She half rose to go, but sat down again for a moment, as she heard the
clock striking, in order to count its tale of time.
"I may stay five minutes longer," she thought, but somehow the sense of
repose and comfort had been disturbed; in spite of herself, a very
slight sensation of eeriness began to creep over her. It was in the
evening that Eira had been so frightened. Could that be the favourite
time for her troubled, old, great-grand-aunt's visit to the church? "I
wish I could feel sure," she went on thinking, "that it is not true,
that she does not really wander about in that sad, lonely restlessness!
I can't bear to think of it! Poor soul! Perhaps, after all, she was
not to blame."
What was that? Frances started, as again the long-drawn, all but
inaudible breath, rather than sigh--which she and Ryder Morion had been
conscious of that evening several weeks ago when standing at the end of
the Laurel Walk--made itself felt rather than heard.
"It must be the draught from the open door," she thought. "But I am
getting fanciful; I had better go," and she rose to her feet with
decision.
But--now came a shock, a real shock, which could not be put down to
fancy or an accidental draught of air. For as she stood up, Frances
felt herself caught back, jerked back almost, by a sharp sudden catch at
the little mantle she wore; it was all she could do to suppress a
scream--perhaps, indeed, she did scream. She could not afterwards say.
The shock, under the circumstances and with her already overstrained
nerves, was really dreadful; no one who had seen her just then, white to
the very lips, shivering and breathless, would have recognised poor
Frances.
But the terror was not for long: the strange incident was quickly
explained. "Thank God!" murmured the girl, as she discovered its cause;
"I could not have stood any supernatural experience. I believe it would
have nearly killed me. I have been too self-confident," with a rather
piteous smile, as she disengaged the fold of her cloak from the crevice
where it had caught.
For that was all that had happened. In the corner of the pew, the old
panels, as Eira had already noticed, seemed to fit less well than
elsewhere. Time, doubtless, had made the wood shrink; there was a line
of interstice all but _in_ the corner, giving the look of an intended
opening--a small cupboard door, as it were, of which the narrow strip of
space might be either the closing or the opening side. It was a little
above this that a splinter had been partly broken off, the point of
which had hooked, in the extraordinarily clever way in which, in similar
cases, such things do hook or catch, the silk frill of her cape. It was
freed in a moment; in fact, if the tiny accident had happened elsewhere,
Frances would scarcely have perceived it, except, perhaps, for the sound
of some slight fracture of stuff or stitches, though, as things were,
the tug, apparently from invisible fingers, had caused her a sensation
of real horror. And for a minute or two, anxious though she was to get
out into the cheerful daylight again, she felt too shaken to move. But
by degrees this feeling passed off, and with but small trace of her
recent agitation she made her way home again, devoutly wishing that the
evening were over and she herself free to rest and think in the solitude
of her own room.
All passed off, however, more easily than she had feared. She thought
it best to own to being a little tired, and was pleased to find Betty
coming about her more in the old caressing way than had been the case
for long; and there was a look in the girl's face which Frances was glad
to see, not so much of actual happiness as of freedom from constraint--
of hopefulness.
"It will be all right," thought Frances. "I can see already that it is
going to be all right. I shall have nothing to reproach myself with as
regards the effect on _them_ of my deplorable mistake. It is only _I_--
and how thankful I should be for this--that will have any suffering to
bear, and I shall be able to hide it. And as for Betty, perhaps the
child needed the training of what I now feel convinced she has gone
through."
Nevertheless, it was a relief, and a great one to Frances, as the days
went on, to perceive that Betty sought, and intended to seek, no further
confidence or explanation of her elder sister's undisguised hints. More
than this, Eira had evidently been tutored to take the same line, though
in both instances it was done with affectionate delicacy, so as to give
rise to no misgiving on Frances' part that for _any_ reason she was less
trusted than heretofore.
Just one word in allusion to what had passed between the sisters that
afternoon when they were sitting on the garden bench came from Eira:
"Francie dear," it was, "we are not to speak about it, not even when you
and I are alone. Betty begs us not to, and I have promised. I think--
she is perhaps afraid of letting herself get too sure, so many, many
things might come in the way."
"Wise little Betty," was Frances' reply, but the smile which accompanied
it went far to raise Eira's spirits, at any rate, whether or no she
ventured to insinuate a greater degree of confidence into Betty's own
views.
