The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Laurel Walk, by Mrs Molesworth

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Title: The Laurel Walk

Author: Mrs Molesworth

Illustrator: J. Steeple Davis

Release Date: July 8, 2013 [EBook #43129]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LAUREL WALK ***




Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England




The Laurel Walk
By Mrs Molesworth
Illustrations by J. Steeple Davis
Published by Drexel Biddle, Philadelphia.
This edition dated 1899.

The Laurel Walk, by Mrs Molesworth.

________________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________________
THE LAUREL WALK, BY MRS MOLESWORTH.

CHAPTER ONE.

A RAINY EVENING.

There was a chemist's shop at Craig Bay, quite a smart chemist's shop,
with plate-glass windows and the orthodox "purple" and other coloured
jars of Rosamund fame.  It was one of the inconsistencies of the place,
of which there were several.  For Craig Bay was far from being a town;
it was not even a big village, and the two or three shops of its early
days were of the simplest and quaintest description, emporiums of a
little of everything, into which you made your way by descending two or
three steps below the level of the rough pavement outside.  The
chemist's shop was the first established, I think, of the new order of
things, when the place and neighbourhood suddenly rose into repute as
peculiarly bracing and healthy from the mingling of sea and hill air
with which they were favoured.  It was kept in countenance now by
several others, a draper's, a stationer's, a photographer's, of course,
besides the imperative butcher's, fishmonger's, and so on, some of which
subsided into closed shutters and vacancy after the "season" was over
and the visitors had departed.  For endeavours which had been made to
introduce a _winter_ season had not been crowned with success.  The
place was too out-of-the-way, the boasted mildness of climate not
altogether to be depended upon.  But the chemist's shop stood faithfully
open all the year round, doing a little business in wares not, strictly
speaking, belonging to it, such as note-paper and even books, when the
library-and-stationer's in one had gone to sleep for the time.

On a cold raw evening in late November, Betty Morion stood waiting for
her sister Frances on the door-step of the shop.  It would have been
warmer inside, but Betty had her fancies, like many other people, and
one of them was a dislike to the smell of drugs, with which "inside,"
naturally, was impregnated.  And she was thickly clad and fairly well
used to cold and to damp--even to rain--for to-night it was drizzling
depressingly.

"I wish Francie would be quick," thought the girl more than once during
the first few moments of her waiting, though she knew it was certainly
not poor Frances' fault.  Their father's prescriptions had always some
very special and peculiar directions accompanying them, and Betty knew
of old that the waiting for them was apt to be a long affair.

And she was not of an impatient nature.  After a while she forgot about
the tiresomeness, and fell to watching the reflections of the brilliant
colours of the jars in the puddles and on the surface of the wet
pavement just below her, as she had often watched them before.  They
were pretty--in a sense--and yet somehow they made the surrounding
dreariness drearier.

"I wonder if it does rain more here than anywhere else," she said to
herself dreamily.  "What a splashing walk home we shall have!  I wish we
did not live up a hill--at least I think I wish we didn't, though
perhaps if our house was down here I should wish it was higher up!
Perhaps it doesn't really rain more at Craig Bay than at other places,
but we notice it more.  For nearly everything pleasant that ever comes
to us depends on the weather."  And Betty sighed.  "I could fancy," she
went on, "living in a way that would make one scarcely care what it was
like out of doors.  A beautiful big house with ferneries and
conservatories, and lovely rooms to wander about in, and a library full
of delightful books, and lots of people to stay with us and--well, yes,
of course, it would be nice to go drives and rides and walks too, and to
have exquisite gardens.  But still life might be very pleasant even when
it did rain," and again Betty sighed.  "It needn't be anything so _very_
tremendous, after all," she added to herself.  "Craig-Morion might be--"
but a gentle touch on her shoulder made her turn.  It was her sister,
packages in hand, and rather embarrassed by her umbrella.

"Can you open it for me, dear?" she said, and Betty hastened to do so.
"I am so afraid," Frances went on, when Betty's own umbrella was ready
for business too, and they were both under way, "I am so afraid of
dropping any of these things.  Papa is so anxious to have them at once.
Do you remember the day that Eira dropped the bottle of red ink--wasn't
it dreadful?" and Frances laughed a little at the recollection.

Her laugh was very sweet, but scarcely merry.  There are laughs which
tell of sadness more quickly almost than tears.  But it was not that
kind either; it was the laugh of one who is resolutely cheerful, who has
learnt by experience the wisdom of making the best of things--a lesson
not often learnt by the young while young, though by some it is acquired
so gradually and unconsciously that on looking back from the table-land
of later years they do not realise it had ever been a lesson to be
learnt at all.

For its roots lie deeper than philosophy.  They are to be found in
unselfishness, in self-forgetting, and earnest longing to carry the
burdens of others, or at least to share them.

And Frances Morion was still young, though twenty-seven.  She by no
means looked her age.  Her life in many ways had been a healthy one in
its material surroundings, and she herself had made it so in other ways.

Betty scarcely laughed in return.  It is doubtful if she heard what her
sister said.

"Isn't it _horribly_ wet?" she said.  "I was really wondering just now
if it rains more here than anywhere else, or if--" and after a moment's
hesitation--"if we notice it more, Francie, because, you see, there is
so little else to notice."

