If Mrs Littlewood's intention had been to meet the newcomer in the
hall, and by the exercise of some diplomacy prevent his joining the
party of ladies in the drawing-room, it was frustrated. For before she
reached the door it was thrown open, not by a servant, but by Horace
himself. An expression of surprise crossed his face on first catching
sight of the six or seven occupants of the room, to be, however, quickly
replaced by a smile of pleasure and slightly heightened colour.
"So glad I am in time for a cup of tea," he said; "I was in luck to find
the dog-cart waiting for Con at the station--don't be afraid, Elise,
I've sent it straight back again--I wasn't expected," he continued, to
Lady Emma, as he shook hands with her, then with Betty, who happened to
come next, and lastly with Frances, on whose fingers he bestowed an
earnest pressure which brought the colour into her cheeks, this latter
incident, slight as it was, not passing unperceived by Elise's observant
eyes.
Then things settled down again, Horace accepting his position as the
only man of the party with perfect equanimity, and availing himself with
satisfaction of the resources of the tea-table, going on to explain that
he had had no luncheon and was as hungry as a hawk.
"That's what men always say," observed Madeleine. "I mean they always
have some excuse ready if they have a weakness for afternoon-tea."
"I'm not ashamed of an honest appetite at any time," said Horace. "May
I have some more sandwiches, Madeleine?"
"My dear boy," said his mother, "you will spoil your dinner, to use a
commonplace expression. Do you know what o'clock it is?" At these
words Lady Emma made a slight movement, as if in preparation for going.
Mrs Littlewood turned at once, laying a detaining hand on her arm.
"Please don't think of leaving us yet," she said, "it is only a little
past six. The evenings are so light now."
But by this time Lady Emma was on her feet, and she was not the sort of
person to sit down again, once she had decided to go. So a little
bustle of leave-taking ensued, the lady of the house excelling herself
in cordiality, for in her heart she felt a little guilty. Her
punishment followed quickly, for, without waiting for the fresh relay of
sandwiches which his sister had ordered, Horace calmly accompanied the
Morions across the hall and, seizing a cap as he passed, out into the
grounds, with the evident intention of escorting them, if not the whole
way home, at least to the door in the wall.
In the natural order of things he should have walked first with Lady
Emma, but Betty was too quick for him.
"Let me go on with you, mamma," she whispered, slipping her little hand
inside her mother's arm, and hurrying forward with her, so as to leave
the other two in the rear.
Whether or no her tactics were at all appreciated by Lady Emma, the
action was not repulsed; indeed there would have been explanation enough
of it in the family legend of Betty's chronic shyness.
Somewhat to Frances' surprise Horace walked for a few moments in
silence; gradually the consciousness of this became almost oppressive to
her, and, anxious at any cost to break it, she turned towards him with a
few quick words.
"You have come back sooner than you expected?" she said.
He gave a slight start.
"Yes, that is to say sooner than I have lately expected," he answered.
"Though when I left here I had no idea of being away so long. Things
never turn out as one anticipates, and still more rarely as one hopes,"
and again he grew silent, and this time Frances made no further effort
at talking.
So they walked till within a few yards of the boundary of the grounds,
Lady Emma and Betty coming to a halt when they reached the door in the
wall, glancing towards the two in the rear, to show that they were
waiting for them.
Then, at last, Horace spoke again, this time hurriedly and nervously and
as if indifferent whether this was perceived or not.
"I have been hesitating," he said, "hesitating terribly, as to what was
best to do. I was not even sure of seeing you at all, for I leave again
to-morrow night, so I think it is hopeless to attempt any satisfactory
explanation. My only comfort is that I believe you trust me, and as
soon as I possibly can do so, I will write to you fully."
Frances glanced up at him; her face was calm but very pale.
"Just tell me one thing," she said. "Is there any chance of--is it
likely that you will have to return to India immediately or very soon?"
He shook his head.
"No," he replied. "It is not quite as bad as that. At all costs,
whatever turns up, I shall not leave England without coming down here
again."
