The Littlewoods' guests left the next day, all, that is to say, except
the owner of Craig-Morion himself, who, finding more to interest and
occupy him than he had anticipated, was glad to avail himself of his
hostess' sincerely meant invitation to remain as long as it suited him
to do so. For one reason or another he had called two or three times at
Fir Cottage, and each time he had gained ground with his kinsman, more
than once, indeed, inveigling the valetudinarian into a walk all over
the property, such as for many years past he would have thought himself
incapable of.
And the effect of this humanising influence on the elder man was of the
happiest, not only as regarded himself, but for his family also. Yet in
those days _something_ at Fir Cottage felt out of gear; now and then it
almost seemed as if Frances and her next sister had to some extent
exchanged natures, Frances' spirits were fitful and uncertain, at times
verging on excitement, then again lapsing into unusual dreaminess and
absent-mindedness, while Betty was quiet, self-possessed, and, to all
outward appearance at least, calm and equable. She had, too, a fit of
extreme industry: from morning till night she was busy about something
or other, so that Eira found it difficult ever to buttonhole her for one
of their "good long talks."
"I don't understand you, Betty," she said one day. "Just now, when we
have something more interesting to discuss than ever in our lives
before, there is no getting a word out of you. What are you always
fussing about? could almost fancy--"
"What?" asked Betty.
Eira laughed.
"Don't be vexed," she said: "you make me feel as if you were preparing
in good time to take Frances' place, but you know you couldn't possibly
do so without my help."
To her surprise, Betty faced round upon her with some indignation.
"I don't see that at all," she replied. "I am tired of being treated
like a baby. I am fit for much more than you think. But I am not going
to talk about possibilities any more. We have done so too much, and--
and I think it is rather indelicate."
"You are very unkind," said poor Eira, looking more than half ready to
cry, "and from now I vow that I shall pay you out in your own coin. You
may try as you like, but you won't get me to talk about _it_ or _him_
any more, and I won't tell you anything I get to know."
"Very glad to hear it," said Betty, though in her heart she already
wished that she had not snubbed Eira quite so fiercely, for the younger
girl had opportunities of judging and remarking the drift of events, as
Betty herself, in some ways increasingly self-conscious and less of an
outsider than she would have liked to own, was unable to do. Eira, hurt
feelings notwithstanding, was not slow to find consolation even in
Betty's unwonted petulance.
"She really thinks it's serious, and she is beginning to feel unhappy at
the thought of Frances leaving us," thought Eira. "I am not even sure
but that Mr Littlewood has said something about it to Betty, and that
she is desperately afraid of breaking his confidence. She has a funny
look sometimes when he is with us--half-frightened, as if she wanted to
get away. Perhaps," reflectively, "it has to do with his going back to
India." For that such a possibility was in question, words let fall by
Horace himself, and by his sister, had made no secret of.
On the whole, just at this time the domestic _atmosphere_ of the big
house was more genial than that of the little one, despite the
improvement in Lady Emma's husband. For one thing Mrs Littlewood laid
herself out to be agreeable to the elder Mr Morion, and declared to
Ryder--not a little, strange to say, considering how recently his own
attitude to his cousins had been one of slightly resentful indifference,
not a little to the younger man's gratification--that she had no idea
"the old bear" could have proved so well worth knowing.
"He is really quite interesting, once you start him on subjects he is
well up in," she said, "so long as you can keep him from the terrible
topic of his ailments. And my admiration for Lady Emma increases daily:
she is really a saint of unselfishness, quite beaming with pleasure if
she thinks her husband is enjoying himself."
"It is very good of you," was the reply, "to draw out the best of them
in this way; as you must know there are very few people who could have
done it with your perfect tact."
"Tact," she replied, "in spite of the fashion of exalting it into a
positive virtue, is to my mind a mere question of `knack.' Superficial
tact, at least, which often serves the purpose as well as or better than
anything deeper!"
"You do yourself injustice," said Ryder. "I don't believe your tact has
no more sturdy root."
"You are right perhaps to some extent," she said. "I am glad to please
Madeleine in the matter. If you want the best kind of tact, that which
springs from real honest kindness of heart and thoughtfulness for
others, you will find it in _her_. Though she does not show it to every
one, I must allow. For instance," with a smile, "she does not care a
farthing if she rubs _you_ the wrong way, but she would not hurt by the
shadow of a touch any one whom--" but here she hesitated, scarcely
liking to allude to her companion's now thoroughly recognised relatives
as in any way objects for pitying consideration--"well, any one whom
things have gone hardly with."
