When the ladies returned to the drawing-room after dinner, two figures
in white, with broad blue sashes, rose to greet them.
Frances' face grew still brighter. She had dreaded for her sisters an
entrance into an already crowded room, for such to their inexperienced
eyes would it have appeared a quarter of an hour or so later, though the
number of guests was in reality but a small one. In addition to the
Charlemonts, father, mother, and daughter, were one or two odd men, whom
Horace had managed to secure from no great distance, and a young married
couple, who thought nothing of a twelve-mile drive for the sake of a
little variety in what they considered the dullest of dull
neighbourhoods, where they were forced to pass three months of every
winter, for the sake of pleasing an elderly uncle. They, like the rest
of the party, were spending the night at Craig-Morion, and the young
wife had been confiding to Frances, in their progress _from_ the
dining-room, her regret that they were not nearer neighbours. For Miss
Morion's appearance and name had at once caught her attention.
"You would find it unbearable here," said Frances, "if you think
Mellersby dull. We consider that neighbourhood quite in the centre of
things compared to this."
"Oh, you don't know--" her companion was rejoining, when her glance fell
on the two expectant figures standing near the fireplace. "Who are
these?" she broke off. "Parson's daughters, no doubt."
"They are my sisters," Frances replied, with dignity, though not without
a gleam of amusement in her eyes.
"I beg your pardon," was the instantaneous rejoinder. "They are not
like you; but very pretty--" she was going on, when a second glance
somewhat modified this impression. _One_ was pretty, the taller and
fairer of the two, though in neither respect did she equal her eldest
sister, but then she was evidently "very young" and would probably
improve. But the other, the little slight dark one, was scarcely
pretty, not noticeable in any way. And Frances, quick to perceive the
hesitation, realised with disappointment that her Betty was by no means
at her best. Of her, Mrs Littlewood could not have thought to herself,
"How well she lights up!" Frances felt grateful to her hostess when she
saw the kindliness with which she was greeting her little guest, seating
her on a low chair near herself, and expressing regret at the increasing
coldness of the night.
"It was really so good of you and your sister to come to us this
evening," she said; "especially as I am afraid the weather is changing."
Betty's dark eyes looked up in hers gratefully.
"Eira and I would have been very disappointed not to come," she said,
"and, oh! I was so glad to get here before you had all come in from the
dining-room. May I stay beside you here, Mrs Littlewood, and then--"
She stopped.
"Certainly," replied her hostess, with a smile. The girl's
appealingness was a new experience to her. "But what were you going to
say?--`And then?'"
A tinge of colour crept into Betty's cheeks, making her look prettier,
at least to one close beside her; indeed, the delicacy of her features
and colouring, like those of an exquisite miniature, could scarcely be
appreciated from a distance, where the general effect was apt on small
provocation, such as a cold day or a little extra fatigue, to fade into
insignificance.
"I was only going to say," she replied, "that if I stay near you, mamma
and the others won't think I was shy or `absent,' as they do sometimes,
even if I don't talk much."
"I will protect you then," said Mrs Littlewood, laughing, though while
she spoke she glanced round with the quick discernment of a well-trained
hostess. The result was satisfactory. Lady Emma and Mrs Charlemont
were getting on famously; Eira and the latter's daughter had already,
thanks to Madeleine's introduction, coalesced; while at a little
distance a group of the remaining three, Frances, her new friend, Lady
Leila Bryan, and Madeleine, were talking with interest and animation.
Till the men made their appearance at least, Mrs Littlewood was free to
devote herself to her little favourite.
"We had an unexpected arrival this evening," she told her, "did you
know? Oh no! how could you? Your father's cousin, Mr Ryder Morion--
Mr Morion, I suppose I should say! But since we've been here I have
learnt to associate that with your father. Ryder Morion arrived here
this afternoon."
Betty opened her eyes, profoundly interested. This was news indeed.
"Mr Ryder Morion!" she repeated. "I have never seen him. I suppose
your being here has made him come. He is a relation of yours, too,
isn't he?"
"Not a _relation_, only a connection," Mrs Littlewood corrected gently.
"My elder son married his sister Elizabeth."
For a second time Betty repeated the name that her hostess had just
pronounced.
"Elizabeth--Elizabeth Morion she must have been. That is my name, too,"
she said; "sometimes I wish it were not. We must both have been called
after the same person, our great-grand-aunt Elizabeth."
"It is a nice name," said Mrs Littlewood, "and Betty is a charming
`little name,' as the French say. I am so glad it has come into fashion
again. Why do you at all dislike it?"
"Because," said Betty, glancing round her cautiously--Betty firmly
believed that she was acquiring great tact and discretion--"because it
was she that did all the harm to _us_, and caused the sort of feeling
there has been ever since."