By this time they were within earshot of the others, and no more was
said.
"I am afraid," began Horace, addressing himself to Lady Emma, "that this
must be good-bye, for some little time to come, at least. I had hoped
to have had a week or two here still."
"Indeed," said Lady Emma courteously, but with some not unintended
indifference of manner. "I am sorry for you all to leave just as our
best season is coming on, but we shall of course be pleased to see you
if ever you are in the neighbourhood again," and she held out her hand
as if in polite dismissal. "We must not linger, my dears."
Neither of her daughters replied. Frances shook hands with Horace
without looking at him. Betty's little face, on the contrary, was
turned full upon him, and as her dark eyes scanned him with a strange,
indescribable, almost pathetic questioning, verging on reproach, his
hand retained hers for a second longer than need have been. Then her
mother and sister disappeared through the doorway, and before following:
them she looked at her hand with a curious expression. Had it been her
fancy? What did he mean?
As she passed through the door she closed it behind her without looking
back, so she did not see him still standing there, where they had said
good-bye, motionless.
When Horace got back to the house again, he hesitated for a moment as he
was crossing the hall in the direction of his own quarters.
"No," he said to himself, "I had better go back to the drawing-room. If
things are ever to come right I shall have worse than that to do, and I
must face it. If even I could win over Elise, it would be something,
perhaps even a great deal, to the good, for Conrad always sees through
her eyes."
He rejoined the family circle therefore. When his mother saw him a
slight touch of relief overspread her face; she had been dreading his
accompanying the Morions all the way home and not returning till
dinner-time.
"You _have_ taken us by surprise, Horace," she said, smiling at him with
what was intended to be a perfectly natural expression, "and I am so
anxious to hear what you have settled. It was provoking that we were
not alone when you came back, but poor, dear Lady Emma is not wanting in
tact, after all."
Her daughter-in-law half rose from her seat: "I think," she said, "in my
turn I had better leave you; you must have a lot to talk about."
"Nothing but what I flatter myself you may be interested in, too,
Elise," replied Horace quickly, gently advancing her chair again. "I am
very lucky to have got down here at all to have a glimpse of you and
Con. But I am sorry to say it will be only a glimpse. I have to leave
again to-morrow night, mother."
His mother's face fell, for though she did not desire his prolonged stay
at Craig-Morion, she hated parting with him, and she feared that this
recall to his work meant business.
"To-morrow!" she repeated, rather blankly. "That is very soon, but," as
a new idea struck her, "it means, I hope, that you are only joining at
the depot preliminary to--what you know I long for! Otherwise you would
have had all your leave clear, till you had to go back to India, would
you not?"
He had sat down beside her, and took her hand in his.
"Not exactly that, mother dear," he replied. "I am not forced to join
at the depot, but my doing so will be a great help to them just now, as
one or two are on sick leave, and they are unexpectedly short-handed. I
may get a month or two, later on, just before I shall have to start."
"Oh, Horace!" his mother exclaimed.
"Are you really deciding to go out again," said Elise, "when mother does
so want you to give it up? Are you so devoted to your profession,
Horace? It isn't as if there were active service in prospect. I do
think you have had enough of it."
"But remember, my dear Elise," answered Horace, "that I am not a second
Con, and I am quite content to be myself. But I could not stand nothing
to do, and no distinct position. I should hate hanging about."
"But you know, my dear boy," said his mother, "there are plenty of
things you could get to do."
"Not without some capital," said Horace pointedly.
"Perhaps not," she replied, flushing a little. "All the same you need
not talk as if you were alone in the world. There is nothing I long for
more than to see you settled down with--plenty to do, and--" but she did
not finish her sentence--"that would come no doubt in good time."
"I don't know that it would," said Horace, not affecting ignorance of
her meaning, "not if I give up my only certainty, or, practically
speaking, my only certainty of better things in the future, at any
rate."