"Madeleine is very good, very good indeed," he answered cordially; "and
so far as I have any right to be so, I am really grateful in the present
instance. She has brought a good deal of brightness into those young
lives already, and that with no jarring note. Though," and here in his
turn he smiled, "I must own it would be difficult to show kindness to
Frances Morion in which there was the slightest touch of condescension:
thoroughly gentle and sweet as _she is_, there is yet a rather
remarkable dignity about her for a young person. Don't you agree with
me?"
"To tell you the truth," said Mrs Littlewood, turning back the lace
ruffles which fell so becomingly over her beautiful white hands, "to
tell you the truth, I have seen too little of the eldest Miss Morion
personally to be able to judge of her, and the characteristic that has
struck you in her is not one that appeals to me in a young girl--not, of
course, that she _is_ very young, though living so entirely out of the
world, of course, detracts from a girl's _savoir-faire_. One may have
the deficiencies of youth even when youth itself is past."
Mr Morion listened in silence, and Mrs Littlewood, fearing that for
once she had allowed prejudice to overcome her good sense, with a glance
at his impassive face, went on again in a different tone.
"I will tell you whom I _have_ taken a great fancy to," she said; "and
that is that charming little Betty! There is no need to see much of her
to fall in love with her! She is so perfectly sweet and _naive_, candid
and transparent as the day."
Mr Morion smiled rather enigmatically.
"I agree with you there," he replied; and Mrs Littlewood felt relieved,
though she detected a reserve of expression on her hearer's face, which
she was quite at a loss to understand.
He rose as he spoke, and strolled towards the door. The _tete-a-tete_
had taken place in Mrs Littlewood's boudoir.
"Then I may really feel satisfied," he said, as he turned the handle,
"that my remaining a few days longer is in no way outstaying my
welcome?"
"Certainly not," was the reply; "I mean," with a smile, "that you could
not outstay your welcome with us."
"You are very good," he said, and as he passed through the outer room
there was a smile on his face. He was at no loss to understand his
hostess, for whom, nevertheless, he had a sincere regard.
"I may as well set her mind at rest. She thinks she has annoyed me," he
thought, and, turning back, he glanced in again. Mrs Littlewood was
still sitting as he had left her, and she seemed to be absorbed in
thought.
"By-the-by," he said, and at the sound of his voice she started
slightly, "I shall be looking in at Fir Cottage this afternoon; have you
any message?"
"_I_ have, as it happens," she replied. "Will you ask Lady Emma if she
would care to drive with me to-morrow? If it is fine and not too cold,
that is to say; the wind is still so uncertain, though for myself I
scarcely dread it. You don't know how much the better I feel for this
bracing air of yours, Mr Morion!"
"I am delighted to hear it," he answered. "I shall not forget your
message."
"There are two or three calls," Mrs Littlewood resumed, "at some
distance, which I really must not neglect longer. You might mention
incidentally," with a little hesitation, "that I thought of driving in
the Heatherbridge direction, for I fancy Lady Emma might be glad of the
opportunity of paying calls about there too."
Mr Morion bent his head and finally disappeared, fully appreciating the
situation and tacit _amende_.
His cousin, as he anticipated, was at home, and after some talk, in
which the younger man's interest was not feigned--for his relative, as
has been said, was really cultivated, and possessed, despite his egoism,
of much valuable if somewhat eccentric information in more than one
direction, and by no means destitute, when he chose to use it, of solid,
practical good sense--they adjourned to the drawing-room, where for once
only the two younger girls were in charge of the tea-table.
As he handed a cup to Lady Emma, the newcomer delivered his message. It
was received, he saw, with satisfaction, for though she did not say so,
these distant calls had for long weighed rather heavily on the lady's
mind.
"Pray thank Mrs Littlewood," she replied. "I should enjoy the drive
very much."
"Her daughter would thank you for saying so," Ryder Morion replied.
"One of Madeleine's fads is a dislike to a long country drive in a big
carriage, though she doesn't say so to her mother."
