Mrs Littlewood glanced up quickly as Betty and Ryder Morion entered the
room. She was seated not far from the door, showing some photographs of
her grandchildren to Mrs Charlemont. A curious expression, half
annoyance, half expectancy, stole into her face as she caught sight of
the two, and between handing the portraits to her friend and listening:
to her comments thereupon, she managed to keep a keen though unobtruded
watch on the doorway.
She had not long to wait. Scarcely a minute had elapsed before her son
and Frances made their appearance. Mrs Littlewood's perceptions and
instincts were very quick: something told her that the two had been
talking more or less confidentially, for Horace looked eager and
slightly nervous; his companion, on the other hand, grave and almost
absent, with a dreamy look in her eyes, which her hostess--little as,
comparatively speaking, she knew her--felt intuitively was not Frances'
habitual expression.
"It cannot surely have come to anything serious as yet," with a sudden
rush of alarm which almost startled herself. "He would never dream of
it without consulting me, dependent on me as he is, and surely I have
more hold on his affection and respect than _that_ would show!"
But the misgiving was there. Had she been a woman of less breeding and
self-control she could scarcely have hidden her uneasiness. Even as it
was, she did so less completely than she imagined, or else Frances
herself was all but morbidly acute to-night, for as Mrs Littlewood
moved to her with some polite commonplace, the girl _felt_ that the
courtesy but overlay increasing coldness and disapproval.
"She has never really liked me," thought she, "and now she is on the way
to less negative sentiments, I fear." Nor was this belief in any way
softened by the hostess' manner when the time came for saying
good-night--the difference between her kindly, all but affectionate tone
to Betty and the chilly though irreproachably courteous farewell to
herself was so marked.
And it deepened the impression of Horace's words. "His mother is afraid
of it," said Frances to herself; "I can feel that she is."
She was glad that he had kept away from her during the rest of the
evening, talking more to the two younger girls, Eira and Miss
Charlemont, with whom Betty had taken refuge.
Altogether, the sister's well-balanced mind had good need of its
practised self-restraint that evening. And during the drive home, short
as it was, it was all she could do to reply in an ordinary way to the
comments on her family's unwonted piece of dissipation, which not
unnaturally came to be expressed.
It had left a favourable impression on her father and mother; thus much
Frances was satisfied to see. Beyond this she felt incapable of further
discussion.
"I am a little tired, dears," she said to her sisters as they were
making their way upstairs. "Don't let us talk over anything till the
morning." And, though with a little disappointment, Betty and Eira
yielded at once to her wish.
"Frances is, don't you think, a _little_ strange, not quite like
herself?" said Betty, when she and Eira were alone in their room. "She
might have told us a little about the dinner, who took her in, and all
that. We were so pleased to make her look so nice," and she gave a
little sigh.
"You are rather stupid, Betty," was the reply. "Things couldn't be
better. Even her wanting not to talk to-night."
"Talking" was easy to avoid, not so thinking. Frances felt, with a
strange sensation of excitement, as if she were on the verge of some
great change or changes in life; almost, as it were, on the brink of
some discovery. And this was not solely owing to her scarcely avowed
anticipation of distinct intention as regarded herself on the part of
Horace Littlewood. He had not been mistaken as to the startled, strange
expression on Miss Morion's face at the moment of his suggestion that
they should leave the library, which had caused her to turn somewhat
suddenly from the window overlooking the Laurel Walk. She _had_ seen,
or at least believed that she had seen, something mysterious and
inexplicable, and, what was more, she knew that her companion, Ryder
Morion, had seen it too.
"What was that?" were the words which had escaped her in a low tone,
with an involuntary appeal to him; and his reply, "Some curious
reflection of the light in here, I suppose," though intended as
reassuring, had not achieved its object, not even so far as to make her
feel that he was expressing his own conviction.
For what they had both perceived was no stationary gleam such as is
often thrown on glass with a dark background in such circumstances: it
was a faintly luminous _something_, slowly moving down the path towards
the church, gradually fading into nothingness as it neared the little
gate.
"What _can_ it have been?" Frances now asked herself, with a shiver of
sympathy for Eira, as she recalled the girl's impressive words about the
effect of "really having heard something."
