly. It would be too horrible if they were all
standing still and out of repair. Frances," she went on, "it's a
worn-out subject, I'm afraid, but can you think of _any_ way in which we
three, or any one of us, could make a little money? It has come into my
head so this afternoon how delightful it would be to brighten up this
room a little. Even the thought of old Milne looking in makes me long
for it to be rather more like other people's."
Before this, Frances, who rarely allowed her hands to be idle, had
ensconced herself in a corner as near a window as she could manage,
anxious to benefit by the last remains of daylight for a beautiful bit
of embroidery, which represented her special fancy work, and this for
practical reasons. Her materials were of the simplest, being merely
white lawn and embroidery cotton, with which, nevertheless, thanks to
her quickness at transferring designs, she was often able to add beauty
to her younger sisters' otherwise undecorated attire.
Before replying, she glanced at her handiwork.
"Personally, I can think of nothing but my work," she said. "But there
are such beautiful imitations of hand embroidery nowadays that I don't
believe I should get much for it, so that really it's better to use it
ourselves; and I must say that the first thing _I_ want money for is to
help _us_ to be better dressed, rather than our drawing-room."
She looked at her sisters regretfully. Nature had not done badly by
either of them, and each had a distinct style of her own, which,
however, even their sister's partial eyes could not but own was shown to
the very smallest advantage by the _chefs d'oeuvre_ of Miss Tobias, the
village seamstress, who spent a few days at Fir Cottage two or three
times a year for the purpose of manipulating new material, or
transmogrifying old, into clothes for the sisters' wear.
"Yes," said Betty, agreeing with the expression she saw in her sister's
eyes, "we are _atrociously_ dressed: there's no other word for it I
know; and what makes it doubly hard to bear is the old story. If mamma
would allow us even fifteen pounds a year each, in our own hands, there
would be some hope of better things. I am _sure_ we could manage
better, but as things are it is quite hopeless. That was what made me
speak of this room instead of ourselves."
Frances sighed and folded up her work for the time, for there came the
welcome sound of the tea-tray and its contents.
"They both might look _so_ pretty," she thought to herself. She watched
Betty's slight figure as she helped to arrange the cups and saucers with
her little white hands, and Eira's lovely hair as it glimmered and
glowed in the firelight. "How is it that people will see things with
such different eyes? If mamma _could_ but see them as I do! and how,
comparatively speaking, small effort might make them and their lives so
different."
For Frances thought a great deal more than she expressed. She had an
almost morbid terror of adding or exaggerating any new grounds of
discontent to the two, who often seemed to her more her children than
her sisters, slight as was in reality the difference of age which
separated her from them.
An approaching rustle--somehow or other their father always announced
his advent by a rustle; this time it was that of the afternoon paper he
had just opened--made her look up in expectation of some request or
complaint. This time, by good luck, it was the former.
"Sorry to disturb you, young ladies," he said in an unwontedly amiable
tone, "but if you'll allow me a _little_ bit of the fire, I should be
grateful. Where is your mother?" and as at that moment Lady Emma made
her appearance, "I have a letter from Milne at last, you will be glad to
hear," he said, addressing her, "so I hope these wretched repairs will
now be seen to."
Lady Emma replied with unusual animation. "You mean that he is really
coming down?" she said; "and what about the second arrival expected? Is
it true that we are to have neighbours at Craig-Morion, as the girls
heard?"
"Dear, dear!" said her husband; "what incorrigible gossips women are!"
But his tone was still agreeable. "It is true that a Mr Littlewood is
thinking of the place. And, by-the-by, Emma, your memory may be better
than mine. Is there not some connection between the Littlewoods and--
the Morions?"
"To be sure," said Lady Emma, a spot of colour appearing on her cheeks
with gratification at his flattering appeal. "To be sure: the present
man's eldest sister married one of the Littlewoods of Daleshire. No
doubt it's one of them--perhaps the very one." But on Eira's following
up this promising beginning by further inquiries, her mother declared
herself unable to give any more particulars, and the conversation lapsed
into its usual monotonous and scarcely more than monosyllabic character.
Still, throughout the rest of the evening the sisters were conscious of
a slight stir in the moral atmosphere; very little, it must be
confessed, was enough to give them this sensation; and when the next
morning at breakfast their father announced his intention of shortening
his usual--when the weather was fine enough--afternoon constitutional,
by reason of the probability "of Milne looking in about tea-time," they
felt justified in harbouring a definite expectation of some break in the
regular routine.
The weather was somewhat milder, thanks to which and to Frances'
nursing, Eira's chilblains were decidedly on the mend, in itself enough
to raise her spirits to an extent which would appear disproportionate to
the happy beings who know not the woe and misery occasioned by these
unwelcome visitors.
Lady Emma was heard to give certain injunctions as to afternoon-tea,
which encouraged Frances to follow suit.
"You would like us to be in by four o'clock or thereabouts, I suppose?"
she said, "in case of Mr Milne's coming," for the old lawyer was
sufficiently man of the world for a little gossip with him to be a by no
means disagreeable variety.
Lady Emma looked up vaguely.
