There is a commonplace saying that old people love best the springtime
of the year, as it brings back the brighter memories of their youth, and
to a certain extent the sense of buoyancy which fades with increasing
age; while the young, on the other hand, love the autumn with its tender
sadness in contrast to their own joyous anticipations. But generalities
are, after all, but generalities; there was little in the lives of the
three Morion daughters this autumn to induce them to turn with any
sentimentality or even sentiment to outside nature in its fall; there
was too much real greyness, too much real endurance of daily, hourly
depressing circumstances for them to long for anything but change.
"It wouldn't be so bad, it really wouldn't," said Eira, "if it were the
spring, but another long, long winter, when we can be so much less out
of doors; and to have had the glimpse of a chance of a break in it all
only seems to have made it worse. Surely, Frances, without wrong
complaining and grumbling, isn't it the case that we are peculiarly
unlucky in some ways--that our lives are, I mean? Now, supposing we had
had to work for our living, we should probably have been far happier,
don't you think?"
Frances hesitated in her reply, and a shadow clouded her face.
Unwittingly enough, Eira had touched on perplexing ground, all too
familiar to the eldest sister's thoughtful mind. Had she done wrong or
unwisely in regard to her younger sisters? Not very much, perhaps, had
been practically in her power, but, still, had she given too much
consideration to the right of their all too quickly passing youth, the
right of happiness, of enjoyment, of the many things that only during
youth can normally exist, and too little to the actual formation of
character, to the development of their individual capacities? Had she
been too sorry for them, or shown it too much? Strange reflections,
more maternal than sisterly, when the actual small amount of difference
in their ages was remembered. But since little girlhood Frances Morion
had felt herself more mother than sister to the two younger ones.
"That's a big question, Eira," she said, trying to speak lightly. "We
must believe that the circumstances of every life are, to a certain
point at least, meant--intended." And her voice changed as she went on,
more slowly and seriously: "The puzzle is to find out the point at which
we should resist them, and not carry resignation or submission too far."
"There's not much puzzle about it for us," said Betty. "We are pretty
clearly hedged in! Papa and mamma would _never_ allow us to take any
sort of line of our own."
"Then, for the present at least," said Frances, "the line is drawn, and
I suppose if by the end of life one had learnt perfect patience one
would have learnt a good deal; but still--"
"Still what?" said Eira.
"I am not quite ready to say what is in my mind," replied her sister.
"Perhaps it will come when I have thought more about it. Roughly
speaking, I was considering if there is nothing that we can do--nothing
that I can help you two to do, in the way of extending your interest a
little, even as things are. And, of course, the best way to do that is
to look out for what we can reach of helping others."
"We _do_ do what we can, I think, Francie," said Eira, in a tone of some
disappointment. "We have our Sunday-school classes, and Betty's blind
old man and my bedridden old woman that we go to read to; but beyond
that there are always the old difficulties: papa's opposition and--want
of money. I'm sure now we could do a lot at Scaling Harbour, among the
fisher-children--such a terribly rough set--_if_ we had money and a
little more freedom."
"I know," said Frances quietly; but, though for the moment the subject
dropped, she thought the more.
And the next few weeks gave her both leisure and cause for
ever-deepening reflection.
The weather was unusually and monotonously disagreeable. Raw, grey, and
as cold as weather can be when it just falls short of the stimulus and
exhilaration which, to the young and strong at least, usually accompany
frost. Letters, rare at all times, dwindled down to almost none. Even
a family chronicle from their ex-governess, now a settler's wife in the
Far West, was hailed almost enthusiastically as a welcome distraction.
"There is only one thing in the world that I have to be thankful for,"
said Eira one day, when, defiant of wind and threatening rain, they
started for their afternoon walk, "and that is, that, thanks to you,
Francie, and all the wonderful things you've done for me and made me do,
my chilblains haven't got bad again--not since--oh, yes! do you
remember?--not since the time Mr Littlewood was here."