Miss Morion turned quickly and glanced at her sister, forgetting that it
was far too dark to discern the girl's features.  She always felt
troubled when Betty spoke in that way, when her voice took that
particular tone.  She could be philosophical for herself far more easily
than for her younger sisters.

"Well, on the other hand," she said cheerfully, "doesn't it show that we
have no very great troubles to bear if we have leisure to think so much
about small ones?"

"I don't say we _have_ any very big troubles to bear," said Betty.  "I--
I almost sometimes find myself wishing we had--"

"Oh, Betty, _don't_," said her sister quickly, "don't wish anything like
that!"

"No," said Betty, "I wasn't going to say quite what you thought.  I mean
I wish anything big would come into our lives!  Anything really
interesting, and--well, yes!  I may as well own it--anything exciting!
It is all on such a dull, dead level, and has always been the same, and
always will be, it seems to me.  And when one is no longer very young
the spring and buoyancy seem to go.  When I was seventeen or eighteen
I'd all sorts of happy fancies and expectations, but now--why, Francie,
I'm twenty-four, and _nothing_ has come."

For a moment or two Frances walked on in silence.

"I dare say," she said at last, "if we knew more of other lives, we
should find a good many something like ours.  And after all, Betty,
one's real life is what one is oneself."

Betty laughed slightly.  Her laugh was not bitter, but without any ring
of joyousness.

"I know that," she said.  "But it doesn't do me any good.  It's just
_myself_ that depresses me.  I'm not big enough, nor brave enough, nor
anything enough, to rise above circumstances, as people talk about.  I
want circumstances to help me a little!  And I don't ask anything very
extravagant, I know.

"No, Frances," she added, "you're not--not quite right.  I think I could
bear things better and feel more spirit if you would allow that our
lives _are_ exceptional in some ways."

"Perhaps so," the elder sister agreed.

"You know," continued Betty, "it isn't fallings in love or marriage that
I'm talking about.  I really and truly very seldom think of anything of
that kind, though of course, in the abstract, I can see that a home of
one's own, and the feeling oneself a centre, is the ideal life; but
heaps of girls don't marry, and there are plenty, lots of other
interests and objects to live for, which we _are_ unusually without!"

Frances opened her mouth with an intention of remonstrating, but the
words died away before she gave them utterance.  There was so much truth
in what Betty said, and Frances was too thorough-going to believe in the
efficacy of any consolation without a genuine root, so she said nothing.

"And I'm afraid," pursued Betty, who certainly could not be accused this
evening of having donned rose-coloured spectacles, "I'm afraid," she
repeated, "that it's coming over Eira too, though she has kept her
youngness marvellously, so far."

In her turn Frances gave a little laugh which could scarcely be called
mirthful.

"Betty dear," she said, "you are rather unmerciful to-night, piling on
the agony!  You think me very philosophical, but I must confess I am not
proof against our present depressing circumstances.  I don't think I've
ever come up the hill in such rain and darkness, and so horribly cold
too."  And in spite of herself she shivered a little.

In a moment Betty's mood had changed to penitence.

"Oh, Frances, I'm a brute," she exclaimed, "for I know you were tired
before we came out; reading aloud to papa for so long together is really
exhausting.  I know what I'll do," she went on, with a tone of defiance;
"if I have to carry the coals and wood myself upstairs, you shall have a
fire in your room as soon as we go in, you shall!"

Frances laughed again, this time with real amusement.  She was always
happier about Betty when the younger girl's latent energy asserted
itself.

"I'm all right, dear," she said, "and we're getting near home now.  We
must be near the lodge gates.  I thought I saw a light a moment ago."

In spite of the drenching rain, Betty stood still an instant to
reconnoitre.

"Yes," she said, "I see a light, more than one, two or three, but
they're not from the lodge.  Francie!" with a sudden excitement in her
voice, "they're up at the house.  We'll see them more clearly as we go
on.  Who can be there?  It's not likely Mrs Webb would have chosen an
evening like this to be making the rounds, or lighting fires in the big
house."

"Oh, I don't know," said Frances, half indifferently.  "They may have
been doing some extra cleaning or something of that kind earlier in the
day, and not have finished yet.  There's nobody at the lodge itself,
anyway," as at this moment they approached the gates.  "There's no light
in the windows except from the kitchen fire and--oh dear!  I'm sorely
afraid that the gates are locked, and neither of the Webbs there to let
us through;" and she sighed ruefully, for this meant a quarter of a
mile's further walk--there being an understanding that the Morion family
should have a right of way through the grounds of the deserted home of
their far-away relatives, to their own little house which stood just
beyond the enclosure.  "It is unlucky," she added, "to-night of all
nights, when every step of the way is an aggravation of our miseries!"

Strangely enough, Betty's depression seemed, for the time being, to have
vanished.  For some passing moments, the sisters might almost have
changed characters.  Frances was honestly, physically tired.  She had
had a trying, fatiguing day at home, and the walk to the village, which
had in a sense invigorated Betty (who, to confess the truth, had spent
the day in doing little or nothing), had really been too much for the
elder sister.

"Never mind," said Betty briskly; "we'll soon be there now.  I shall
keep a sharp lookout when we turn the corner to see if there are lights
at the back of the big house too."

