The next day passed so uneventfully that Betty began to think that for
once the Fates had taken her at her word, and that the episode of Mr
Littlewood's visit might be forgotten without fear of their meeting him
again, to revive its annoying associations.
"He must have left with Mr Milne after all, I hope," she said on the
following afternoon, alluding to something he had said to Frances about
staying a day or two longer to see if the head-keeper's roseate account
of shooting was to be depended upon. "Oh, I do hope he has!"
"_I_ hope he hasn't," said Eira. "I dare say we should like him very
much if we knew him better. I think you were absurdly exaggerated about
what he said. And even if we didn't like him, I'd be glad of anything
for a change."
"You don't mean to say," said Betty, reproachfully, "that you still hope
these people will come here?"
"Yes, of course I do," said Eira. "But there's Frances waiting for us,
as usual. Oh! how glad I am that my chilblains are better."
For once the three sisters were setting off for a walk unburdened by
commissions of any kind, but as the route through the park was the
starting-point for rambles in almost every direction, they, by common
accord, turned that way and were soon at the end of the side-path which
led to the main entrance.
Somewhat to their surprise, the lodge gates were open, though neither
Mrs Webb nor her husband was to be seen, as usual, peering out like
spiders in hopes of alluring some human fly to provide them with a dish
of gossip. Eira stood still and looked about her.
"Betty," she said, after some little scrutiny, "I don't believe your
arch-enemy _has_ left, after all."
"If so," said Frances, "I wish we hadn't come through the park. I
certainly don't want the Morions or their friends to think we claim
right of way across it." And she hastened her steps to regain the road
as quickly as possible.
Once on it she turned in the opposite direction from Craig Bay.
"Where are you steering for, Frances?" asked Betty.
"I don't think I quite know," her sister replied, "except that I do not
want to go to the village."
"No wonder," said Eira, "I am _so_ tired of the sight of those dreary
little shops. In the spring there's a certain interest in them--the
looking out for the `novelties' they try to attract the visitors with."
"Yes," said Betty, "and even at Christmas they get up a little show--
good enough to tempt _me_," she went on, in her plaintive way. "I see
lots of things I'd like to buy if only I had some money. I know I could
trim hats lovelily for us all, if only I'd some decent materials. Oh,
Frances, if you don't mind, do let us go through the copse: it'll be
quite nice and dry to-day, and we might get some more of those beautiful
leaves. They're even prettier there than in the park, and as `silence
means consent,' I suppose we may take for granted that mamma has given
us negative permission to `litter the drawing-room with withered
branches!'"
"I believe," said Eira, "that at the bottom of their hearts both papa
and mamma were very glad that we had made it look so nice the day before
yesterday when those men called."
Betty groaned.
"Oh, Eira!" she ejaculated, "for mercy's sake let that wretched subject
drop. Let's get over this stile," she added: "I've a sort of
remembrance of some lovely berries a little farther on. There they
are!" with a joyous exclamation; "_could_ anything be prettier? I
wonder if there is any possible way of drying them and pressing some of
the leaves without their losing colour? I feel as if I could make our
hats look quite nice with them."
"They would last a few days, anyway, as they are," said Frances. "But,
Betty, if you begin loading yourself already, I don't see how we can go
much of a walk."
"I know what I'm about," said Betty, as she drew out of her pocket a
sturdy pair of unpointed scissors. "I shall cut a lot of things now and
put them ready to pick up on our way back. One must have clear light to
choose the prettiest shades."
Some minutes passed in this occupation. Then when her spoils were
carefully tied together, Betty having also provided herself with string,
they set off at a good pace, soon leaving the little copse behind them,
and crossing the high-road in the direction of a long hilly path ending
in a stretch of table-land which was a favourite resort of the sisters.
The grass was so short and thymy that it was rarely even damp, and on
one side the view was certainly attractive.
"I have always liked this place," said Betty, "ever since I was quite
tiny. Do you remember, Eira, the dreams we had of catching a lamb and
taking it home for a pet? We were to hide it somewhere or other."
"Yes," replied Eira, "in the china closet out of the nursery, and get up
in the night to play with it, and then put it to sleep in each of our
beds in turn. It was never to grow any bigger, it was always to be a
lambkin."