"That's _one_ good thing," said Frances, "one very good thing. I
sometimes think I wouldn't have made a bad woman-doctor."
"What a horrible idea!" said Betty, with a shudder. "I hope it doesn't
mean that you ever think of becoming a hospital nurse. If you did, I
should just simply drown myself, and make Eira do the same!"
"Hush!" said Frances. "Don't say such things, even in fun. No, I've no
ambition of the kind--not while I've got my own place at home, any way.
But it's rather curious you should have said that, Betty, for an idea
has come into my head of something we could do for the people at Scaling
Harbour, which really would cost us nothing, or next to nothing. It
struck me when Mrs Ramsay"--(the ex-governess)--"sent me that
commission for a few simple surgical books, to teach her to know what to
do out there in case of accidents, which she says are always happening."
"And certainly, by all accounts," said Eira, with interest, "they are
always happening at Scaling Harbour. But what is your idea?"
"It is not very definite yet," said Frances. "Only the first steps
towards it. What I am thinking of is, if we could use part of this
winter, when we have so much time on our hands, for teaching ourselves
the elements of surgical aid, and then when we have, to some extent,
mastered it, to give simple little lectures--lessons, rather--to the
fisher-women down there once a week or once a fortnight."
Eira's eyes brightened.
"Yes," she said, "I would like that! There is something, I think, very
attractive about those people; something a trifle wild, almost foreign.
They do say, you know," she went on, "that there's a strain of Spanish
descent among them; and, in any case, they are quite unlike the inland
people about here, who are peculiarly dull and phlegmatic."
"_I_ should be frightened to go much among them," said Betty.
"Possibly," went on Frances, "we might persuade mamma to let two or
three of them come up to us a few times. We could teach them a little
of the practical part in the first place, and get to know them, and then
they might talk about it to their neighbours. To begin with, all we
want is one or two sensible books, or possibly, a set of ambulance
lessons by correspondence. I think I have heard of such things."
"They would be sure to cost a lot of money," said Betty, who was
evidently not inclined to take an optimistic view of the scheme.
"Don't be such a wet blanket, Betty," said Eira. "We can but try."
"And even if we couldn't manage it just now," said Frances, "something
might make it feasible after a time. It might prove the getting in the
thin end of the wedge; you know papa and mamma sometimes come round to
things if we wait long enough for--for them to get accustomed to the
idea, as it were."
"And when that time comes," said Betty dolorously, "all the interest of
the thing we wanted has gone."
"O Betty, do not croak so," said Eira; "it'll depend on ourselves to
keep up the interest by talking about it."
"Yes," said Frances, "you are quite right, though I _have_ noticed that
pleasant things seldom come quickly, and troubles and disappointments
do. It isn't often that one has some quite delightful surprise! Nice
things either come in bits, so that you scarcely realise the niceness,
or else they are pulled back when you feel sure of them, so that, even
if they come after all, the bloom seems taken off."
"Dear me, Frances," said Eira, glancing up at her with a smile, "you are
quite a pessimist for once."
"No--no," returned Frances. "I don't mean to be. I was really thinking
about it to myself and wondering why it is so. When there appears to be
a sort of rule about anything, you can't help beginning to hunt for the
reason of it."
"The rule with us," said Betty, still in the same plaintive tone,
"according to the old saying, is no rule, for the exceptions never
appear."
Both Frances and Eira laughed.
"Why, Betty, you are becoming quite paradoxical, inspired by
melancholy," exclaimed the latter; but not the ghost of a smile was to
be raised this afternoon on Betty's pretty little face.
"I suppose it's very wrong of me," she said, "but I do feel cross and
dull. Even these horrid, dirty roads, and this detestable wind, add to
it all. It's scarcely worth while coming out, except that there's
nothing to do indoors."
"I really think it's no use attempting a long walk," said Frances. "Let
us turn here, and get home by the other road, past the church; it will
be a little more sheltered."