Frances, for once, was feeling too tired to rise to her sister's little
fit of excitement, though she smiled to herself in the darkness with
pleasure, as she realised that if Betty's spirits were apt to sink very
much below par, they were ready enough to rise again on very small
provocation.

"She is still so young," thought the elder sister; "so much younger than
most girls of her age.  If only I had a little more in my power for her
and Eira!"  And the smile gave way, all too quickly, to a sigh, which in
its turn was intercepted by an eager exclamation from Betty, for they
had turned the corner of the road by this time.

"Look, Francie!" she said, in an involuntary whisper, as if by some
extraordinary possibility her remarks could have been overheard at the
still distant big house; "look, Francie, it _is_ something out of the
common!  The offices are lighted up--some of them, anyway; and don't you
see lights moving about too, as if there were several people there?
What can be going to happen?"

"Your curiosity will soon be satisfied," returned Frances; "that's one
good thing of living in a little world like this.  By to-morrow at
latest, any news there is will be all over the place."  And then she
relapsed into silence; and Betty, always quick of perception, seeing
that her sister was really tired, said no more, though her little head
kept turning round from under the shelter of her umbrella as long as the
back precincts of Craig-Morion remained visible.

This was not for long, however.  A few moments more, and their path
skirted a thickly-planted belt of Scotch firs, which here bordered the
park.  They had almost to feel their way now, so dark had it become.

"Oh dear," said Betty, when there was no longer anything to distract her
attention from the woes of the present moment.  "Oh dear, Francie, did
the way home ever seem quite so long before?  I do hope the next time
papa wants his medicine in a hurry that he'll choose a fine evening."

"Dear," said Frances regretfully, "I shouldn't have let you come with
me."

"Rubbish! nonsense!" cried Betty, "as if Eira and I would have let you
go alone.  I do believe in my heart that we're both quite as strong as
you, though you won't allow it.  Poor little Eira, she would have come
too, except for her chilblains.  It is unlucky that she has got them so
early this year.  And they spoil her pretty hands so."

"It's only from the unusual cold," said Frances, "and--" she hesitated.
"I am sure I could cure them," she resumed, "if I had my own way, or if
I had _had_ it when you were both growing up.  What makes me really
stronger is, I am sure, that I had so much better a time as a child than
either of you, before papa gave up his appointment and we were better
off."

"I wish you'd leave off repeating that old story," said Betty.  "After
all, I'm not four years younger than you, and whatever Eira and I have
_not_ had, we've had you, darling--a second mother as people say, a
great, great deal better than a second mother _I_ say, and oh joy! here
we are at last; I see the white gate-posts."  And in another moment they
were plodding the short, badly kept gravel path, not to be dignified by
the name of a drive, which led to their own door.

"Take care of the big puddle just in front of the steps; it must be a
perfect lake to-night," Betty was saying, when, before they had quite
reached it, the door was cautiously opened, and a girl's face peered
out, illumined by the light, faint though it was, of the small hall
behind her.  It was Eira, the third and youngest of the Morion sisters.

"It's you at last," she said in a low voice; "come in quickly, and I'll
take the medicine to papa, he's been fussing like a--I don't know what,
and if he gets hold of you he'll keep you waiting in your soaking things
for half-an-hour while he goes on about your having been so long!  Now
go straight upstairs," she continued, when she had got her sisters
inside, and extricated them from their dripping umbrellas and
waterproofs.  "I'll see to these things as soon as I've been to papa.
Go straight up to your room, Frances; there's a surprise for you there.
Go up quickly and keep the door closed till I come."

She took the parcel from her elder sister's hands as she spoke, and,
without wasting time in more words, gave her a gentle little push toward
the staircase.  Frances and Betty went up softly, but as quickly as
their feet, tired and stiffened with cold and wet, would allow.  The
staircase, like everything in the house, was meagre and dingy, the steps
steep and the balusters rickety.  At the top a little landing gave
access to the best rooms, and a long narrow passage at one side led to
the sisters' own quarters.

Betty ran on in front and threw open the door of her elder sister's room
eagerly.  She had hard work to repress an exclamation of delight at what
met her eyes.  It was a fair-sized, bare-looking room, though
scrupulously neat and not without some simple and tasteful attempts at
ornamentation, and to-night it really looked more attractive than was
often the case, for a bright glowing fire sent out its pleasant rays of
welcome, and on a little table beside it stood, neatly arranged,
everything requisite for a good, hot cup of tea.

"How angelic of Eira!" exclaimed Betty.  "How has she managed it?  Just
when I was planning how I could possibly get you a fire, Francie."

The eldest sister sat down with a smile of satisfaction in front of the
warm blaze.

"Run into your own room, Betty, and take off your wet things as quickly
as possible, and then come back here for tea.  We have still over an
hour till dinner-time."

Betty hurried across the room and threw open the door, almost running
into Eira as she did so.

"Oh! this is lovely," she exclaimed, "especially as you've got away too,
Eira.  Do tell us how you managed it."

"No, no," remonstrated Frances, "tell her nothing.  Don't answer her
till she has taken off her wet things.  She will be all the quicker if
you don't begin speaking."

So Betty ran off and Eira joined her elder sister at the fireside.

"Wasn't it a good idea?" she said, smiling at the cheering glow.

