"THE SECRET OF THE PANEL."
Frances stood for a moment in hesitation. Should she go home at once,
or stroll a little farther? No one was wanting her at Fir Cottage just
then, and she rather shrank from _tete-a-tetes_ with her sisters in
their present suspense. Her glance fell on the old church, and there
came upon her a strange feeling of attraction thither, overmastering the
remembrance of the shock she had received there. And somehow, almost
before she knew it, for the door was again open, she found herself in
the old pew in the very same corner where both she and Eira had in
different ways been so startled.
Her glance fell on the woodwork where her frill had caught. Yes, the
little splinter was still sticking out. She touched it: it was stronger
than she had thought, and did not yield to her intention of pulling it
off. She pulled again, then pressed it backwards.
"I must either pull it off or push it in," she thought, "or it will be
tearing our things."
But the pressing had an unexpected effect. Suddenly something gave way
under her fingers: the whole little panel, about a foot in length, fell
in with a clatter, and she saw before her a small cupboard of which she
had inadvertently touched the spring, something like the concealed boxes
to be found in the wainscoting of old windows, which used to be called
"fan cupboards."
At the first glance there was nothing to be seen. The panel in falling
flat had covered the contents of the little receptacle. But as she put
in her hand to draw it upwards again, she caught sight of something
white lying beneath. Another moment and she drew out a lone narrowly
folded parchment document, on which, to her unmitigated amazement, were
inscribed in crabbed old-fashioned letters, the words: "Last Will and
Testament of Elizabeth Morion, spinster," with the date.
Breathless with excitement, feeling as if in a dream, Frances unfolded
it. It was almost impossible for her to decipher much, couched as it
was not only in technical but very old-fashioned phraseology, with a
great mixture of legal Latin, and the usual absence of punctuation. But
she read enough to satisfy herself that it was _the_ missing will, the
will devising to her grandfather the smaller of his aunt's (the
testator) properties, _i.e._, Craig-Morion, while Witham-Meldon, with
its long list of appertaining estates, was bequeathed to the elder
nephew, the direct ancestor of Ryder Morion.
For a few moments after this extraordinary discovery Frances was
literally physically incapable of moving. Half mechanically she at last
managed to pull back the panel into its place, and then she sat clasping
the document in her hands, while a whirl of ideas rushed through her
mind as to the consequences of her _trouvaille_. She felt no sensation
of fear, though she actually listened in a kind of expectation of
hearing again the softly drawn-out breath, sigh, or the rustle of the
stiff silken garments, by means of which the perturbed spirit of her
long-dead great-grand-aunt had seemed to endeavour to draw the attention
of the still living to her secret. But there was nothing to be heard.
Perfect stillness reigned. And at last Frances drew herself together
and made her way out of the ancient building.
In the still sun-flecked churchyard, where the long evening shadows were
now falling on the familiar tombstones, Frances felt herself in the
ordinary world again. But for the contact of the thick sheets in her
hand she would have fancied herself waking from a dream. Gradually the
question took shape in her mind, what was best for her to do? Her first
impulse was to hasten home with the wonderful story to her sisters, to
consult them before any one else. But Frances had drilled herself
rarely, if ever, to yield to first impulses. As she stood there, her
perturbation of spirit, insensibly coloured, and composed with the sweet
yet solemn peace around, a new impression stole into her mind. To whom
was it due to confide first of all this extraordinary discovery, if not
to the head of her house, the representative of the elder branch of the
Morions, whose resting-places for centuries past were all around her as
she stood there? And who, from what she had come to know of him, could
better be trusted to act with fairness and right judgment--nay, even
more, with sympathy for those whose interests conflicted with his own--
than Ryder Morion himself?
"Yes," was her mental decision, "that is the right thing to do. It is
straightforward and best in every way."
For though not a moment's doubt crossed her mind as to the result of
what she had found--what she now believed she had been guided to find by
the strange influences she had more than once been conscious of--yet,
knowing her father's peculiarities, and the critical state of things in
her family at the present juncture, she felt it would be kinder and
better, even though at some cost to herself, to keep the events of that
afternoon secret till she should have related them to the present owner
of Craig-Morion.
"If only he were still here," she thought, "or if I knew when he was
returning! I don't want to write it to him--I really feel as if I could
not!" For now her scattered faculties, fast recovering their balance,
reminded her that there were two sides to the strange restitution.
True, Ryder Morion was by all accounts far too wealthy a man to take
into consideration the two or three thousand a year--which at most
Frances imagined it must be--of loss of income, involved by the
alienation of his smaller property. But independently of this she felt
a strong persuasion that his interest in the place had come to be a
close and personal one.