"If the church were open and decently warm," said Eira, "like the little
new one in the village, it would be rather nice to go in there
sometimes. I'm not imaginative, but I can fancy things in there. Even
the mustiness, the very _old_ smell, carries one back in a fascinating
way. I always begin thinking of great-grand-aunt Elizabeth, though I've
no love for her! But she must have been young once upon a time, and
pretty and lovable perhaps."
"Perhaps she was," agreed Frances, "though her position--put in her
brother's place--makes one feel as if she may have been unsisterly and
designing. But then, no one knows the rights of the story, or what her
brother had done for his father to disinherit him."
They were nearing the church by this time; as the old porch came within
view, Eira gave a little cry of satisfaction.
"It is open, I declare," she said. "Do let us go in, Francie. I hate
going home before there is a prospect of tea, and it's too early for
that yet."
Her sisters made no objection, and they entered. Inside it felt
comparatively warm, and, though at first almost dark, as their eyes got
accustomed to the gloom they caught sight of the old vicar, standing in
a pew near the chancel, apparently looking for something.
He turned as he heard their steps, and greeted them kindly:
"Good-day, young ladies," he said. "If I may venture to trouble you,
Miss Eira--your young eyes are keener than mine. Mrs Ferraby has lost
a little brooch, not a thing of much value except to herself, and it
struck her that it may have dropped off her in church, as that was the
last time she remembered wearing it. Of course it would be better to
look for it by a clearer light."
As he spoke he drew still further aside the red moreen curtain which
separated the vicarage pew from the larger square one belonging to the
big house, permission to occupy which was one of the very few advantages
enjoyed by the Fir Cottage family, as representatives of the Morions.
Betty and Eira came forward eagerly.
"Do let us look," they said, both together; Eira, who was the old
vicar's favourite, adding, playfully, "But you must come out yourself,
Mr Ferraby, please. If it is anywhere, it is pretty sure to be on the
floor."
"I don't know that," said Betty, who had no special wish to grope on her
hands and knees. "You may feel on the floor if you like, Eira; I shall
look on the seats and the book-rail." And, strange to say, she had
scarcely begun to do so when she gave a little cry of pleasure. "Here
it is," she exclaimed, "wedged into a crack in the woodwork between the
pews, ever so neatly; but no doubt it would have dropped down the first
time the pew was dusted," and with deft fingers she withdrew the little
trinket from its temporary resting-place. "It is queer," she added;
"there must be a hollow space between this and the panel on our side.
Perhaps it's the place with a little door where we leave our
prayer-books," and, standing on a hassock, she peered over into their
own pew, adding, "No, our book-cupboard is farther along."
No one paid any attention, however, to her researches. Mr Ferraby was
too delighted to have recovered the brooch to care much about where it
had been concealed. He thanked Betty with effusion.
"My good wife will not have come home yet; she is in the village," he
said. "So I am not in a hurry, and quite at your service, young ladies.
Were you looking for me?"
For, in his mild, unenergetic, though kindly way, the old vicar was
always ready to be consulted as to the few poor people under his wing,
or indeed on any other subject as to which the Morion sisters could
apply for his advice or sympathy.
For half an instant an impulse came over Frances to confide in him her
little scheme for benefiting the fisher-folk at Scaling Harbour, but a
glance at the bent and fragile figure of their old friend made her
dismiss the idea.
"He wouldn't understand it," she thought; "it would seem to him
new-fangled and unnecessary; and then he is so poor and so generous,"--
for it was well known that out of his tiny stipend Mr Ferraby was far
too ready to give more than he could really afford--"he would be writing
for books for us, even if he thought it would only be an amusement. No,
I had better not speak of it."
And--"Thank you," Frances went on aloud, "no, we had no idea you were in
the church; seeing it open, we just strolled in, with no better motive
than to kill a little time, I'm afraid. It is not tempting weather for
walking."
"No, indeed," the vicar agreed. "The season is peculiarly dull and
depressing this year, even to one who should be well accustomed to this
climate and to everything about the place. I have been here over fifty
years, half a century," and he gave a little sigh.