"Yes, indeed," said Frances.  "Betty was meditating something of the
kind as we were coming home, but I doubt if she could have managed it.
Anyway it wouldn't have been ready to welcome us in this comfortable
way.  Oh dear! it was wet and dreary coming home, and we were kept
waiting such a long time for papa's medicine!  By-the-by, is it all
right?"

Before Eira could answer, the door reopened to admit Betty.

"Haven't I been quick?" she exclaimed brightly.  "Do pour out the tea,
Frances.  And tell me, Eira, I am dying to hear what good fairy aided
and abetted you in this unheard-of extravagance."

"Nobody," said Eira.  "I simply did it.  After all, I think it's the
best way sometimes to go straight at a thing.  And if papa had met me
carrying up the tea-tray I should have reminded him that it was better
to have some hot tea ready for you, than to risk you both getting
rheumatic fever.  I didn't meet him, as it happened, but just now when I
gave him the medicines I took care, by way of precaution, to dilate on
the drenched state you had arrived in and the long time you had been
kept waiting at the chemist's.  The latter fact I made a shot at."

Frances drew a breath of relief.

"Then we may hope for a fairly comfortable evening," she said.

"Yes," said Betty; "to give the--no, Frances, you needn't look shocked,
I won't finish it.  I must allow that papa is more sympathising about
physical ills than about some other things."

"And so he should be," said Eira, "considering that he says he never
knows what it is to feel well himself.  Mamma is worse than he about
being hardy and all that sort of thing.  I often wonder how children
grew up at all in the old days if they really were so severely treated
as we're told."

"It's the old story," said Frances; "the delicate ones were killed off,
and those who did survive must have been strong enough to be made really
hardy.  How are your chilblains, Eira dear?"

"Pretty bad," the girl replied cheerfully; "at least I feel some
premonitory twinges of another fit coming on!  I mustn't stay so near
the fire.  Talk of something else quick to make me forget them."

"Drink up this tea, in the first place," said Frances.  "That kind of
warmth is good for them."

"And, oh, I have something to tell you," said Betty, "something quite
exciting!  What do you think?  _I_ believe something has happened or is
going to happen at Craig-Morion.  It was all lighted up as we passed.
No, I mustn't exaggerate!  There were lights moving about in several of
the rooms, and the old Webbs were not at the lodge.  It was all dark,
and the gates locked, so they must have been up at the big house.  That
helped to make us late, you see."

"You poor things!" exclaimed Eira, though her pity was quickly drowned
by this exciting news.  "Can they be expecting some one?  After all
these years of nothing ever happening and nobody ever coming!"

"It looks like it," said Betty shortly.  Then she gave herself a little
shake, as if some unexpressed thought was irritating her.  "Anything
about Craig-Morion makes me cross," she went on in explanation, "even
though there's something fascinating about it, too--tantalising rather.
Just to think how different, how utterly different our lives would have
been, if that stupid old woman had done what she meant to do, or at
least what she promised.  It wouldn't have been anything so wildly
wonderful!  We should scarcely have been rich even then, as riches go.
But it would have been enough to make a starting-point, a centre, for
all the interests that make life attractive.  We could make it _so_
pretty!"

"And have lots of people to stay with us, and whom we could stay with in
return," said Eira.  "Just think what it would be to have really nice
friends!"

"Yes," said Frances, in her quiet voice; "and as it is, the people it
belongs to scarcely value it.  It is so little in comparison to what
they have besides.  Yet," and she hesitated, for she was a scrupulously
loyal daughter, "unless papa and mamma had been able to interest
themselves in things as we three would, _perhaps_ it wouldn't have made
much radical difference, after all?"

"Oh, yes, it would," said Betty quickly.  "It would have made all the
difference.  Papa wouldn't have got into these nervous ways, if he had
had things to look after and plenty of interests, and money, of course.
And mamma would have been, oh! quite different."

"Perhaps so," Frances agreed, "but it isn't only circumstances that make
lives.  There are people, far poorer than we, I know, whose lives are
ever so much _fuller_ and wider.  It is that," she went on, speaking
with unusual energy, "it is that that troubles me about you two!  I want
to see my way to helping you to make the best you can--in the very
widest sense of the words--of your lives;" and her sweet eyes rested
with almost maternal anxiety, pathetic to see in one still herself so
young, on her two sisters.

"And you, you poor old darling!" said Eira, "what about your own life?"

"Oh!" said Frances, "I don't feel as if I had any, separate from yours.
All my day-dreams and castles in the air and aspirations are for you;"
and in the firelight it seemed as if tears were glistening in her eyes.

She was, as a rule, so self-contained and calm that this little outburst
impressed her sisters almost painfully, and, with youthful shrinking
from any expression of emotion, Eira answered half-jestingly:

"I'm ashamed to own it, but do you know really sometimes that life would
be quite a different thing to me--twice or three times as interesting--
if I could have--"

"What?" said Betty.

"Heaps and heaps of lovely clothes?" said the girl.  At which they all
three laughed, though half-ruefully, for no doubt their present wardrobe
left room for improvement.

CHAPTER TWO.

A BREAK IN THE CLOUDS.