"And so it has remained," said Frances, smiling, "and always will! That
is one of the comforts of dream-life: nobody gets older, or uglier, or
anything they shouldn't. And real life would be very dull without it."
"It's dull enough _with_ it," said Betty, "or perhaps the truth is that
we're growing incapable of it for want of material to build with."
"No," said Frances; "I don't agree with that. `Necessity is the mother
of invention,' and when one has a real fit of castle-building one
creates the stones."
"I wish one of us were poetical," said Eira. "I've a vague feeling that
something might be made of those ideas of yours and Betty's, Frances, if
either of you had the least knack of versification. And then perhaps we
might send your poem to some magazine and get a guinea or half a guinea
for it. Fancy how nice that would be!"
Betty gave a deep sigh.
"What is the matter?" said Frances.
"Oh, it's only a bit of the whole," said Betty. "Why wasn't one of us a
genius, to give some point to life? Just because it is so monotonous,
we are monotonous too--not the least tiny atom of a bit of anything
uncommon about us." Frances laughed.
"I don't know about being uncommon," she said; "but assuredly, Betty,
nobody could accuse you of being monotonous! Why, you are never in the
same mood for three minutes together!"
"But her moods are monotonous," said Eira. "She's either up in the
skies about nothing at all, or down in the depths about--no, I can't say
that there's often nothing at all as an excuse for descending in that
direction."
Thus chattering, with the pleasant certainty of mutual understanding,
they had walked on for some distance, when a glance at the red autumn
sun already nearing the horizon made Frances decide that it was time to
turn.
"It's always extra dull to go back the way we came," said Betty, "and
to-day it's my fault, for I do want to pick up my beautiful leaves and
berries."
"We must walk quickly, then," said Frances; "or you'll scarcely be able
to distinguish your nosegay. Dear me! the days are getting depressingly
short already."
"And then they will begin to get long again, and you will be saying how
cheering it is," said Betty. "You are so terribly good, Francie. I
quite enjoy when I catch you in the least little ghost of a grumble. It
really exhilarates me." A few minutes' rapid walking brought them to
the steep path again. Then they crossed the road and were soon over a
stile and in the copse. None too soon--here under the shade of the
trees it was almost dark already, and Betty's soft plaintive voice was
heard in lamentation.
"I don't believe we shall ever find the bundle," she said. "Francie,
Eira, do help me--can you remember if it was as far on as this, or--"
"Oh, farther, some way farther," interrupted Eira. "Much nearer the
other stile. Don't you see--"
She started and did not finish her sentence, for at that moment a figure
suddenly made its appearance on a side-path joining the rather wider one
where the sisters were. And, though it was almost too dark to
distinguish the action, a hand was instinctively raised to remove the
wearer's cap, and a voice, recognisable though not familiar, was heard
in greeting.
"Good-evening," it said. "Can I be of any use?" for its owner had heard
enough to guess that the sisters had met with some small mishap.
"Oh," replied Betty, who was the first to identify the newcomer, "no,
thank you. It's only Frances," with a significant change of tone, "it's
Mr Littlewood."
Frances, self-possessed as usual, came forward quietly and held out her
hand.
"We are hunting for some lost treasures," she said, "which it is too
dark to distinguish."
"Anything of value?" he said quickly, glancing about him.
His tone of concern was too much for Eira's gravity. A smothered laugh
added to Mr Littlewood's perplexity, for Eira's person had till now
been hidden behind some bushes where she was groping to help her sister
in her search. Frances turned upon her rather sharply, for, despite her
comforting tone to Betty two evenings before, she had no wish for any
further gaucherie on the part of her sisters.
"What are you laughing at, Eira?" she said, and then, without waiting
for an answer, she went on in explanation to Mr Littlewood: "Oh, no,
thank you; nothing of value in one sense. It's only a large bunch of
shaded leaves and berries that we gathered on our way out: they were too
heavy to carry, so we hid them somewhere about here, and now we can't
find them--it has got so dark."
Mr Littlewood smiled.
Perhaps it was fortunate that only Frances was near enough to him to
perceive it. He was turning towards the hedges where the two younger
girls were still poking about, when a joyful cry from Betty broke the
momentary silence.
