Alas! for poor Betty, the little gate, her only hope of escape, _was_
padlocked. 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, "_please_ don'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 people _are_ taking 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 I _was_ glad 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'll _scarcely_ be able to
believe it."
Betty turned to Frances, with intense curiosity in her eyes.
"What is it? What _can_ it 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.
"It _is_ good 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."
"You _too_?" 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 you _promise_, 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 spend _not_ on ourselves!"
"Though I warn you," said Betty again, "that _I_ could 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.
"It _was_ silly 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! I _think_, if need were, I could almost make
up my mind to speak to _her_, 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 what _I_ heard 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."