Things, externally at least, had brightened up by the next morning.  The
rain had ceased during the night, and some rays of sunshine, doubly
welcome after its late absence, though not without the touch of pathos
often associated with it in late autumn, came peeping in at the
dining-room window of Fir Cottage, when the family assembled there for
breakfast.  For Mr Morion, valetudinarian though he was, had not even
the "qualites de ses defauts" in some respects.  That is to say, he was
exasperatingly punctual, and at all seasons and under almost all
circumstances an exemplary early riser.

Naughty Eira groaned over this sometimes.  "If he would but stay in bed,
and enjoy his ill-health comfortably, and let us breakfast in peace, I
could face the rest of the day ever so much more philosophically," she
used to say.  "Or at least if he wouldn't expect us to praise him for
coming down in time when he hasn't closed an eye all night!"

"I always think that rather an absurd expression," said Frances,
"begging poor papa's pardon; for when one can't sleep, one both opens
and shuts one's eyes a great deal oftener than when you go straight off
the moment your head touches the pillow."  At which her sisters laughed.
The spirit of mischief latent in both the younger ones enjoyed decoying
their sister into the tiniest approach to criticism of their elders.
But this morning the rise in the barometer seemed to have affected Mr
Morion's nerves favourably; he even went the unusual length of
congratulating himself openly on the promptitude with which the
impending attack had been warded off, thanks to Frances.

"Yes, indeed," Lady Emma agreed, "it was a very good thing that the
girls went themselves.  If we had sent the boy he would have come back
with some ridiculous nonsense about its being too late to make up the
prescriptions last night.  What are you fidgeting about so, Eira?" she
went on; "you make me quite nervous."

"It's only my chilblains, mamma," the girl replied, holding up a pair of
small and naturally pretty, but for the moment sadly disfigured hands,
while a gleam, half of amusement, half of reproach, came into her bright
blue eyes.

"Really," said her mother, "it is very provoking!  I don't know how you
manage to get them, and you so strong.  If it were Betty now, I
shouldn't be so surprised."

And certainly her youngest daughter, little hands excepted, looked the
picture of health.  She had the thoroughly satisfactory and charming
complexion, a tinge of brown underlying its clearness, which is found
with that beautiful shade of hair which some people would describe as
red, though in reality it is but a rich nut-brown.  Betty, on the
contrary, was pale, and looked paler than she actually was from the
contrast with darker eyes and dusky hair.  The family legend had it that
she "took after" her mother, whose still remaining good looks told of
Irish ancestry.  And for this reason, possibly, it was taken for granted
that the second girl was her mother's favourite, though, even if so, the
favouritism was not of a nature or an amount to rouse violent jealousy
on the part of her sisters, had they been capable of it, for Lady Emma
Morion had certainly never erred on the side of over-indulgence of her
children.  She was a good woman, and meant to be and believed herself to
be an excellent mother, but under no circumstances in life could she
have fulfilled more than one _role_, and the _role_ which she had
adopted since early womanhood had been that of wife.  It simply never
occurred to her that her daughters could have any possible cause of
complaint, beyond that of the very restricted condition in which the
family were placed by the prosaic fact of limited means.

That she or her husband could have done aught to soften or improve these
for their children would have been a suggestion utterly impossible for
her to digest.  The privations, such as they were, she looked upon as
falling far more hardly on herself and their father than on the
daughters, who, when all was said and done, had youth and health and
absence of cares.

That their youth was passing; that absence of cares may on the other
side mean absence of interest; that the due supply of mere physical
necessities can or does ensure health in the fullest sense of the word
to eager, capable natures longing for work and "object" as well as
enjoyment, never struck her.  Nor, had such considerations been put
before her in the plainest language, could she have understood them, for
she was not a woman of much intellect or, what matters more in a mother,
of any width of sympathy.

Greater blame, had he realised the position, would have lain at her
husband's door.  He was a cultivated, almost a scholarly man, but the
disappointments of life had narrowed as well as soured him.  His was a
sad instance of the dwarfing and stunting effects of self-pity, yielded
to and indulged in till it comes to pervade the whole atmosphere of a
life.

The brighter morning had cheered the sisters half-unconsciously, and
Frances felt sorry at any friction beginning again between her mother
and Eira.  For though Lady Emma was not sympathising by temperament, she
was not indifferent to annoyances, and that chilblains should be
described by any stronger term she would have thought an exaggeration.
Yet the fact of them worried her, and Frances felt about in her usual
way for something to smooth the lines of irritation on her mother's
face.

"I have often heard, mamma," she said, "that strong people suffer quite
as much from chilblains as delicate ones, and they sometimes are worse
the first cold weather than afterwards."

"I believe they come from want of exercise," said Lady Emma, in a
somewhat softened tone.  "If this bright dry weather lasts, you must go
some good long walks, Eira."

Eira made a wry face.

"I am sure I've no objection, mamma," she said; "there's nothing I like
better than walking, but it's a vicious circle, don't you see?  I dare
say my not walking makes my circulation worse, but then again the
chilblains make walking, for the time being, simply impossible."
Perhaps it was lucky that at this juncture Betty's voice made a sudden
interruption.  Betty, though the quietest of the three, was rather given
to sudden remarks.

"Papa," she said, "have you possibly heard any sort of news about
Craig-Morion?"

Her father glanced at her sharply over his eyeglasses.