"I do feel," thought the elder sister, though with a little smile at her
own weakness, "as if I had really _seen_ something! It looked about the
height of a small woman moving slowly. Can such things be? Shall I
speak of it again to Mr Morion? I have such a shrinking from any
allusion to him, to that old story. No, I would rather leave it.
Possibly he may tell Mr Littlewood about it, and in that way I may hear
if it made any impression on him." And with the reference to Horace,
her thought grew again absorbed by the still vague surmises which his
manner, even more than his words, had given rise to.
"To-morrow will give me more grounds for real consideration," she
thought. "It isn't as if I were a mere girl who could be excused for
beginning fancying things which after all may have no existence. It
isn't even as if I were one of the younger ones. I am rather ashamed of
myself. After all, I doubt if I am not older than he, and in any case I
probably seem so to him," with a little sigh. "It all comes, I suppose,
from this strangely isolated life of ours--things of no importance in
the eyes of others seem to us so wonderful."
Yet in spite of herself the impression was made, and deepened
undoubtedly--much as this would have been regretted by the lady
herself--through the unmistakable change to increasing coldness and
formality in Mrs Littlewood's bearing to her that evening.
Considerably to Frances' relief, somewhat too to her surprise, though
the former feeling prevented her dwelling on the latter, she was not
subjected the next morning to any cross-examination on the part of her
sisters as to her experiences the night before, previous to their own
appearance on the scene. On the contrary, Betty and Eira seemed fully
absorbed by the plans for that day. They had arranged more definitely
than Frances knew with Madeleine and her young guest for the expedition
to the fishing village which Horace had alluded to.
"They are to call for us," said Betty, "or we for them. That is to say,
we are both to start from our own doors at half-past one; most likely we
shall meet in the park. You must _manage_, Francie, to get us some sort
of luncheon before we go. We've asked mamma, and she doesn't mind, if
you can arrange it with the cook."
Betty's prevision came true. The sisters had just entered the
Craig-Morion grounds when they caught sight of a little group coming to
meet them.
"Dear me! what a lot of people they seem," said Eira. "Whom has
Madeleine brought? Oh, I see," she went on, "it is only Miss Charlemont
and her father and one of those other men: do you know his name,
Frances?"
But Frances did not reply; indeed, she scarcely heard her sister's
remarks. For perhaps the first time in her life, she was feeling
self-conscious and constrained. _He_ was there of course, Horace, that
is to say, looking his best in his rough tweed suit and brown leather
gaiters, bright and eager and evidently in excellent spirits as he shook
hands with his fair neighbours. Though underneath this, one who knew
him intimately--his sister, had she been on the lookout for it--might
have discerned a certain nervousness, of which a superficial judgment
would little have suspected this very smart young man of the day of
being capable.
The air was exhilarating; with one exception they were all young, and as
they walked on together, the sound of their voices in lively talk,
broken now and then by Betty's silvery laugh in response to some merry
speech, told their own tale, and that a pleasant one.
Frances glanced at her little sister with satisfaction.
"Betty is looking ever so much better than last night," thought she;
"perhaps she is one of those people--they are often really the
loveliest--who are at their best by daylight, though as far as dress
goes she and Eira are almost more at a disadvantage than in the
evening," as her eyes strayed from her sister's neat but unmistakably
"home-made" country attire to the perfect finish and cut of Madeleine's
and Gertrude's short-skirted "tailor" costumes.
For the days are past, if indeed they ever existed, in which "anything,"
however dowdy or shabbily fine, was considered "good enough" for country
wear. Partly, perhaps, owing to the fact, ignored or scarcely realised,
that our ancestresses at no very remote period--those who figured, and
deservedly, in books of beauty or on immortal canvases--knew not what
country life in our modern sense of the word really is or should be.
They never _walked_; for who would call a stroll up and down a terrace
or across a park in clinging draperies and lace "fichus" worthy of the
name?
As they emerged from the lodge gates, the party fell naturally into twos
and threes. Madeleine, with her usual unselfishness undertaking the
entertainment of Mr Charlemont, led the way. And soon Frances, though,
needless to say, by no connivance of her own, found herself to all
intents and purposes _tete-a-tete_ with Horace.