"I have heard something of it," said Mrs Littlewood. "But it is all so
long ago," she added soothingly.
"Yes," said Betty eagerly, throwing discretion to the winds, "but you
know they do say that in one way it isn't so long ago. I mean--it is
still there, so to speak, for they say that _she_"--with an instinctive
glance over her shoulder--"has never left off thinking about it, and
that she _comes back_,"--in an awe-struck whisper--"and I can't help
thinking it is true. I wouldn't go along the Laurel Walk, and in at
that library door at night, for--oh dear!" with a sudden start of
horror, as she caught sight of her hostess' startled expression, "what
_have_ I been saying? Frances would be so vexed with me!"
"Don't look so distressed, dear; she shall hear nothing about it, and
don't suppose I am the sort of person to be frightened at things of the
kind! Not that it doesn't interest me. You must tell me all about it--
some other time. But, of course, it would not do to risk a panic among
the servants, and--oh, here they come--the men, I mean!"
They all entered the room as she spoke, Horace bringing up in the rear.
Catching sight of the as yet ungreeted guests, he crossed at once to his
mother's sofa, and shook hands with Betty, his face lighting up as he
did so, but solemn was no word for the glance with which he was greeted,
as Betty instinctively crept a little closer to her hostess.
"I shall die of fright," she thought to herself, "if Mr Ryder Morion
speaks to me. And I'm so afraid Mrs Littlewood will introduce him. I
feel as if he _must_ know all the horrid things we've said of him behind
his back ever since we were old enough to know there was such a person.
And now if he knew that I've just been telling Mrs Littlewood stories
against this place! I wonder which he is?" she went on, for her
prejudice against the owner of Craig-Morion was strongly mingled with
curiosity.
Her first guess fell on a good-looking, brown-haired, rather florid
young man, to be, however, almost instantaneously dismissed on hearing
him addressed as Hilton or some such name. And then her eyes, straying
a little further, lighted on an older, darker man, less "smart" perhaps,
but with something about his general bearing more calculated to arrest
her attention. He was speaking to Madeleine--no, to Frances--no, after
all he seemed to be more engrossed by a very pretty, beautifully dressed
young woman, whom Betty, never having seen before, could not identify as
Lady Leila Bryan.
"How can she? Oh, how dare she talk in that easy, merry sort of way to
that grave-looking man?" she thought to herself. "I am _sure_ he is Mr
Morion, and he's awfully frightening looking; even if he weren't himself
I should think him so. Oh, I beg your pardon," she said aloud, with a
start, as she became aware that Horace Littlewood was speaking to her,
had, in fact, addressed her two or three times, without succeeding in
obtaining her notice; "were you speaking to me?" she went on, while her
face grew crimson.
He looked down at her with a curious expression, in which both amusement
and annoyance might have been detected. _Betty_ thought it bespoke but
contempt, and her confusion increased.
"It was nothing--nothing of the slightest consequence," he replied. By
this time his mother was engaged in talking to Mr Charlemont. "I was
only asking you if you would care to accompany us on a raid into the
library, and that part of the house. Mr Morion--Ryder--says it is
years and years since he entered it, and Bryan is interested in old
books, so I've had it lighted up. I thought," and here his expression
grew significative, "perhaps you would like to see--the library for once
at night, in cheerful company."
Betty's face, as she took in the proposal, was a curious study. In
spite of what she had just been saying to Mrs Littlewood, the grim
strange room which she had never thoroughly explored had a strong
fascination for her. Sometimes when she woke in the night to a fit of
tremors, her imagination would picture to itself the long, black,
tree-shrouded aisle leading from the old church to the deserted wing of
the mansion.
"Perhaps," she would say to herself, "at this very moment _she_ is
creeping out at that door, down those steps, to pace up and down the
Laurel Walk;" and then, too frightened even to call out to Eira, she
would bury her head in the clothes, only to dream, when she did manage
to fall asleep again, of the poor old ghost, for whom, in spite of her
terror, she always felt an irrepressible pity. And all this of course
had been much more defined since the evening when they had met the vicar
in the church, and heard from him more particulars of the heretofore
vague old family legend.
Joined to these private sensations was the wish to fall in with any
suggestion of Mr Littlewood's. She got up almost with a spring.
"I should like very much to come," she said eagerly. "But, please, is
Frances coming too?"
Horace smiled.
"I expect so," he replied. "Do you need her to protect you? There'll
be three or four of us, at least."
There were more. For Madeleine, as well as the Bryans and Mr
Charlemont, accompanied them, though Eira refused the invitation with so
much emphasis that her new acquaintance, Gertrude Charlemont, could not
resist, when they were left alone, inquiring what it all meant.