"Here they are!" she exclaimed. "Help me to get them out, Eira;" which
Eira did so effectually that there was no occasion for the young man's
offered help.
And once laden with her booty, a share of which she bestowed on her
sister, Betty hurried onward, Eira accompanying her, leaving Frances to
dispose of Mr Littlewood as she thought well.
He did not intend to be disposed of just at once. As Frances walked on
slowly towards home in her sisters' rear, he suited his step to hers
with an evident intention of beguiling the way with a little
conversation.
"I'm afraid," he began, with a touch of hesitation which scarcely seemed
consistent with his ordinary tone and bearing, "I am afraid that your--
your sister--I do not know if she is the youngest?--has not quite
forgiven me for my stupid speech the other day."
Frances tried to answer lightly, but in her heart she felt annoyed with
Betty.
"I hope she is not so silly," she replied. "More probably she is still
vexed with herself for having taken offence at--at really nothing."
"Nothing in intention, most assuredly," he replied, with a touch of
relief in his tone. "But still, she _was_ annoyed. And--if I am not
making bad worse--would you mind giving me some idea, Miss Morion, what
it was that she referred to? In case, you see, of my people coming down
here, as seems very probable, it would be just as well--it might avoid
friction if I understood just a little how the land lies." Frances
hesitated.
"It is such an old story," she said, "and rather an involved one, and
really not of any interest except to ourselves!"
"I don't know that," he replied quickly. "To tell you the truth--_you_
mustn't be vexed with me--I asked Milne about it, but he was rather
muddled, I think. Possibly he scarcely felt free to explain it, so he
ended up by saying he was too busy to go into it then, all of which, of
course, whetted my curiosity."
There was something _naif_, almost boyish, in his manner, which Frances
had not before been conscious of, and it gave her a feeling of greater
sympathy with him.
"There is really no secret or mystery of any kind," she said. "I mean
nothing that I could have the least hesitation in telling you, or any
one who cared to hear. Though a mystery there is, a commonplace enough
one too, I suppose: a lost or hidden will! It was long ago--" but by
this time they were at the stile, over which the two younger girls had
already clambered, and now stood waiting on the road, evidently
expecting that at this juncture their companion would take himself off.
"It's getting so chilly, Frances," said Betty, "I think we had better
walk quicker." With which faint approach to apology for her abruptness,
she was starting off, when Mr Littlewood interposed.
"Why don't you go through the park?" he said. "I thought you always
did. It must make quite half a mile's difference."
"Yes," said Frances, "it does. Come back to the lodge, Betty and Eira!"
for she felt it would look too ridiculous to depart from their usual
habit merely because this young man happened to be staying a night or
two at the big house. Furthermore, she was conscious that her companion
was really anxious to hear what she had to tell, and if she and the
others went home by the road, he would scarcely have a pretext for
accompanying them.
"Oh, Frances," said Betty, "I think at this time of day the road is much
the best. It's so gloomy in the park."
"Only the last little bit," replied her sister, with a certain
intonation which the younger ones understood, "and it is considerably
shorter."
"And," interposed Mr Littlewood, so quickly as to seem almost eager,
"you will of course allow me to see you through the gloomy part."
"Thank you," said Frances courteously, "it is not that we are the least
afraid. We are far too well accustomed to looking after ourselves, and
this is not a part of the country much frequented by tramps, I am glad
to say."
She had turned already, however, in the direction of the big gates, so
there was no occasion for further discussion, and the old programme was
soon resumed, Betty and Eira hurrying on well in front, though not so
far in advance but that a faint sound of laughter--laughter with a touch
of mischief or mockery in it which made their elder sister's cheeks burn
with annoyance--from time to time was carried back by the breeze to the
ears of the two following more slowly. This made Frances the more
anxious to divert her companion's attention from her sisters.
"I really must pull them up when we get home," she thought to herself.
"They will have no one but themselves to thank for it if Mr Littlewood
puts them down as a couple of silly school-girls."
She was turning over in her mind how best to revert to the subject of
their conversation before Betty's interruption, when, to her relief, her
companion himself led the way to it.