"And we have been here," said Eira, "nearly all of our lives that we can
remember; so _we_ should be accustomed to it, too, shouldn't we, Mr
Ferraby?"
He shook his head.
"Scarcely so," he replied, "at least not necessarily. The sort of
`getting accustomed' to things--in reality I was thinking of more than
the climate--that I had in my mind--is not of a piece with youth and its
natural distaste for monotony. My wife and I often think it must be
dreary for you three, and we wish we had it in our power to help you to
a little variety. If things had been different with us--if that poor
boy of ours had been spared--we should not now be the dull old couple I
fear we are."
His hearers were touched by his simple self-depreciation.
"Dear Mr Ferraby," said Frances, "you mustn't speak like that. It is
very nice for us to feel that we are always sure of two such kind
friends at hand."
There was more pathos in his allusion than a stranger would have
understood, for this same "boy," of whom he spoke, would by this time
have been not far off fifty himself, though to his parents he ever
remained the bright, promising young fellow suddenly cut off in his
early manhood.
"Who was here before you came, Mr Ferraby?" Eira inquired abruptly.
The little group was seated by this time in the large, square pew, which
almost looked like a cosy little room, and even to-day it felt fairly
warm.
"Who was here before me?" the old man repeated. "Broadhurst was the
last vicar, and before him there was a private chaplain resident at
Craig-Morion. That was in its palmy days, when the family spent most of
the year here--quite early in this century, that is to say--for I
remember Broadhurst telling me that things had been quiet enough during
his time, and he was here for nearly twenty years."
"And you never saw our great-grand-aunt Elizabeth, did you?" Betty
inquired. "I think we've asked you before."
"No," the vicar replied. "Strangely enough, her funeral was one of the
first ceremonies at which I officiated--that was in the year forty. She
was very ill when I came, and refused to see me, and indeed, for several
years before that, she had led a life of utter seclusion. I remember
hoping for brighter days coming, for I was young then, and no
misanthrope, but they never did, as the elder of her two nephews took a
dislike to the place, which his son--a grandson now--seems to have
inherited!"
"I wonder how it would have been if our grandfather--her younger
nephew--had come in for it, as she led him to expect," said Frances.
"Of course, you know all about that, Mr Ferraby?"
"Very different, I expect," said the vicar. "I often wish there was a
law against pluralists of estates, as well as of livings. When a man
has only one place, you see, it is his home, and that insures his
interest in it. Putting aside my natural wish that the big house here
were _your_ home, I really do feel it a terrible loss that its owner
should be such a complete absentee."
"It is very wrong," said Frances, "wrong of Mr Morion, I mean, never to
come here, even though there are not many tenants. I should be glad to
have an opportunity of saying so to him. You heard of the talk there
was a little while ago of some of his connections coming here for a
time, I suppose, Mr Ferraby?"
"Yes," the vicar replied, "and I began to build some hopes on it, and
was disappointed to hear it had ended in nothing."
He glanced round the whole building as he spoke.
"I should like to see this church in better condition," he went on.
"Not that I go in for new-fangled ways, but a good deal could be done
without trenching on such ground. I can't say that it is substantially
out of repair, but Mr Milne only advises what is absolutely necessary,
and unless Mr Morion came down here enough to get to care for the
place, I can hope for nothing more."
"Is it any prejudice against the place?" said Betty, in her abrupt way.
Then a curious gleam came into her eyes. "You know what the people
about here say, Mr Ferraby?" she asked; "that great-grand-aunt
Elizabeth `walks.' I wonder if possibly, when Mr Littlewood was here,
anything--of that kind, like seeing her--happened to him. For he told
us his people's coming was all but decided upon."
The old vicar looked at her as if he scarcely understood, and Frances
turned rather sharply.
"Don't talk nonsense, Betty," she said. "Somehow things of that kind--
about a place being haunted and so on--ooze out, if one isn't very
careful, and I can't see but what they may do mischief."