It seemed as if Horace had had some prevision of this incursion into
what he considered his own quarters at Craig-Morion. For there was a
splendid fire burning on the huge hearth, which really did more to
lighten up the lofty room than all the lamps and candles which had been
hastily carried in, though, in spite of all the sources of illumination,
more than half the walls were lost in gloom, culminating in a black
expanse of dome overhead.
Ryder Morion, who was one of the first to enter, gave a little
exclamation.
"Dear me," he said, turning to his nearest companion, who happened to be
Frances, "it is a queer-looking place--I had almost forgotten about it.
I dare say your father could tell me something about the books," he
continued, when he took in whom he was speaking to.
"I scarcely think so," was the rather cold reply. "I have never heard
of his going through your library. It is only the second time in my
life that I have entered it. Indeed, it is only since Mrs Littlewood
has been here that we have got to know the house at all well," and Mr
Morion saw that he had made a mistake. But he was not of the nature to
be easily baffled.
"I am sorry to hear it," he said quietly. "But I hope it is one of the
cases in which it is not too late to mend--my ways, I should add," and
here for the first time he smiled, and his cousin of the fourth or fifth
degree was obliged to own to herself that the smile was decidedly happy
in its effect. Somehow he was conscious of the slight thaw in Frances'
manner.
"Miss Morion," he said, speaking for once in what for him was almost an
impulsive tone, "don't think I'm not aware of my shortcomings hitherto
with regard to this place. I shall be more than grateful to you for any
hints or information as to the real needs hereabouts. I have heard from
Miss Littlewood how good you and your sisters are to your poor
neighbours, and--"
"Madeleine--Miss Littlewood," she began, "_sees things_ too partially.
In the first place, as you must know, there are scarcely any poor on
your property; such as there are, Mr Ferraby can tell you all about far
more satisfactorily than I can. And as to other things--other places in
the neighbourhood--well, no, I suppose they are not more your affair
than that of several other people, to whom I could not apply without
seeming officious, and gaining nothing in the end."
But through her rather curt manner he detected a slight hesitation. And
in point of fact, at that moment she was asking herself if she should
suppress all other feeling in the hope of gaining his interest and
assistance where both were so badly needed.
"Are you thinking of Scaling Harbour?" he inquired abruptly.
Frances' brow cleared, while her doubts vanished. Yes, this was her
opportunity; there was now no mistake about it.
"Yes," she replied, and for the first time she raised her eyes and
looked at him fully and unconstrainedly, "I was."
"Thank you," he said quickly. "I shall not forget. Now, Horace," he
went on, turning to young Littlewood, who had got down a big book
containing some very quaint illustrations which he was exhibiting to
Betty on a side-table. "Do the honours, can't you? Oh, I beg your
pardon, I see you are doing them already."
Horace looked up, but kept his place.
"What do you want me to do?" he inquired; then, without waiting for an
answer, he turned to his folio again.
"Francie," came in Betty's clear treble, "do look here. Did you ever
see such queer old figures?"
Frances crossed over to her sister's side, not sorry on the whole that
her _tete-a-tete_ was over.
"Yes," she said, examining the pictures with interest. "They must be
about the date of--let me see--Queen Anne! or older than that?"
"It is easily seen," said Horace, turning back to the title-page. There
was no fly-leaf, but at the top was written in clear, still black
handwriting:
"Elizabeth Morion: the gift of her father on the 16th anniversary of her
birth."
"Oh!" exclaimed Betty. "It was _her_ book," and she drew back with a
little shiver.
"Don't be silly, Betty dear," said Frances. "It makes it all the more
interesting."
But Horace's face expressed some concern, and he murmured something, of
which the word "unlucky" was the only one audible to his companions.
"What have you got hold of over there, Horace, that is absorbing you
so?" said a voice close at hand, and, glancing up, Frances saw Mr
Morion standing beside her.
"Only one of these queer old books," Horace replied carelessly, though
as he spoke he turned over the pages so that the first one, with the
inscription, was no longer visible. For which piece of tact both
sisters felt grateful to him.
"It would have been disagreeable to have come upon the subject of the
split in the family this very first time of our meeting," thought
Frances, while Betty, too, was relieved, though on different grounds.
Ryder Morion glanced at the book indifferently. Then his eyes strayed
back to the other side of the room.
"I've found some better books than that already," he said. "Just look
over here, Miss Morion."
Frances could not but follow him, though not particularly desirous of
doing so. Horace and Betty remained where they were.