"Won't you go on with what you were telling me?" he said, with a slight
touch of diffidence, "that is to say, if you are sure you don't in the
least mind doing so. Perhaps you wouldn't think so of me," he went on,
"but there's something of the antiquary about me. Old bits of family
history always have a fascination for me."
"_This_ bit," said Frances, "is, as I was saying, rather commonplace.
It is simply that an ancestress of ours--no, scarcely an ancestress--a
certain Elizabeth Morion, a grand-aunt of my father's, in whom the whole
of the family possessions at that time centred, played _his_ father
false by promising what she never did. That is, by leaving a will which
gave everything to the elder of her two nephews, the--yes, the
great-grandfather of your--" here she hesitated and looked up
inquiringly. "What is the present Mr Morion to you, by-the-by?" she
asked.
"Nothing, nothing whatever," said Mr Littlewood. "A brother's
brother-in-law is no relation."
"N-no," Frances half agreed, "but it's a connection. Let me see, your
brother married his sister?"
"Yes, that's it," he answered. "Ryder Morion's sister is my
sister-in-law. There, now, that puts it neatly. Then, this capricious
spinster broke her word to your grandfather, did she?"
"Well, yes, we must suppose so, unless--there has always been the
alternative possibility that she _did_ make the right will, and that it
got lost or mislaid."
"H-m-m!" murmured Mr Littlewood thoughtfully. "I suppose that does
happen sometimes, but rarely, I should think. I don't know if I have
peculiarly little faith in human nature, but in a general way there's
been something worse than accident at work in such cases. Was the old
lady on good terms with both nephews?"
"I believe so," Frances replied. "Though she was much more in awe of
the elder. He had made an extremely good marriage, and, besides coming
into the more important Morion place, his wife had heaps of money. I
have always thought," she went on, "that great-grand-aunt Elizabeth was
a little afraid of telling him that she had left this property, small as
it is, away from him. For, you see, it has the family name; yet, elder
branch though they are, its owners have never cared for it. So," with a
slightly rising colour which it was too dark for him to see, and a
half-deprecating tone in her voice which he was quick to hear, "there is
some excuse for the way we feel about it, though certainly Betty need
not have blurted it out as she did the other day for your benefit!"
"On the contrary," exclaimed her companion, "I enter most thoroughly
into her feelings. And it is delightful to come across some one that
isn't afraid to speak out her mind. But--now, do scold me if I am
indiscreet--considering these very natural feelings, which your father
must realise to the full, is it not rather a pity to have settled down
here, in constant, hourly view of what should have been your home?"
"Well, yes," said Frances, "on the face of it I can understand it
striking you so, but circumstances often lead up to the very things one
would originally have avoided. So it has been with us. My grandfather
bought our present little house, which did not belong to the Morions
though surrounded by the property, for a very small sum: he kept a sort
of foothold in the place I fancy, in case--just _in case_--of the will,
in whose existence he never lost faith, turning up; and also perhaps out
of a sort of not unnatural self-assertion. And when papa retired--he
was many years in India, you know, and married rather late--it seemed
the best place for us to come to. We three were tiny children, and
Anglo-Indians of all people believe in country air for their children,
and here we have been ever since, our income, unfortunately, having
creased as time went on, instead of improving."
For a moment or two Mr Littlewood walked on in silence. He was really
of an impressionable nature, despite appearances, and the girl's simple
words told him even more than she was conscious of.
"Dull little lives," he thought to himself. "Poor children! If my
people come down here they must try to do something for them, though I
see it must be done with tact. Dear me! what a clumsy fool I must have
seemed to that sweet little Betty."
Then turning to Frances:
"Thank you," he said gently, "thank you so much for telling me about it.
I quite see the whole thing. I wonder," he went on, with a slight
laugh, "I wonder if anything will turn up some day?"
"Oh, no," said Frances, "it's far too long ago now. We amuse ourselves
sometimes by building castles in the air about it, but I am not sure
that it is a very wholesome occupation."
"It would be very good fun," said the young man, "if our living in the
house somehow led to any discovery! By-the-by," he added suddenly, "it
would make a splendid groundwork for a ghost story. If the old lady is
repentant for breaking her word, she shouldn't be having a peaceful time
of it; or even if she were not to blame, and the will were in existence,
that's the sort of thing ghosts should come back to set right, isn't
it?"