"It will seem an instance of the irony of fate to him," she thought,
"that just as he has got to identify himself more with Craig-Morion, he
should have to give it up." Yet, on the other hand, her cheeks flushed
with delight as she thought of the advantages to those nearest and
dearest to her of this almost incredible windfall. "It is not only the
money," she went on thinking, "though to us that will seem great riches,
but the position it will give papa. Mrs Littlewood will think
differently of a marriage with one of us now."
All these reflections, as everybody knows is the case--above all, in
moments of excitement--took far less time to pass through her mind than
is required to relate them.
When Frances had reached this point she was no farther on her way home
than the little gate leading into the Laurel Walk. Her glance fell on
it.
"I know what I can do," she thought. "I will go up to the house at
once. The Webbs are sure to be there, as Mr Morion is expected back
again, and I can hear from them how soon he is returning. If there is
to be any delay about it, I may have to write and hint at a new
development which makes me more anxious to see him again."
And, acting on this determination, she lifted the latch and made her way
towards the side-entrance of the big house.
Was it her fancy, or was it owing to some peculiar effect of the time of
day, that the Laurel Walk looked less gloomy than she had _ever_ before
seen it? Streaks of sunshine crept through unexpected places, falling
athwart the old gravel path, usually so grey and colourless. The
cheerful, chirped "good-night" of the little birds sounded full of hope
and happy summer anticipation of another blissful day. It really seemed
to Frances as if some spell of gloom and sad regret had been dispersed.
When she reached the house the door at the top of the short flight of
steps stood slightly ajar. She was scarcely surprised, as she knew Mrs
Webb's uncomfortable love of "spring cleanings" at every season,
orthodox or unorthodox, of the year.
"She is probably having a turn-out of the library because poor Mr
Morion has used it lately," she thought; and, instead of making her way
round to the back premises by the narrow path skirting the house, she
ran up the steps, calling out as she pushed open the glass door, "Are
you there, Mrs Webb?"
Some one was there, some one who came forward at her words from the
other side of the dimly lighted room, some one whose voice made her
start and stop short in her surprise. It was the very person she had
been wishing to see, and now that he was there it was all she could do
to reply with any composure to his own somewhat astonished exclamation
of "Miss Morion! You cannot have got my letter already?"
"Your letter?" she repeated, shaking her head; "no, I have had no letter
except the one saying you had to go. I had not the least idea you were
here. I was--looking for Mrs Webb."
"Shall I find her for you?" he asked, turning towards the inner door.
"N-no," said Frances; "no, thank you." Then, summoning her courage:
"The truth is, I only wanted to hear from her if she knew when you would
be coming back again. I--I wanted to see you very, very much!
Something quite extraordinary, something you can hardly believe, has
happened. The old will--the missing will--has been found."
"The missing will?" he repeated. "Whose will?"
"Our great-grand-aunt's, of course," she said impatiently. "The will
she always promised to make, and which could never be found. Our
great-grand-aunt, Elizabeth Morion! Oh! you do know about it!"
His face changed, he was beginning to take it in.
"And who found it, and where?" he said rapidly. "And why was I not told
of it at once?"
Frances drew herself up.
"I found it," she said, "this very afternoon, not an hour ago, in a
panel in the old pew. And no one knows of it as yet--I meant, I thought
it was right to tell you _first_."
She held out the packet, but, before taking it from her, Mr Morion drew
forward a chair.
"I will look through it as quickly as possible," he said, "but do sit
down."
She did so, watching him intently as he opened out the stiff, crackling
sheets, and set himself to study their contents. At first his face
remained absolutely impassive. He had turned over three or four sides--
after all, as such things go, it was not a very long document--when some
sudden thought made him glance at the end. Then came a change, a
strange change in his expression: he knit his brows and his whole face
clouded in perplexity.
Now again, for the first time since entering the house, Frances
remembered what, in her excitement, she had momentarily forgotten--that
these must be the _revers de la medaille_, and her own face fell as she
realised the blow that her discovery might cause to her kinsman.
"May I," he began at last--"don't hesitate to say if you would rather
not consent--may I keep this document for a day or two--nay, even less,
a few hours would do?"
Frances coloured.
"Of course," she said, "it is safer with you than with me. Keep it as
long as you like, except that--I am naturally anxious to tell the
others."
He did not reply, a little to her surprise, but sat for a moment in
consideration.
"Yes," he said at last, "a few hours will be enough for me to take it
all in. Can I see you again to-morrow? Do you mind telling no one else
till then?"
"I will do as you think best," she replied; "but how can I see you
without fear of interruption? Oh! I know! Will you meet me at the
church? I can easily get the key. I should like to show you the
cupboard in the pew. I can be there quite early, and then we can settle
about telling papa."
"Thank you," he said. "Yes, you will find me in the churchyard waiting
for you."