"I wish he would leave us alone," said Betty, half petulantly. "Frances
was interested in the book, and then," with some hesitation, "she
doesn't mind about our great-grand-aunt the way I do. Do you think,"
she went on naively, "that it can have anything to do with my being
named after her, or just--just that Frances is so sensible and good
about everything, and that I'm silly?"
"Frances," began Horace, then he checked himself, and his colour
deepened a little. "I beg your pardon," he said, with a slight laugh;
but Betty's face was far from expressing displeasure. "Your sister," he
began again, "deserves most assuredly what you say of her, but you can
scarcely expect me to endorse what you say of yourself."
"Oh, I shouldn't mind in the least," Betty rejoined. "I _am_ silly--
very silly in some ways, I know," and she glanced up at him with a light
in her shy eyes, which illumined all the little flower-like face, as if
it were a ray of sunshine. "I thought it was because of _that_ that you
turned over the pages of this creepy book so quickly." For by this time
Betty had redeemed her promise of telling Mr Littlewood all that she
herself knew of the reputed ghost.
He looked gratified. Everybody likes to be credited with tact.
"I knew it wasn't exactly a subject you cared to speak about--to
strangers," he replied.
"Less still," said Betty, "to Mr Ryder Morion, who, besides being a
perfect stranger to us himself, has to do with it, of course."
"He doesn't seem to have taken your fancy," said Horace tentatively.
Betty closed her lips in a way she had which expressed more than words.
"Tell me," persisted Horace, "I promise not to let him know. Is it a
case of Dr Fell?"
"No," said Betty, in a funny little tone of defiance, "for I _do_ know.
Besides the old reasons, just now I'm vexed with him for teasing
Frances!"
Her remark, childish as it was, provoked no smile, but, on the contrary,
an almost grave reply, as if the speaker were well considering his
words.
"You are very, very fond of your elder sister, I see," said he. "I
suppose you have scarcely a thought apart from her?"
"Not a single one," said Betty eagerly; then she stopped suddenly. "No,
that isn't quite true; just lately--well, for some little time, I have
had a thought--some thoughts, that she doesn't know about." But no
sooner had she uttered this sphinx-like speech than her cheeks grew
crimson, painfully crimson. "Oh dear," she exclaimed, "I wish I talked
at all! I always say what I don't mean to!"
Horace was regarding her with a very perplexed expression.
"Never mind," he said. "Can't you get into the way of thinking that it
doesn't matter what you say to _me_? I wish you would. I really am to
be trusted, and--"
"What?" said Betty, the distress in her face beginning to fade.
"You don't know," he went on, "how I like being treated quite--
naturally, as you sometimes honour me by doing--as if, so to say, you
were beginning to think of me as--as an old friend."
Almost before he had finished speaking Betty's expression had undergone
one of the sudden transformations so characteristic of her. It was all
but radiant.
"How nice of you!" she said. "How very nice of you to put it like
that!"
But, strange to say, though he smiled indulgently, a shadow had crept
across Horace Littlewood's face at her eager words.
"Perhaps," he said, "we had better go back to the drawing-room," and he
glanced round to see what the rest of the party was about. _Three_ had
already left the room, Lady Leila and Mr Charlemont escorted by Miss
Littlewood, who had come to the rescue on finding them mutually boring
each other, Mr Bryan following them with a couple of volumes under his
arm, which he meant to study at leisure. There remained Frances and Mr
Morion, who were staring out through the unshuttered door-window into
the blackness of the Laurel Walk, as if fascinated. And when Horace
suddenly addressed her, he was startled as Frances turned to see that
her face had grown strangely pale. Or was this only his fancy?
"There _is_ something uncanny about the place," he thought to himself.
"Can they have seen anything? I shall find out afterwards from Ryder."
For evidently, if his suspicion were true, this was not the moment for
satisfying it, as Ryder Morion hurried forward at once.
"Yes," he said, "we had better return to the drawing-room." And
somewhat to his surprise, Betty started forward at his words.
"It is getting chilly," she said, addressing him directly. "Do let us
go," on which he naturally accompanied her; thus leaving Horace and
Frances for a moment or two in the rear.
"Wasn't Madeleine saying something about a walk to Scaling Harbour
to-morrow?" began the former in a low and rather hurried tone. "If so,
may I join you in it, Miss Morion? I should be glad of the chance of a
talk with you."
Frances lifted her grave eyes to his face.
"Certainly," she said, "we quite mean to go, if it is fine."
The words and tone were matter-of-fact and commonplace enough. Not so
the inward surmises which his words, still more his manner, suggested.
For the first time Frances allowed her thoughts to entertain a
possibility which till this evening she had resolutely refrained from
even considering.
Could it be that her fanciful little sisters had any ground for the
castle they were busily constructing, of which the foundation hitherto
she would have refused to believe more stable than "in the air?"