"Well, yes," said Frances, "I suppose so, but the queer thing about
ghosts is that they so much more often appear for no reason than for a
sensible one." But there was a certain repression in her tone which
returned to his mind afterwards.
They had crossed the park by this time, and were close to the door into
the road, where a little way farther on stood Fir Cottage. The voices
of the two girls in front sounded softly now, and here in this more
sheltered spot the evening breeze had grown gentle and caressing in its
dainty touch. The moon, too, had come out, and the whole feeling of the
evening breathed peace and restfulness.
"It scarcely seems like late autumn now, does it?" said Frances. "And,
oh!" she went on, "isn't the glimpse of the old church pretty, Mr
Littlewood?"
From where they stood, the windows at one side and the ivy-covered tower
of the venerable building, more picturesque than beautiful in the full
daylight, had caught the silvery gleam.
"Yes," he agreed, "it looks at its best, doesn't it? If Ryder was more
here, he'd have gone in for restoring it by now; and, inside, I must
say, it would be an improvement, though it would almost seem a pity to
tear down that ivy. I looked over it this morning."
"Oh, did you?" said Frances. "It is getting to be almost a survival.
The day must come, I suppose, for overhauling it, if it is to hold its
own much longer. Papa says the masonry is becoming very bad. I should
like to see it really well done, though I am heathen enough to have a
queer affection for it as it stands."
"Do the visitors from Craig Bay come up here?" Mr Littlewood inquired.
"Not regularly," Frances replied. "There is a very modern, tidy little
church near the station. Were you thinking of funds for restoring this
one when you spoke of the visitors? Our old vicar is too old, I
suppose, to take any interest in doing it up, otherwise something might
be done."
"Oh, _funds_ can't be the difficulty," said Mr Littlewood quickly.
"Ryder Morion has far more money than he knows what to do with. I dare
say he has restored other people's churches more than once; that sort of
thing is rather in his line."
"Then, why doesn't he begin at home?" asked a clear voice, startling
them a little. It was Eira's. Frances and Mr Littlewood, gazing at
the church, which stood just outside the park wall in the opposite
direction from Fir Cottage, had not observed that the two younger girls
had retraced their steps some little way, and now were standing close
behind them.
Again Frances felt annoyed, though she could not help being glad that
this time the offender was not Betty. But her companion was on his
guard: he answered gently, in a matter-of-fact tone, of itself
conciliatory, "You may well ask. I shall tell Ryder what I think about
it when I see him," he said. "Why, he has never been here that any of
you can remember, has he?" There was no immediate reply. It was,
naturally enough, a trifle mortifying that on the few occasions--rare
enough, it must be allowed--on which the owner of Craig-Morion had
visited the place, he had taken no notice, direct or indirect, of his
kindred at Fir Cottage. But the three sisters were nothing if not
candid--candid and ingenuous in a very unconventional degree--and the
silence was almost immediately broken by Frances' clear, quiet voice.
"Oh, yes," she said, "he has been here several times for a few days
together, but we don't know him at all, not even by sight." Again Mr
Littlewood anathematised his bad luck.
"Really?" he said, with apparent carelessness.
"I can't call him exactly a genial person," he went on, "and you know, I
suppose, that his wife died a few years ago, which has not made him less
of a recluse. All the same,"--for the young man was on common ground
with his new friends so far as a constitutional love of candour
goes--"all the same, I'm very much attached to him. He's been a good
friend to me in more ways than one."
"I'm glad to hear it," said Frances. "One can never be without interest
in the head of one's family, it seems to me."
They had been strolling on during the last few moments towards their own
gate, and, there arrived, Frances held out her hand.
"Good-night, Mr Littlewood," she said simply, adding no invitation to
come in with them.
"Good-night," he repeated, shaking hands with each in turn, "but--it
need not be `Good-bye,' as I don't leave till the day after to-morrow.
Do you think Lady Emma would allow me to look in some time in the
afternoon?"
"Y-yes, I will tell her," was Frances' rather ambiguous reply; and as
the young man re-entered the park, his thoughts busied themselves with
the glimpse, the almost pathetic glimpse, he had had into these young
lives.