"What has become of Mr Morion?" she asked, more for the sake of saying
something than from any real interest in that personage's movements.
"I really don't know," Horace replied, half absently. "He's a queer
fish. He went off this morning early somewhere; that's rather his way.
When you're staying at Witham-Meldon you never see your host till late
in the day. He doesn't mind how many people he has to stay so long as
they look after themselves or each other till late afternoon or
dinner-time. I have even known him stroll into the drawing-room when
everybody was assembled as if he had nothing to do with it all, and
greet people here and there with an offhand `good-morning.'"
"It must be rather uncomfortable," said Frances, "rather as if you were
all staying at a hotel?"
Horace laughed.
"Wait till you see it," he said. "It's splendidly managed, even though
for the greater part of the year he lives in a corner of it shut up with
his books. No," warming to enthusiasm as he went on, "it is simply
perfection to stay at. Besides his huge wealth, which he knows how to
use, he is far cleverer than you would think in some ways. I don't mean
his learning, but socially speaking, as the string-puller, so to say.
He knows how to get the right people together, and you're always sure of
somebody interesting there; and he very often has my sister-in-law--his
sister, you know--to act hostess, and she is quite charming, though
almost plain."
Frances had grown interested by this time, and forgetful for the moment
of her own preoccupation.
"You put Mr Morion in rather a new light to me," she said. "Somehow I
have always thought of him, if indeed I have thought of him at all, as a
sort of bookworm and recluse, with no sympathy or geniality about him--
indifferent to the rest of the world. That is why I have sometimes
almost--" She stopped short.
"Do go on," said Horace, with the persuasive charm of manner, sometimes
quite irresistible, about him. "You know surely by this time that you
can trust me perfectly?"
"It was more," she replied, "that I felt ashamed of what I was going to
say. It was that I have almost grudged him his wealth, thinking him one
of those people that did _not_ know how really to use it--for others."
"There you wrong him," said Horace quickly: "he is by no means selfish,
or even self-absorbed--as I have good cause to know," he added, in a
lower voice, as if thinking aloud. "His manner is certainly against
him," he went on; "he gives one the impression of being much more
indifferent--cynical--than he really is. In point of fact I know few
men, if any, that would have been what he is in the same position; quite
unspoilt by coming into all that money and property--Witham-Meldon is
really princely--so young as he did."
Frances was one of those people who instinctively respond to expressions
of generous appreciation or admiration of others. There was real
pleasure in her face as she turned to Horace, quite unrestrainedly now,
for as the conversation went on its increasing: interest had tended more
and more to make her for get her perplexing thoughts of the preceding
night.
"You and he must be really _friends_," she said. "He must be quite
different from what I thought."
Horace smiled, but without speaking. Then half nervously he began to
flick at some withered leaves at the side of the path where they were
walking, with the stick he held. And almost instantaneously Frances
again became self-conscious, or conscious, rather, that her companion
was feeling so.
She was right: the young man's first words confirmed her suspicion.
"Miss Morion," he began, "do you remember my saying last night that I
should be so glad of the chance of a quiet talk with you? I hope it
won't bore you, if--if I try to make you realise a little how I am
placed. I have never minded it, or thought much about it till lately,
and now everything seems coming upon me at once. Not that for worlds
I--I would be without these--new experiences--I would almost say,
whatever the end may be! I have never in my life, I don't think, felt
really alive till now. Never so happy, and yet--the other thing too, so
terribly anxious--oh! I can't express it! I have always been a duffer
at putting feelings into words. Most men are, don't you think so?"
"Perhaps," Frances replied, forcing herself to speak in an ordinary
matter-of-fact tone, as her instinct of dignity demanded; but that was
all.
"But I may explain a little to you, may I not?" he went on eagerly.
"You see, I am the younger son, and entirely, or as good as entirely,
dependent on my mother. And she has been a very kind mother, for I have
cost her more than I should have done, and she has never reproached me.
_Now_ she wants me to leave the army, and--as she expresses it--`settle
down,' as my brother Con has done. But, then, think of the huge
difference between his position and mine. I couldn't--I really couldn't
think of marrying for money; indeed, if I was inclined to care for a
rich girl I think the fact of her being so would destroy her attraction!