"And," said Eira quickly, "she and Frances have planned to go to Scaling
Harbour to-morrow, I know, and Mr Littlewood too, perhaps."
Betty, in her corner, said nothing.
"Oh, indeed!" remarked the visitor, glancing round. "I was just going
to ask for your sister. I thought possibly she was busy about something
of the kind to-day."
"No," replied Eira, "I don't know where she is. Betty and I have been
looking for her. She may have gone up to the vicarage. Poor Mrs
Ferraby has had such a bad cold. Yes, I am almost certain she must be
there."
"We all seem straying in different directions to-day," said Ryder, the
little suggestion of familiar companionship falling not unpleasingly on
the ears of those present. "Madeleine is shopping vehemently at Craig
Bay. Horace, I know," and as he mentioned the name he turned half
involuntarily to Betty, as if to draw her into the conversation, "is off
to Heatherbridge himself this afternoon, by rail. He is, I fancy, a
little anxious about his leave, and preferred telegraphing from a better
office than yours here."
Betty looked up with evident interest in her eyes, and spoke for the
first time.
"Is he afraid of having to go back to India soon?" she inquired.
"Not to India, as yet at least, but there is some possibility of his
having to put in an appearance at the depot, or something of the sort."
"I think it would be perfectly horrible to have to go to India?"
exclaimed Betty abruptly.
"That depends, I should say," Ryder replied, "like most things in this
life, on circumstances." And Betty felt that his eyes were keenly fixed
on her.
She got up, and walked across to the window. "Eira," she said, "don't
you think we might go up to the vicarage to meet Francie and walk back
with her? _I_ am going to, any way."
"I am afraid I can't," said Eira. "I must finish my letter to Mrs
Ramsay. It is a specially interesting one this time," with a quick look
in their guest's direction; "she will be so glad to hear about Scaling
Harbour," the last words almost in an undertone.
"And you, Betty," interposed her mother unexpectedly--there was a touch
of Betty's abruptness about Lady Emma sometimes--"you must not think of
going out this evening. It would be madness, when I have kept you in
all day on account of your throat! Sore throats," half turning to Ryder
Morion, in an explanatory tone, "need of all things to be stopped at the
beginning."
"I quite agree with you," he said, and as he spoke he rose to take
leave. "Perhaps, Miss Betty," he added in a slightly rallying tone, as
he shook hands with her, "a little taste of your dreaded warm climates
would do you no harm!" He kept his eyes on her for a moment, and
noticed, by no means to his dissatisfaction, that her colour deepened a
little.
When he left the house he turned half mechanically towards the vicarage.
The evenings _were_ much longer now, though not always correspondingly
milder, for in this hilly, often storm-tossed northern country, weather
and seasons are by no means to be depended upon in any orthodox way.
And to-night it was not only chilly, but already, thanks to the
darkening clouds which were gathering about the sunset, dusk had fallen
earlier than might have been expected.
Ryder Morion stood still and looked about him, though there was no view
to speak of.
"It is a queer part of the country," he thought, "or so at least it
strikes me, and yet--I feel at home in it too. I am glad to belong to
it. No doubt that's natural when one thinks for how many generations
one's people have been here, and I should be sorry to give it up, sorry
at least for it to belong to another name, though if old George had had
a son, I don't quite know--" And he walked on again till he came to the
point in the road where on one side the little gate at the end of the
Laurel Walk led out of his own grounds, and a few yards farther on,
across the road, stood the small group of buildings consisting of the
church, the vicarage, and one or two adjacent cottages.
Why he had chosen this way home he scarcely knew, but as he lingered for
a moment before entering the gloomy little avenue, he caught sight of a
figure just emerging from the lych-gate on the other side. A woman's
figure, and something light-coloured, a white fleecy "cloud," which she
had thrown round her neck, recalled to his memory the curious experience
of a week or so ago--the night that he had first met his cousins at the
big house, when he and Frances, standing at the library window, had
gazed in perplexity at the luminous object moving down the walk.
"I never had a chance of asking her what she thought of it," he said to
himself, "or rather it went out of my head. I wonder if it was some
reflection from indoors?" And as this passed through his mind he
recognised the newcomer as the "she" of his cogitations.
Half-impulsively he moved forward to meet her.