Mr Ferraby looked at her approvingly.
"I quite agree with you, Frances," he said: "though certainly nobody
would accuse the good folk about here of too much imagination or nerves.
Hard work have I to impress them in any way, yet it is an undoubted
fact that stolid souls of this kind are often absurdly superstitious.
They are too conservative, perhaps, or too stupid, to invent new ideas.
If they would hark back a little further still, one would have better
ground to work upon."
"Mr Ferraby," said Betty, "you're becoming quite a Radical."
"No, no, my dear," he replied, "have I not just said that I wish they
would retain some of the belief in the supernatural, even if mingled
with some superstition, which the last century did so much to destroy?
That is what I _meant_ to imply, though I did not express it clearly.
Yes," he went on, replying to her former remark, "I have of course heard
the talk about old Miss Morion's unrestful condition. But,"--and, had
it been light enough to see his faded blue eyes more clearly, a gleam of
mischief, akin somewhat to the recent sparkle in Betty's own orbs, might
have been discovered--"you are not quite on the right tack. It is not
the house, but this _church_ which the poor lady is said to frequent.
Indeed, the very spot where we are seated is said to be her favourite
resort."
Betty almost screamed, and even Frances and Eira involuntarily drew
closer together, for there was no denying the creepiness of their old
friend's information under present circumstances.
"No," said Eira eagerly, "I never heard that. Have you any theory to
account for her coming here? Can it be that she wants to be shriven for
her misdeeds, and that she chooses the spot where, Sunday after Sunday,
she accused herself of being a miserable sinner?"
"Come now, my dear," said the old man, "don't be too severe upon your
dead kinswoman."
"No," said Frances, "it isn't kind, for, after all, we don't know that
she did break her word. The will may have been stolen or suppressed."
"I beg her pardon, then," said Eira. "I wonder if she can hear me!
Can't you tell us something more, Mr Ferraby? Does she suddenly appear
here, or is she seen coming from the house?"
"I believe," the vicar replied, "she is supposed to come along the path
they call the Laurel Walk, that leads from the side-entrance. A safe
place to choose, as it is always dark and shadowy there; and her visits
are not restricted to the night, though I forget what is supposed to be
her favourite time."
"Late on a winter's afternoon, I should say," remarked Eira. "Just such
a time as this, don't you think?"
At this Betty started to her feet.
"Eira," she said, "you are very, very unkind, and--Mr Ferraby, you
don't know how she tries to frighten me sometimes, though I dare say I'm
very silly."
The others could scarcely help laughing at her pitiful tone, though
Frances' ears detected that very little more would bring tears.
"Let us go," she said; "it is getting chilly, and mamma will be
expecting us."
Betty caught hold of her arm.
"I _dare_ not walk down the aisle alone," she whispered, "especially
with Eira behind us."
"Eira," said Frances, "are you coming, or will you follow with Mr
Ferraby?"
"I must be off too," said the vicar. "I am eager to tell my wife of
Miss Betty's successful search."
So the quartette, Eira bringing up the rear, made their way to the door.
"I wish," thought she, "I could do some little thing to frighten Betty.
I know what--I will stretch out my umbrella and touch her neck with the
cold end," for there was still light enough for this piece of mischief;
and she was leaning forward to put it into execution when a slight sound
in the pew they had just quitted arrested her. It was that of stiffly
rustling garments, as of a person clad therein rising with difficulty
from a kneeling posture.
The biter was bitten!
"Mr Ferraby," she exclaimed, clutching at his arm, "did you hear that?"
"What?" was the reply. "No, nothing; but then I am a little deaf."
"What is it?" said Frances quickly.
Eira turned off the question with some laughing remark as to the
difficulty of groping their way without misadventure; but the old vicar
glanced at her curiously in the clearer light outside the porch.
"That child had better not be too confident about her own nerves," he
thought to himself. "She is looking quite pale."