After this, which occurred within a short time of the receipt of her
letter from Horace, Frances felt that she might write to him with less
caution. He had not asked her to reply--not directly so, at least; but
her own intuition told her that he would be very grateful for even a few
words. But, as is sometimes the case where lives or circumstances have
droned along with but the minimum of movement, once the turn comes
events seem to precipitate themselves far beyond reasonable
anticipation.
"We may have to wait some time," Frances had said to herself, "in spite
of Horace's `few weeks.' He will scarcely dare to take any very decided
step till he is a little more settled." And this not improbable space
of waiting was what for herself she had dreaded almost more than
anything.
She was not called upon to face it. Before she had written, before she
had even framed in her mind an answer to his letter, all doubts were set
at rest.
"What's this?" said her father one morning, as he scrutinised his scanty
correspondence. "I should know the handwriting, surely. Oh, yes, of
course," as he opened the envelope, and ran his eyes over its contents.
"It's from Littlewood--Horace Littlewood. He is coming: down again for
a day or two. One or two things Ryder wants him to see to." This to
Lady Emma, as if by no possibility the news could in any way interest
his daughters. "Matters as to which he would like my advice--naturally.
Oh, I remember now, by-the-by, that he said something about it before
he left, and hoped I should be at home."
"When is he likely to come?" asked his wife with mild interest.
"Let me see," Mr Morion went on, reverting to the letter. "He doesn't
say definitely. In the course of a day or two. Ah, well," and he
pushed his spectacles up on to his forehead, "remember to tell that
stupid parlour-maid--Frances, or one of you girls--to let him in
whenever he calls, into my study at once. I see he will depend a good
deal on my opinion."
"Will he, indeed?" muttered Eira, making a little face behind the
shelter of her breakfast cup.
And two or three times at least in the course of the next twenty-four
hours the somewhat querulous voice of the master of the house was heard
inquiring if they, or she, or "one of you" had seen to it that Brown
understood clearly about "when young Littlewood calls," though a couple
of words to the servant herself might have set his own mind at rest, and
saved his family the irritation of having on each occasion meekly to
reply, "Yes, papa; she quite understands."
No steps or precautions were taken by Frances towards securing for
Horace any private interviews with Betty.
"It would only annoy her inexpressibly if I did so," she said to
herself, "and he has scarcely empowered me to act for him in any more
definite direction than I have done. He is well able to manage matters
for himself and will prefer doing it."
But while cheerful and practical in her ordinary intercourse with her
sisters, she was specially tender to Betty, in small, almost
indescribable ways, which the younger girl's quick instincts were at no
loss to appreciate. On her side too, and consistently with her own
character, Betty comported herself after a manner which won for her not
only her elder sister's admiration but increased respect.
"There is no lack of real strength about her," thought Frances. "She
will enter into nothing rashly or childishly, nor without grave
consideration. And--at best it is not likely to be all roses for her:
Mrs Littlewood may be attracted by Betty herself, but `the connection,'
as people call it, will not, most assuredly, find favour in her eyes.
All _I_ can possibly do to help my little sister, I am very distinctly
bound to do, and gladly will I lend myself to it."
"He" did not delay. The very next morning but one after his letter had
arrived at Fir Cottage, there came the ring at the front door bell which
in their hearts the three sisters had been on the alert to hear.
Frances and Eira were together, sorting some of the now rapidly
increasing and important Scaling Harbour papers--notices of lectures,
evening classes, magazines for distribution, and all the paraphernalia
connected with well-organised parish work--in their own little
sitting-room, a pleasant enough den in the warm bright weather. Betty
was out of doors, "somewhere about," a frequent resort of the least
practical of the three!
Eira stopped short in the midst of making up a packet; she grew a little
pale, though her eyes were bright with expectancy.
"Francie," she exclaimed breathlessly, "there he is, I do believe."
"Well," said Frances smiling, "I dare say it is, as we know he is
coming. Don't look so startled, Eira. There is nothing for us to do
just now."
"But I don't know where Betty is," said Eira uneasily. "She may be in
the garden, and may have gone up to the church or anywhere."
"We must leave it to chance, and to Horace," answered Frances.