"Good-evening, Miss Morion," he said. "You weren't startled, I hope, by
seeing me here? It is so dark and gloomy already this evening."
"Scarcely startled," was the reply, with a smile, "but I did wonder who
you were. You see, that path is so seldom used, I suppose that the
people about avoid it purposely, though indeed it is only convenient as
a short cut from the house to the church."
By tacit consent they both came to a halt in front of the little gate
again.
"I have just been at Fir Cottage," said Mr Morion: "your sister Betty
wanted to come to meet you, but Lady Emma negatived it."
"I am very glad she did not come," said Frances. "She has a little
cold, and it is a chilly evening."
"And I am keeping you standing," he said; but still neither moved, and
the eyes of both were turned in the same direction.
Frances seemed on the point of speaking, for she slightly parted her
lips, only, however, to close them again. But some sort of "brain wave"
was in the air, for a sudden impulse made her companion turn towards her
with a query.
"Miss Morion," he said, "though I had forgotten about it between times,
I have more than once meant to ask you, if you don't mind my doing so,
what you thought about that queer light--reflection--that we both
noticed the other evening?"
"I was just thinking about it," said Frances in her straightforward way.
"And how do you account for it? For I think it struck you even more
than it did me. Horace asked me what we were both staring out at, but--
I don't quite know why--I turned the subject. I thought I would ask you
first."
"Horace," said Frances hastily--"Mr Littlewood, I mean--knows that the
Laurel Walk is said to be haunted," but with these words she stopped
again. Her hearer's interest increased.
"Surely," he said, "I must have heard something about it, but it is very
vague. Who is our family ghost? And," with some hesitation and a
smile, "was it on _its_ account--I don't know what gender to use--that
you seemed startled that evening?"
"Well, yes," she acknowledged, replying only to his last question. "I
suppose it was. I have never myself seen anything or heard anything of
the ghost before, though Eira was once very frightened by some
inexplicable sounds in--in church, in the family pew, which is supposed
to be one of the limits of its wanderings. But," she went on quickly,
for she was anxious to avoid direct reference to the old story itself,
"I cannot in any way account for what we saw that evening, and I believe
in such cases the witness of _two_ is very rare."
"Did it look to you then like a human being?" he inquired. "To me it
was almost too small for that, though it certainly seemed as if it were
walking slowly along; not with any jerky movement, such as the
reflection of a lamp being carried about, upstairs perhaps, might have
thrown out into the darkness."
Frances shook her head.
"No lamp could have produced the effect we saw," she said. "I just
can't account for it by natural causes, though I am really not given to
superstitious fancies."
Mr Morion was silent, but still his gaze, as well as that of his
companion, was fixed on the Laurel Walk, now almost dark. Suddenly the
gate gave a little click, though no one was touching it. Both started,
both gave a little laugh, and at that moment a gust of cold air, though
till then the evening had been very still, if chilly, passed them with a
sort of sobbing sigh, a sound that seemed to be wafted along the
straight gloomy path in their direction. Involuntarily, Frances gave a
little shiver, and she felt rather than saw that her sensation was not
unshared by her companion.
He glanced at her.
"Odd," he said abruptly, "that breath of cold air, I mean, when all is
so quiet to-night. It is a creepy spot, and not improbably the
creepiness has localised the legend."
"If it is only a legend," said Frances. "After all, one is driven back
upon one's ignorance in such matters."
"The `more things in heaven and earth' you are thinking of, I am sure,"
said he. "No one has ever said it better, and no one ever will. But we
must not stand here any longer, ghost or no ghost, unless you are really
to get thoroughly chilled." And they both turned back on to the road,
Mr Morion accompanying her to her own gate.
"Some time or other," he said, as he shook hands, "I should like to hear
more of our ghost story and its origin. I even doubt if I have been
fully or correctly informed of the facts which started it originally."
"Fully informed you could not be," was the reply, "for no one knows the
whole facts of the case, and I am pretty sure no one ever will. And
even as to what we do know, I should not, to speak quite frankly, wish
to be the one to tell you more! Very likely," after a moment's pause,
"you know as much as we."
With these words she passed through the gate which he was holding open
for her, though a friendly little nod of farewell took away any possible
savour of animosity from her words.
Ryder Morion went slowly home, this time by the lower path leading
through the new open part of the park.