Frances rose to her feet. As they shook hands, she felt his eyes, the
kindly grey eyes she had learnt to trust, fixed upon her with an
expression she could not define, and, as she walked home slowly, the
question as to what it meant came to add itself to the already existing
whirl of thought in her brain.
"It was almost as if he were sorry for me," she reflected, "whereas, I
think _I_ should be sorry for _him_. What strange minglings and
revulsions of feeling I have had to go through in the last few weeks!
I, whose life had hitherto been so monotonous. After all, how difficult
it is to get at even one's own real self! That afternoon when I first
found out about Horace and Betty--was what I felt all a mistake? Was it
only mortification? I begin to think so, and that there is no need for
me to examine the wound--that there is no wound, scarcely a scratch!
Otherwise _could_ it have healed so quickly?"
The remaining hours of that day seemed interminable, and the next
morning found her at the church gate, armed with the great key, some
minutes before the time agreed upon. But, early as it was, Mr Morion
was there before her, and together they made their way to the pew, where
she pointed out the secret of the panel.
"It is very curious," he said, "very curious indeed," but his manner was
somewhat absent and "carried."
"Before we talk about this," he went on, touching the large envelope in
his hand, "I should like to tell you that I am much happier about Horace
Littlewood's affairs. I have--we have, he and I--arranged something.
One of my agencies will shortly be vacant, he is just the man I should
like for it, and a short training will make him quite competent. I
should have offered it to him in any case. It gives him the
independence he longs for, and--I do not see that your father _can_ now
oppose the engagement."
Frances hesitated.
"It is very, very good of you," she said; "you _must_ let me thank you,
even though you may have acted primarily as Horace's friend. Certainly,
my father will have no reason for any objection--no valid reason. But
except for,"--and she glanced at the packet--"the change in his
position, I doubt if he would have got over his hurt feelings towards
Mrs Littlewood."
A look of real distress came over Ryder Morion's face.
"I think it will be all right," he began. "I think Horace and I can
make him see things differently, independently of,"--here he broke
off--"and," he resumed, "once Mrs Littlewood takes in that Horace has a
right to act upon his own judgment and that he is no longer a _boy_ at
her beck and call, she too will act reasonably, I feel sure. But--I
scarcely know how to tell you what must be told. This discovery of
yours, so strangely made, practically leads to nothing. You had not
observed," and again he hesitated with a painful consciousness that
Frances was growing terribly white, "that--that the will is not signed."
They were in the porch by now. Frances sank down on the stone bench
beside her, without speaking.
"Not signed!" she gasped out at last; and for all reply Ryder Morion
held out the last page for her to see, and a glance satisfied her.
"Oh dear!" she murmured, "how could I have been so blind? _Not
signed_!"
He gave her a moment or two in which to recover herself a little.
"There is still more to tell you, and it is best to get it over," he
said. "Even if it had been signed, I believe it could not have been
acted upon, after this long lapse of years, though I should have done my
best, you may be sure. But as things are, I have nothing in my power.
This property, like the rest, is strictly limited to the descendants of
the elder branch."
"And papa, of course," said Frances sadly, "is very proud. A doubt of
any kind as to perfect legality would have--I mean to say he would never
have taken advantage of your good will."
"Which, as you see, I have no chance of exerting. Still," he went on,
"I am not without some hope that I may persuade him, seeing that there
is now no doubt of our great-grand-aunt's intention, to look upon
Craig-Morion as his home for life. As regards this, things are made
easier by his having no son."
But Frances shook her head. The tears were slowly welling up into her
eyes, and she made no attempt to hide them.
"I wish I could thank you as you deserve," she said. "I feel horribly
selfish at being so disappointed, when--I should remember that it could
not but have been a wrench to you to part with the old place. And, too,
when you have been so very, very good to Horace. I am afraid my father
would never agree to any arrangement such as you propose."
"If only--" he began impulsively, then checked himself again. "Frances,
I cannot bear to see you in such trouble, and I may succeed with your
father by showing him that even by the terms of this will, failing a
son, he would have been in much the same position of only life-renting
the place. At any rate I will do my best."
"Then you have no doubt as to its being well to tell him?" she asked.
"None whatever," he replied warmly. "You yourself, or I, if you prefer
it, or--both together, perhaps, can do so."
Then followed a long silence. Frances quietly wiped her tears away,
while the colour slowly returned to her cheeks.
"I think I had better go home now," she said.
"I would rather not tell papa to-day. I would like him first to have
heard about Horace. You are free to tell him, I suppose?"
"Yes, Horace has empowered me to do so," he replied, "and there is no
reason for delay. I will ask him to see me to-morrow morning, and
then,"--he looked at her interrogatively.