"Remember, he will be going straight into papa's room, as he has come
ostensibly to see him. It would never do for us to look for Betty: it
would only annoy her." So, in deference to her elder sister's opinion,
Eira went on as best she could with her sorting and folding, though
little gasps, which from time to time escaped her, betrayed that she was
in anything but a philosophical mood. At last Frances could stand it no
longer. With a laugh, born, to tell the truth, in great part of the
nervousness she herself was so resolutely repressing, she turned to her
sister.
"You had much better tell me what you have got on your mind, Eira," she
said. "I can feel that you are working yourself up, though really
unnecessarily, about it all."
With this encouragement Eira flung her papers on the table and herself
into a chair.
"It has just struck me, Francie," she ejaculated, "that, supposing--
supposing, you know, for he must have seen how peculiar papa is, that he
went first to him in the old-fashioned way, and that _he_--you know how
astonished he'd be--on the first shock of such a thing--negatived it
before he had given himself time to think it over, and take in that
nobody could object to _him_, that he is quite un--exceptional--no,
unexceptionable I mean! Wouldn't it be awful? For, once he had
committed himself, there is no moving him. Don't laugh at me, I am
really frightened."
"I am quite sure," said Frances, "that you need not dread anything of
the kind. Even at the risk of any possible difficulty with papa, he--
Horace, I mean--your personal pronouns are really too chaotic, Eira!--
would not set about things in that way. But if you are feeling so
worried, leave these Scaling Harbour papers just now, and go out. You
may very likely meet Betty, and as you don't _know_ that there is any
one in the library, you can do no harm."
Off flew Eira, delighted to be free, and full of excellent resolutions
as to the discretion with which she would act should need arise.
There was no Betty in the garden, nor, without asking a direct question,
which under the circumstances she thought it best to avoid, could Eira
satisfy herself that Mr Littlewood had really come. So she strolled
along the road towards the church, her perseverance being rewarded
before long by the sight of Betty seated calmly on a very ancient
moss-covered tombstone, meditating apparently, with somewhat eccentric
inappropriateness, present circumstances considered, rather on the end
of life than on the changes which it was on the point of bringing to
her.
"Oh, Betty!" exclaimed Eira, "what are you doing there? You might have
stayed in the garden, or at least told me if you meant to come up here."
For by this time the younger sister's excitement was in danger of
lapsing into the cross stage. And it was very hot!
"I am thinking," replied Betty coolly. "There's no place like a
churchyard for it, and this is a very comfortable seat. And it is nice
to remember about all the people that have once been alive and have now
got out of it all!"
"Tastes differ," said Eira, rather sharply. "I shouldn't call this
exactly the time for a new edition of Young's `Night Thoughts' or Grey's
`Elegy,' whichever suits you best, just when--when other people," with
marked emphasis, "are feeling very anxious about you, and wondering--"
Betty looked up at her with irritating composedness in her eyes.
"What are you talking about, and who has asked you or any one else to
feel anxious about me, or to worry about me in any way?" she asked
calmly.
Eira felt that she had made a mistake.
"How vexed Frances would be with me!" she thought. And "I did not say
`worry,'" she replied meekly; "I said," but she stopped in time.
"Wondering" would have been even worse. She felt herself growing very
red, with the consciousness of Betty's steady, calmly inquiring gaze
upon her. "Oh, never mind," she broke off petulantly, "never mind what
I was going to say; I'm a fool, I know. It is much better not to care
about anybody or anything. I don't pretend to be wise and well-balanced
and superior and all the rest of it, like you and Frances," but all she
got in return was a quiet little rejoinder.
"I don't know what is the matter with you this morning, Eira. You are
very cross."
It was too bad, she thought, this "pose" on Betty's part, when only a
few days ago she had burst into tears and not attempted to hide the fact
from Eira.
"One's sister's love affairs are best left alone," was the resolution
she at last arrived at. All the same, she was restless and uneasy; it
was almost unbearable to think of Horace Littlewood at that very moment
"cooped up with papa--thinking, perhaps, that Betty is keeping out of
his way on purpose, for he must have meant us to know that he was
coming, and I feel almost sure there is some understanding between him
and Frances about it. And a _really_ nice man, so at least I have
always read in novels, is so easily discouraged." At last she could
stand it no longer. She got up from the old stone, where for the last
few minutes she had been sitting in silence beside her sister.