"What do you mean, child?" he said.  "News about Craig-Morion!  What
sort of news?"

"Oh, that it's going to be sold or let, or something of that kind,"
replied Betty calmly.

"Going to be _sold_, Craig-Morion!" exclaimed her father, his voice
rising to a thin, high pitch.  "What on earth has put such a thing in
your head?  Of course not."  But the very excitement of his tones
testified to a certain unacknowledged uneasiness.

"Oh, well," said Betty, "I didn't really suppose it was going to be
_sold_.  But none of its present owners ever care to come there, so I
thought perhaps there was to be a change of some kind."

"And why should you suppose there was to be a change of any kind?"
repeated Mr Morion, with a sort of grim repetition of her words,
decidedly irritating, if his daughters had not been inured to it.

Betty flushed slightly.

"It was only something we noticed last night," she replied, going on to
relate the incidents that had attracted their attention.  Her father
would not condescend to comment on her information, but Lady Emma did
not conceal her interest, and cross-questioned both her daughters.  And
from behind his newspaper her husband listened, attentively enough.

"It is curious," she said.  "If you pass that way to-day, girls, try to
see old Webb and find out if anything has happened.  Can any of the
Morions possibly be coming down, Charles, do you suppose?"

Mr Morion grunted.

"Any of the Morions!  How many of them do you think there are?" he said
ironically.  "You know very well that the present man was an only son,
and his father before him the same."

"Yes," replied Lady Emma meekly, "but there were sisters in both cases.
When I spoke of the Morions I meant any members of the family.  Though I
suppose it is very unlikely that any of them would suddenly come down
here, when they care nothing about the place, and have got homes of
their own."

"That to me," said Betty, speaking again abruptly, "is the aggravating
part of the whole affair.  If people lived at the big house who enjoyed
it and appreciated it, it would be quite different.  One couldn't grudge
it to them, but to see it empty and deserted year in and year out,
when--" she stopped short, a touch on her foot from Frances', under the
table, warning her that it would scarcely be wise to dwell further on
what was a sore subject.

Mr Morion rose, pushing back his chair with a rasping sound on the
thin, hard carpet, and left the room.

"I hope the fire in his study is all right," said Lady Emma anxiously.

"Yes," said Frances; "I glanced in on my way.  Is there anything you
want us to do this morning, mamma?" she added.

"I cannot possibly say till I have seen the cook," her mother replied.
"There is pretty sure to be something forgotten--servants are so
stupid--if you are going to the village."

"It's my morning for reading to old Gillybrand," said Frances rather
drearily, "so while I am there Betty can do any messages there are--
that's to say if you care to come with me, Betty."

"Tell me before you start, then," said their mother, as she, in her
turn, left the room for her kitchen interview.  Poor woman!
Housekeeping at the Firs was no sinecure, for Mr Morion was, like all
hypochondriacs, difficult to please in the matter of food, firmly
believing that his life depended on a special dietary.  And such a state
of things, when there is no financial margin, taxes invention and
ingenuity sorely enough.

"What are you going to do to-day, Eira?" asked Frances.  "You can't
possibly go out, I'm afraid."

For all reply Eira extended first one foot and then the other, both
encased in woolly slippers, each of which was large enough to have held
two inmates at once, under ordinary circumstances.

"You poor child," said her elder sister.  "But those slippers are a
comfort to you, I hope."

"My dearest Frances," Eira replied, "but for them I really don't think I
should be alive at the present moment.  But I _must_ pay you for them
with the first money I can lay hands on.  You don't suppose I didn't
notice your shabby gloves last Sunday?"

"Oh, what does it matter in winter?" said Frances indifferently.  "One
can always use a muff."

"When you've got one to use," said Eira.  "Mine looks more fit to be a
mouse's nest than anything else."

Betty had been standing at the window, gazing out at the oval grass
plot, not imposing enough to be dignified by the name of lawn, and at
the shrubberies enclosing it.

"Do you see those berries?" she said, wheeling round as she spoke.  "If
only all the bushes were not so dreadfully wet still, I could make up
some lovely bunches and trails for the drawing-room vases, if mamma
would let me."

"It will be dry enough by the afternoon," said Frances, "or we may find
some treasures on our way through the grounds, without having to paddle
over wet grass to reach them."

"The best plan," said Eira, "is to arrange the vases first, and then let
mamma see the effect.  It doesn't do to ask leave beforehand, for if we
do we are sure to be told not to fill the house with rubbish and weeds.
Bring in the prettiest things you can find, Betty, and we'll do them
after luncheon.  It will help to pass the afternoon for poor me.  Oh
dear! things are never so bad but they might be worse.  I'm beginning to
feel now as if life would be worth having if only I could go a good long
walk!  And before my chilblains got bad, I didn't think anything could
be duller or drearier than the way we were going on."

"We'll try to bring you in some lovely berries and tinted leaves to
cheer you," said Frances, but Betty's next remark did not follow up her
elder sister's determined effort to make the best of things.

"What's the good?" she said lugubriously, "what's the good of trying to
make the drawing-room look better?  It's hopelessly ugly, and even if we
could make it pretty, who would care?  There's nobody to see it."