"Then I suppose I had better tell him my story?" said Frances. "Though
I should like, if possible, to hear in the first place the result of
your talk with him."
"That can easily be managed," he answered. "I will write to you as soon
as possible after seeing your father."
"Thank you," said Frances.
They strolled slowly down the churchyard path: the subject of her
discovery was still prominent in the girl's mind.
"Mr Morion," she began again abruptly. "I cannot help saying what
_can_ have been the poor old lady's motive in acting so inconsistently?
Just think of all it has caused! No wonder her spirit has not been able
to rest,"--with a half-smile--"if it is really the case that any
supernatural influence has been exerted upon us!"
Ryder did not show any sign of making light of the supposition.
"It will be curious to notice," he said, "if these strange experiences,
which I own I can't explain, come to an end now that she has at least
vindicated her _intention_ of acting up to her promise. It almost seems
as if she had been under some fear of the elder of the two cousins--_my_
forbear! Perhaps she meant to leave the will in its hiding-place till
the very last, and then have it brought to her for signature, when no
anger could fall upon herself. And she may have died too suddenly to
carry this out."
"It looks like it," said Frances. "But no one will ever know fully."
"I should say no one," repeated Mr Morion.
"And all the poor old great-grand-aunt's efforts to put things right
will after all have been _in_ vain," Frances resumed.
"Not quite, I hope," said her companion eagerly. "You are forgetting
that I am depending much on your discovery as a lever wherewith to
persuade your father to agree to what has become almost my greatest
wish, especially as--I wish I dared hope that other possibilities might
tend in the same direction." Frances looked up, perplexed.
"I don't understand," she said; but no explanation followed.
"I have tired and worried you enough for to-day," said Ryder,
regretfully.
"You forget the good side of it all," said Frances, gratefully.
"Betty's happy prospects!"
He smiled with gratification.
"I hope our next talk will have no bad side to it," he said, as they
parted.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
A week later saw the fulfilment of Ryder Morion's good hopes of a
successful termination to his interference on Horace's behalf. How far
this was due to the skilful diplomacy exercised, how far aided and
abetted by Mr Charles Morion's immense satisfaction at the tenor of the
will, which almost nullified the disappointment at its practical
inadequacy, it is not necessary to define. From henceforth the master
of Fir Cottage was able to speak with confident magnanimity of the
position and possessions which should in "all equity" have been his.
And though as yet he had not absolutely consented to the position of
life-tenant of Craig-Morion, which his kinsman urged upon him, the
latter was sanguine as to his eventual success in this particular also.
For, as he had prophesied, Horace's mother had given in, and that
graciously, being far too clever a woman to do a thing of the kind by
half, if she did it at all.
After the manner of the old fairy-tale we may here say good-bye to
little Betty and the prince, who, though in nineteenth-century garb, had
after orthodox fashion broken the long captivity not only of his
lady-love but of those about her.
But there is more to tell.
There came a day on which Mr Ryder Morion's allusion to other vague
possibilities was explained to Frances, and that not in vain.
"Though there is one confession I feel it due to you to make," she said
to him. "It is all so different now--so much, much happier and surer
and more restful--that I can scarcely believe I was ever so foolish!
But--Ryder--there was a time that I thought I cared for some one else,
and, worse still, that he cared for me!"
The smile with which this avowal was received was more than reassuring.
"Worse still?" he repeated; "no, as to that I can't agree with you--not
as far as I am concerned. Perhaps I knew or suspected more than you had
any idea of. Perhaps you were not alone in your suspicion, deepened in
my case into fear, that the `some one' did care for you! And the relief
was great when I found my mistake. But it would have been worse had
your feelings been involved as you may have imagined they were."
"And as I now know so certainly they were not," said Frances happily.
"You see, I was so inexperienced in such things, though not young."
"Not young! When my greatest misgiving has been that I was far, far too
old for you," he answered. "For there was a time when I thought I
should never again care for any woman--I was scarcely more than a boy
and she still younger when I lost her. Some day I will tell you more;
there is nothing painful in it to me now, and her short life was very
happy." And as Frances looked at him she thought indeed that it could
scarcely have been otherwise.
The role of "great lady" was not what she had ever dreamt of for
herself, not, assuredly, what she would have chosen; but she fulfilled
it well, bringing to bear upon its difficulties and responsibilities--
its temptations even--the same single-minded sincerity of purpose which
is, in all conditions in life, the best armour for man or woman.
Even Mrs Conrad Littlewood came by degrees to own that no better
_chatelaine_ could have been selected to do honour to the glories of
Witham-Meldon, and to dispense its generous bounties in all right
directions.
And "great-grand-aunt" Elizabeth slept henceforth in peace.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The End.