For though Horace was not entirely unprovided for on the paternal side
as a younger son, the family property was strictly entailed on the elder
brother, leaving the others to a great extent dependent on their mother.
Mrs Littlewood made a movement as if to withdraw her hand.
"You pain me, Horace," she said, "when you say such things."
He retained her fingers in his clasp.
"Heaven knows I don't mean to do so in the least, mother dear," he said.
"But you, and Elise too," with a little smile towards her, "are not the
sort of women to respect a man less for wishing to guard his
independence, for wishing to feel that he is doing some work in the
world, earning enough at least not to feel himself a _faineant_."
"There is always useful work to do," said Elise, "though, perhaps, the
most useful to others does not directly repay the doer of it. Look at
Conrad, how he devotes his time to our tenants, and the many dependent
on us."
"Of course," said Horace, "and he is quite right, but the positions are
perfectly different. I want to feel--well--" he stopped, and, getting
up, strolled towards the window. The two ladies exchanged glances.
Then Elise, by a gesture, made her mother-in-law understand that she
thought it would be better for her herself to leave the room; but Mrs
Littlewood negatived the suggestion in the same way. And in a moment or
two, Horace came back again and took up his position by the fire.
"It's really too bad of me," he said, "to be entertaining you with all
this talk about myself."
"No, my dear boy," said his mother, "but I just wish I understood you a
little better."
"You _are_ rather enigmatical, you know," said Elise. "If it were
not--" but here she hesitated.
"Go on," said Horace smiling, and, as this was followed by no hint of
caution from his mother, Elise did go on.
"After all, it was something silly I was going to say!" the younger
woman continued, "for I know you have been quite out of the way of
anything of the kind for ever so long, but except for that, I was going
to say I should almost have suspected it was a case of the `not
impossible she' with you!"
Mrs Littlewood glanced up, for her, nervously at her son. He was quite
calm and apparently in no way annoyed by his sister-in-law's speech.
"Provided it _were_ `a _not impossible_ she,'" said his mother
pointedly. "Few things, indeed nothing, would give me greater
pleasure!" Horace did not reply for a moment or two.
"I quite believe you, my dear mother," he said at last, "but," as the
sound of approaching wheels was heard, "there's the dog-cart again and
Conrad. I hope it was in time for him."
"By-the-by, Elise," said her mother-in-law, "we must settle about asking
the old people at Fir Cottage to dine here soon. We must make sure of
Conrad. I don't think we need ask any of the daughters again, and
really, poor girls, I doubt if it gives them any pleasure--they are so
painfully shy."
"Not the eldest one," said Elise. "To me she would be much more
attractive if she were less self-confident, I might almost say
self-asserting, but I suppose it is a natural result of the kind of life
they have led, that they should fall into one extreme or the other. I
almost wonder Miss Morion hasn't taken some line of her own, like the
rather emancipated young women of the day. Especially as, in their
practical reasons for this being advisable. Surely no foolish family
pride can be in the way."
"I really don't know," said Mrs Littlewood. "Where people have nothing
but a good old name to fall back upon, they are, I fear, apt to
overestimate its value. Of course," with a little hesitation, "I cannot
in anyway think of them as relations of yours, Elise!"
"Naturally so," said her daughter-in-law indifferently. "Nor can I feel
as if they were except in so far that I should really be glad to be of
use to them if any opportunity offered itself. And I must say," with a
certain softening in her tone, "there is something very sweet and
lovable about the younger one."
"I am glad you feel that," said the elder woman, "dear little Betty.
Yes, her shyness is certainly an additional charm. I really love the
child."
Horace had taken no part in this conversation; up till now he had
remained standing on the hearth-rug with an impassive countenance. Now,
he turned abruptly, murmuring something about his brother, towards the
door. But as the movement caught her attention, Elise, whose ears were
very keen, glanced up at him. Somewhat to her surprise, there was a
slight smile on his face, a smile that no one could have mistaken for
one of anything but pleasure, and--or was it her fancy? or the glow from
the fire? No, he had not been facing it, and, as she glanced again, she
felt sure she was _not_ mistaken--a distinct heightening of colour
through the still remaining sunburn on her brother-in-law's cheeks and
forehead.