"Betty," she said, "I am going home. Won't you come too? I don't want
to stay here thinking about dead and gone people, as you do. _I_ am too
interested in the living," though the moment she had blurted out the
words she regretted them again.
Betty looked up.
"There is no hurry," she said, "but you need not stay. I will come
soon, and--oh, there is Mr Ferraby," and she rose from her seat and
went towards the old vicar, emerging from his own garden by the little
gate between it and the churchyard, while Eira, in a fever of irritation
and impatience, made her way home again. Nor was her mood any calmer by
the time she had reached her own door, for she had stopped a moment at
the gate leading into the Laurel Walk, with a sudden instinct that here
might be something to be seen. Nor was she mistaken. Half-way down the
path she descried a figure--a familiar figure--that of Horace
Littlewood, wending his way, and that--or so it seemed to her--with a
dejected air, towards the house. He was too far off for her to have
accosted him, nor would she have known what to give as an excuse for so
doing.
"It is too bad of Betty," she said to herself, "playing with a man's
feelings in this way. I do believe she has managed it on purpose, and
Frances seems to be aiding and abetting her. I dare say we shall hear
that he has gone back to _London_ to-night, and is off to India in
disgust."
There was no one to be seen when she got to the cottage. It was still
fully an hour till luncheon-time. Eira went up to her room and occupied
herself resolutely with certain "tidyings-up," which she reserved as a
species of tonic when feeling herself unusually discomposed. And as she
possessed one of those healthy natures which have the power of throwing
themselves heartily into whatever is the occupation of the moment, the
time passed more quickly than she realised.
It was within a few minutes, a very few minutes, of the luncheon hour,
when the door opened softly and some one came in.
"Who is there?" said Eira, without looking round. "Is it you, Frances?
The luncheon bell hasn't sounded yet, I'm sure."
"It isn't Frances," was the reply, in a voice which she knew to be
Betty's, though with something--what was it?--in it which had never been
there before, and, turning round quickly, with a curious thrill of eager
anticipation in her warm, sisterly little heart, she faced the newcomer.
Yes, Betty it was, but what a Betty! Whence had come this wonderful
glow, almost radiance, which seemed to transfigure and illumine her
whole personality? Were there tears trembling on her eyelashes? It may
have been so, or it may have been the reflection of the new light within
the dark eyes themselves.
"Eira," she exclaimed tremulously, "dear little Eira! I know you
thought me horrible this morning, but I didn't mean it really. I was
only--frightened to--to let myself believe about it. I had no certain
reason, you see, and I thought it _might_ be just a mistake of dear
Francie's. Please forgive me. I thought I must tell you first--even
before her, for we have been almost like one, haven't we? And--oh, I am
so happy now!"
She threw her arms round her sister; for a moment or two neither spoke.
Then Eira looked up.
"Betty, dear," she whispered, "have you seen him then? did you meet
him?"
"Yes," was the reply, while Betty's face grew rosy all over. "He was
waiting for me, watching for me to pass back home. He had found out
somehow--perhaps he met Frances--where I was, and we strolled up and
down the Laurel Walk. I am rather glad it was there--aren't you?
Perhaps somehow poor old great-grand-aunt, whose namesake I am, will
know it and be glad. He is coming this afternoon to see you all, and--"
with an irrepressible smile--"to speak to papa."
The smile of amusement developed into a laugh of mingled delight and
mischief in Eira's case.
"To speak to papa," she repeated, "how lovely! He is perfectly
satisfied that Horace came down on purpose to consult him about the new
gamekeeper's cottage, or something of that sort, that Ryder Morion is
settling about. What _will_ papa say? He will never be able to believe
that one of us could be more interesting to talk to under any
circumstances than he himself. Oh, it will be fun!"
But a tiny shadow had crept over Betty's face. "You don't think papa
will be angry, do you, Eira?" she said, "or set himself in any way
against it? Of course it won't be all perfection, nothing ever is; we
shall have to go to India, I'm afraid."
"I don't see why," said Eira, "when the Littlewoods are so rich. But
even if you have to, think what hundreds do so! Papa couldn't be so
unreasonable. And you may trust Horace to have thought everything well
out."
"Oh dear, yes," said Betty, all the brightness returning. "He is only
too anxious, too careful for me. No, I must not spoil it by being
afraid about papa."