"Come now, Betty," said Frances, "don't be untrue to your own belief.
Beauty of any kind is always worth having.  Let us be thankful that,
living in the country, we never can be without the possibility of some,
even in our indoor life.  What would you do, Betty, if we lived in a
grey--no, drab-coloured--street in some terrible town?"

"Do?  I should die!" replied Betty.

"I shouldn't," said Eira.  "I'd get to know some people, and that, after
all, is more interesting than still life.  But the present question is
what shall I do with myself all this long morning?"

"You must stay in a warm room, whatever you do, if you want to cure
those poor hands and feet.  The only thing you can do is to read, and
oh! by-the-by, I was forgetting--I got one or two books at the lending
library yesterday that I want to look through before I read them aloud.
I think they seem rather interesting.  So if you can glance at one of
them for me this morning it would really be a help."

Eira brightened up a little at this, and before her sisters left her,
they had the satisfaction of seeing her comfortably established on the
old sofa.

"Yes," she said, as they nodded good-bye from the doorway, "I repeat,
things never are so bad but that they might be worse.  We might have a
dining-room without a sofa."

Frances and Betty, despite their curiosity to spy the state of the
land--that is to say, of the big house--at close quarters, had to make
their way to the village this morning by the road, as one of their
mother's messages took them to the laundress' cottage which stood at
some little distance from the Craig-Morion grounds.  Further on,
however, they passed the lodge, and there for a moment they halted, on
the chance of a word with the old gate-keeper.  But she was evidently
not there and the gates were still locked.

"What a good thing we didn't come through the grounds," said Betty.
"But what can have become of old Webb and his wife?  There must be
something agog, Francie."

"We shall see on our way back," her sister replied; "they're sure to
come home for their dinner."

"If they don't," said Betty, "I shall try to climb the gates, and invent
some excuse for going up to the house to see what they are about."

But fate was not so cruel; for assuredly, with all the good-will in the
world and disregard of appearances, Miss Elizabeth Morion could never
have succeeded in scaling the entrance.

An hour or two later, when Frances had dutifully accomplished her
self-imposed task of reading to Gillybrand, a pitifully uncomplaining,
almost entirely blind old man, and had picked up Betty at the village
reading-room, which the sisters often found a convenient _rendezvous_,
the two made their way back to the lodge, where their misgivings were
agreeably dispersed.

For not only were the gates unlocked--they stood hospitably open, while
traces of the wheels of some tradesman's cart were clearly to be seen on
the still damp gravel; and standing at the door of her little abode was
old Mrs Webb, her wrinkled face aglow with excitement, and lighting up
with increased satisfaction as she caught sight of the young ladies--
newcomers on whom she might bestow some of the news which was evidently
too important to be suppressed.

But it was Betty who began the colloquy.

"What have you been about, Mrs Webb," she said, teasingly, "locking the
gates so early last night, and opening them so late this morning?  You
must have been asleep half the day as well as the night!"

"Bless you, no, miss," said the old woman, eagerly.  "Quite the
contrary, I do assure you.  We was working hard up at the big house last
night, and this morning too, was me and Webb, for never a girl, let
alone a woman, could he get to help us.  And no wonder neither, with
such short notice to get two or three rooms ready by to-night, and the
rest of the house dusted up for the gentlemen as is coming down to stay
for a day or two."

"Gentleman?" exclaimed the sisters.  "Who?  Not Mr Morion?"

"No, miss, not the master himself, but friends of his.  First there was
a telegraph, and this morning a letter.  I'd show them to you, but
Webb's got them in his pocket," and she jerked her head in the direction
of the house.  "I've just run down to open the gates for the butcher and
the other carts from the village, for I've got to have dinner for eight
o'clock to-night, so you may fancy we've had to bustle about."

"Do you know the gentlemen's names?" asked Betty, eagerly.

"Mr Milner for one," said Mrs Webb, at which the sisters' faces fell.
"But the other's a Mr--no, to be sure, I've forgotten it; but it's some
gentleman as is thinking of taking the place for a while!"

CHAPTER THREE.

MR MILNE AND ANOTHER.

Luncheon at Fir Cottage was not an attractive meal.  Perhaps the least
so of the three principal repasts of the day.  There was a certain
flavour of early dinner about it, recalling the days of the sisters'
childhood, when roast mutton and rice pudding formed, with but little
variety, the _piece de resistance_ of the daily menu, though for Mr
Morion himself there was usually some special and more attractive little
dish.

But to-day the walk in the fresh invigorating air had given the two
elder sisters a satisfactory appetite, in which, chilblains
notwithstanding, Eira was seldom deficient.

Frances and Betty had returned only just in time enough to make their
appearance punctually in the dining-room, and in the first interest of
hearing how her commissions had been executed, Lady Emma forgot to
question them as to the result of their intended inquiries at the
Craig-Morion Lodge.  Not so Eira.  She was fuming with impatience all
the time that Frances was repeating the laundress' excuses for the
faulty condition in which Mr Morion's shirt-fronts had been sent home,
or Betty explaining, for her part, the reason why she had brought a
packet of oblong instead of square postcards.  Eira's opportunity came
at last.

"And what about the big house?" she exclaimed.

"Oh, yes," said her mother, eagerly enough; for which her youngest
daughter mentally blessed her, saying to herself that, after all, "mamma
was not without some points of sympathy."

"I have been wondering all the morning if there was going to be anything
to hear.  Did you see the Webbs?"