"Really," thought the younger Mrs Littlewood, "the plot thickens. I
cannot make him out. I wonder if Ryder could explain things? But he is
sometimes so absurdly Quixotic, unconventional; a man in his position
may, of course, take up that line if he chooses without detriment to
himself, though I hope he would not be unwise enough to back up poor old
Horace in anything absurd; still, _all_ men are contradictory. I don't
think it would be well to consult Ryder. And, at present, at any rate,
I will not say anything to mother."
For Elise was not fond of giving an opinion or taking a distinct line on
any subject till she was fairly sure of her data; a characteristic
caution which, perhaps, had a good deal to do with the reputation for
wisdom which she enjoyed, and that in the literal sense of the word,
among her special friends.
The dinner invitation to Mr and Lady Emma Morion was duly sent, and
duly--declined, though with all the expressions of regret that courtesy
could demand. Mr Morion's expected bronchitis was still hovering about
somewhere--ready to pounce upon him, or, so at least, he believed, which
in the present instance served the purpose quite as well. For Lady Emma
did not care to spend an evening at the big house without a daughter,
and was glad of a civil excuse. She had not "taken to" the new Mrs
Littlewood, and in her secret heart--the home of more genuine maternal
pride and affection than would easily have been believed--it was to this
new influence that she attributed the fact of none of her daughters
being included in the invitation.
And with this interchange of notes the more formal intercourse between
the two houses practically ceased. Mr Morion called on the younger
Mrs Littlewood in spite of the sword of Damocles, in the shape of
bronchitis, hanging over him, and seemed, on the whole, to have been
more favourably impressed by her than were the ladies of his family--
possibly because she had taken more pains in his case that it should be
so.
As regarded Madeleine, however, things were quite different; that is to
say, they remained to the last on the old familiar footing. As often as
was possible for her, she made her escape from Craig-Morion during her
sister-in-law's visit, if but for half-an-hour or so at a time, to her
friends at Fir Cottage, where she was always welcomed with the same
affection that on her side brought her thither. But she seemed, for
her, almost dull and depressed, and, when taxed with this by Eira, tried
to evade any definite reply, attributing it only to her regret at
leaving and that circumstances should have so interfered with the
pleasant conditions of things previous to "the Conrads'" appearance on
the scene.
"If they had come earlier in the winter," she said, "it wouldn't have
mattered so much. We should have had time to get over it again before
this, and I should have had Horace to back me up at home. As it is I
really feel like a caged bird sometimes, mentally as well as physically.
I couldn't stand much more of it, and I know that nothing would be so
foolish as any sort of `squabbling' among us."
"And they are staying longer than you expected?" inquired Frances.
"Yes, indeed, a whole week longer," was the reply; "they only leave two
days before we go ourselves. They seem to have rather taken a fancy to
the place. Elise is becoming quite interested in family lore. She
should have applied to some of you on the subject."
She did not add, as she might have done, that her sister-in-law had
announced on more than one occasion that such matters were of no real
interest to so very remote and junior a branch of a family, for
Madeleine was the very reverse of a mischief-maker, and, much as she
would have appreciated the full sympathy of her friends had she entered
more into detail as to the difficulties of her present position, she
even blamed herself for the little she had allowed herself to say.
"And your brother Horace," said Eira, "is not coming back at all?"
"I am afraid not," was the reply, with an unmistakable sigh, which it
took some self-restraint on Eira's part not to echo.
A sort of cloud seemed to be falling over the brightened life at Fir
Cottage again. The day before that of Madeleine's leaving, when she ran
in to say good-bye, it was all that Eira at least could do, not to speak
of her sisters, to repress the tears very near her eyes--tears in which
disappointment, as well as the natural regret in parting with their
friend, had no small _part_.