I am not hitting at my brother in saying this: he had plenty on his
side too to offer, and he did care for Elise. The only way out of it I
can see is for me to stay where I am, to stick to my profession. Then,
if the worst came to the worst--it's horribly difficult for me to say
it--but if it were against my mother's wishes, there would still be
something to fall back upon. That is to say, if I was fortunate enough
to find I might hope. What do you think?"
Frances was silent. She seemed to be reflecting deeply, though no one
would have guessed from her quiet manner the internal tumult which his
half-disjointed speech had aroused.
"Is there any necessity," she at last managed to say, "for you to decide
anything--as to your plans--just yet? It all seems to me so--so
sudden."
Her voice was low and somewhat tremulous. He glanced with a quick shade
of apprehension in his honest blue eyes.
"You don't mean to say," he asked anxiously, "that I had better not
build upon--what it all hangs on, after all?"
"I--I don't mean to say anything," she replied, her tone growing firmer
as she went on, "to influence you one way or the other. I--naturally it
is rather bewildering--it is difficult for me to take it in--all at
once."
"But you can't but have known it was coming, that it _must_ come?" he
said questioningly. "At least I feel as if you _must_ have known it, as
if every one must! I suppose when one is so absorbed by a thing like
this, it feels as if it _were_ written on one's very forehead. Ever
since that first afternoon at your house when I was so stupid--you
remember?--and thought none of you would ever look at me again--I
understand now why I minded so much--ever since then, I see how it has
been with me."
Frances felt strangely touched, and the real feeling which his
straightforward words evoked somehow made it easier for her to reply.
She even looked up at him with a touch almost of tenderness in her eyes.
"Don't you see," she said, "how very difficult it is, how wrong it would
be, for me to risk misleading you? I _must_ think it over; besides the
personal questions, there is the fear, the reluctance, to risk
disturbing your happy relations with your mother. Indeed, they would be
more than risked--she would not like it."
His face fell.
"To some extent I am afraid you are right," he answered. "But two
people, if I may dare think of it as concerning two, are more than one,
and that one not a principal in the matter. Little as you have said,
Miss Morion, I thank you for that little--more even than if you _had_
said more--for I trust your every word. The question of returning to
India," he went on, "seems to me almost decided, and for myself I don't
mind. But I have always shrunk from it for--for a wife. There is so
much that goes against the grain for a girl--a woman--of refinement and
all that sort of thing."
"But," said Frances, more timidly than she had yet spoken, "if two
people really care for each other, must not that make all the difference
in the world?"
Though scarcely had the words passed her lips before she regretted them;
she would indeed have given worlds to recall them. Had she any right to
say as much? Was it not distinctly wrong to do so, uncertain of herself
and of the possibilities of her own feelings as she was? A sort of cold
misgiving seemed to creep over her, which in her peculiar inexperience
she was unable to explain. Was this what all girls felt or went
through, she asked herself, on first actual realisation of a man's
devotion? She was gratified, touched; but was that enough? Were her
motives entirely pure as regarded _him_--what he deserved?--or was she
influenced by secondary ones, laudable enough in themselves, but to a
woman of her character no longer so if allowed to interfere with the
plan of the one great question--could she love him?
All this surged through her mind far more quickly than it takes to tell
it. She looked up with the intention of some attempt at modifying her
last speech, but what she saw in Horace's face told her it was too late.
It was illumined with pleasure.
"Of course," he replied, "that is everything--everything. Thank you a
thousand times, Miss Morion; it is more by far than I was daring to hope
for at present."
Something, an impalpable something, struck her in his words: was it his
still addressing her by her formal name? All things considered, this
seemed scarcely natural, scarcely consistent. A quick terror seized her
that her inferred encouragement, grateful as he was for it, might have
seemed premature!
"Don't put more into my words than I meant," she forced herself to say;
"remember it was an `if.'"
But the radiance did not fade from his face.
"Do not deprive me of the little I have got," he said, "and do trust me.
I shall do nothing further without your full knowledge and approval."
And again, as at that moment a summons from others of the party
interrupted them, Frances felt a touch of perplexity.