"He may only have time for a talk with your father," she replied.
"But--well, yes, you may as well be at hand. For one thing, your father
may want you, and there's no reason why you all shouldn't be here at
tea-time as usual."
"Or not as usual," said Betty, as they ran upstairs to put on their
outdoor things. "I warn you both that whatever _you_ do, _I_ am going
to try to make myself fit to be seen, for once, and I advise you to do
the same. It stands to reason that if these Littlewoods are coming down
here, they'll be asking Mr Milne about possible and impossible
neighbours, and as they are connections of the other Morions, our name
must catch their attention."
"And we certainly don't want to be described as dowdy--no, I won't say
old maids--but getting on in that direction sort of people," said Eira.
"Yes, Betty, I back you up. Let's, at any rate, do the best we can.
Our best serge skirts aren't _so_ bad, as country clothes go, and we may
as well wear our black silk blouses--the ones mamma gave us when Uncle
Avone died--they're such a much better cut than poor Tobias can
achieve."
"But we're not supposed to wear them till some other old relation dies,"
said Frances. "There are ever so many still, a generation or so older
than mamma! It's wonderful how Irish people cling to life! And I don't
suppose we'd get such nice blouses again in a hurry."
"Well, you needn't wear yours," said Eira; "somehow you always manage to
look better than we do!" In which there was a certain truth, for
Frances had the advantage of superior height, and her undeniable good
looks more nearly approached beauty, though of a somewhat severe type,
than Betty's delicate sweetness or Eira's brilliant colouring.
"My old velveteen looks wonderful still by candle-light, I must allow,"
said Frances, not ill-pleased by her sister's innocent flattery, "and I
dare say mamma won't notice your blouses."
"Any way she can't scold us before old Milne," said Eira, "and I don't
care the least bit if she does after he's gone. All I do care for is
that he should be able to speak of us with a certain amount of--not
exactly deference, nor admiration, nor even appreciation, but simply as
not being completely `out of the running,' we may say, so far as
appearance goes."
The result of this confabulation was not altogether unsatisfactory. The
two younger girls, at least, had a certain childlike pleasure in the
sensation of being better dressed than usual, which was not without a
touch of real pathos, being as far removed from any shadow of vanity or
even self-satisfaction as could be the case in feminine nature.
They were sitting in the drawing-room in the half-light of the quickly
waning day, brightened by the ruddy reflections from a much better fire
than usual, when their mother came in hastily, glancing round with her
short-sighted eyes.
"Frances," she said, "are you there? I told you to be ready. Your
father has just looked out of his study calling for you, and I said I
would send you."
Frances started up, not hastily--her movements were never hasty, but had
a knack of inspiring the onlooker with a pleasant sense of readiness, of
completed preparation for whatever she was wanted for.
"I am here, mamma," she said. "I will go to the study at once. Is papa
alone?"
"Of course not," said her mother, "Mr Milne has been with him for quite
half-an-hour. I was just wondering if we should ring for tea."
"I will go to the pantry, if you like," said Betty, "and see that it's
quite ready, so that the moment you ring it can come in."
Frances by this time had already left the room, but she returned again
almost immediately.
"It was only some papers that papa couldn't find," she said, "but he's
got them now. They're just coming in to tea; shall I ring for it,
mamma?"
Betty and the tea-tray made their appearance simultaneously, as did the
lamps, and a moment or two later Mr Morion and his visitor crossed the
little hall to the drawing-room.
Lady Emma greeted Mr Milne with what, for her, was unusual affability;
the truth being that she was by no means devoid of curiosity as to the
talked-of changes at the big house, though she would have scorned direct
inquiry on the subject. The old lawyer glanced kindly at the two
younger girls, saying to himself as he did so that their appearance had
decidedly altered for the better.
"Not that they were ever plain-looking," he reflected, "but they seem
better turned out somehow--a touch less countrified."
And he felt honestly pleased, for he had known the young people at Fir
Cottage the greater part of their lives, and it had often struck him
that their lines could scarcely be said to have fallen in pleasant
places.
"You have brought us rather better weather," said Frances, when her
mother's first remarks had subsided into silence. It seemed to her that
Mr Milne's manner was a trifle preoccupied, and neither Mr Morion nor
his wife could be said to possess much of the art of conversation.
"Yes, really?" replied the lawyer. "I'm glad we put off a day or two in
that case, for much depends on first impressions of a place."
"You are not alone, then?" said Lady Emma; and three pairs of ears, at
least, listened eagerly for his reply.
"Why, don't you remember, my dear?" said Mr Morion, intercepting it.
"I told you that Milne was coming down with a Mr Littlewood, who is
thinking of renting Craig-Morion for a time. By-the-by," he went on,
"what does he think of the place?"
"He's taken by it, decidedly," said the lawyer, "and though my clients
have no very special reason for letting it, still they will not be sorry
to do so. A house always deteriorates more or less if left too long
uninhabited, and--"
At that moment came the unusual sound of the front door bell ringing--an
energetic ring too, as if touched by a hand whose owner neither liked
nor was accustomed to being kept waiting.