"We saw Mrs Webb," said Frances, "on our way home.  She really is in a
flutter of excitement," and here Frances became conscious of a
half-suppressed movement on her father's part, showing that he, too, was
listening with interest.  "It appears," she went on, "that Mr Milne is
expected here this evening--"

"About time," interrupted Mr Morion.  "There are several things waiting
for him to decide.  Tomlinson shelters himself behind Milne in an absurd
way, whenever he's asked to do anything.  There's that gate--coming this
evening, do you say?" he broke off.  "Why should any one be excited
about that?"

"You didn't let me finish, papa," said Frances, for in her quiet way she
could sometimes hold her own very effectually with her father.  "Mr
Milne is coming for a special reason; he is accompanied by, or
accompanying, a Mr--somebody else--Mrs Webb couldn't remember his
name--who is thinking of taking Craig-Morion for a time."

Her father started.

"They are going to let it?" he exclaimed, for he had all the old-world
prejudice against the modern fashion of everybody living in somebody
else's house.  "They're actually going to let it?  More shame to them--
the real birthplace of the family as it is--and just because it's small
they care nothing about it in comparison with their other houses."

"But it isn't like selling it," said Betty.  "For my part, I shall be
only too delighted if they do let it.  Anything for a change, and at
worst a _chance_ of nice neighbours."

"Yes," said Lady Emma, agreeing for once, not uncordially, with her
daughter's point of view.  "I don't see why you need feel sore about it,
Charles.  Far better for the house to be lived in and aired, than to be
shut up in that damp dreariness."

"We do very well without neighbours," said Mr Morion hastily.  "Far
better have none than objectionable ones."

"Why should they be objectionable?" said Eira.  "There must be plenty of
nice people in the world as well as disagreeable ones."

"Yes," said Betty, "why should we take for granted that, if new people
come to Craig-Morion, they shouldn't be nice and pleasant?"

"Nice and pleasant they might be," replied her father, "in their own
world of wealth and luxury and among themselves.  But in such a case
your common-sense might tell you that it is most unlikely that they
would give a thought to your existence, or even know of it, living in
poverty as we do.  And one thing I shall never allow," he went on,
working himself up into assuredly very premature irritation, "I give you
fair warning, and that is I will allow no sort of patronising."

Not only his three daughters but even poor Lady Emma looked aghast at
this unexpected fulmination.

"It is too bad," thought the younger girls to themselves, "that we
should be scolded beforehand for a state of things which will probably
never come to pass."

"And it is no good," said Betty afterwards, when she found herself alone
with Eira, "no good trying to get up the tiniest little bit of
excitement or variety in our lives.  Papa is too bad!  I'm going to give
up trying for anything, except a sort of stupid lethargic contentment.
Perhaps that's what people mean by the discipline of life."

"I can't quite think that," Eira replied.  "Look at Francie, now.  You
can't say she's in a state of lethargic resignation.  She looks out for
any little pleasure as eagerly as for the first primroses in the
spring."  For Eira was on the whole less impressionable than Betty, or
perhaps constitutionally stronger, and therefore more able to repel the
insidious attacks of not-to-be-wondered-at depression, before which
Betty felt frequently all but powerless.

But this conversation took place later in the afternoon.  At the
luncheon table her father's bitter and hurting words incited Frances as
usual to exert her calming influence.

"It would be such a terrible pity," she thought to herself, "for papa to
begin nursing up prejudices against these possible neighbours."

"I scarcely think," she said aloud, gently, "that any people coming to
Craig-Morion _could_ altogether ignore us, or rather," with a bright
inspiration, "that it would be possible for us altogether to ignore
_them_.  Our very name would forbid it; and surely, papa, you, who know
far more of the world than any of us, would hesitate to say that even in
this material age money is everything."

Mr Morion fell unsuspectingly into the innocent little trap laid for
him by his eldest daughter.

"I have never said such a thing, or thought such a thing," he replied,
turning upon her sharply.  "Money by itself everything?  Faugh!
Nonsense!  All I say is, what every person with any common-sense must
say, that without money very few other things are worth having from a
worldly point of view.  It is certainly the oil without which no machine
can be worked, let it be the most perfect of its kind," and having
emitted these sentiments, he looked round for his family's approval,
having talked himself almost into a good humour.

"There is a great deal in what you say," murmured his wife, while
Frances remarked that she scarcely saw how it could be otherwise from a
worldly standpoint, and she did not add the second part of her
reflection, namely, Was the worldly standpoint the truest or best from
which to look out on the problems of life?  The younger girls had given
but scant attention to their father's dictum, or the comments it had
drawn forth.

As the day went on, the look of the outside world grew gloomier again.

"I really agree with you, Betty," said Eira, "that there's not much use
or satisfaction in our trying to do anything with this terrible old
room.  It _is_ so ugly!" and she gazed round her in a sort of despair.

"No," said Betty, "I don't quite think so.  It is more dull than
offensively ugly.  A few things would make a great difference--more than
you realise.  Pretty fresh muslin curtains to begin with--I think it's
the greatest mistake not to have them in winter as well as in
summer--_besides_ the thick ones, of course--and two or three big
rich-coloured rugs, and a few nice squashy sofa cushions, and--"

"My dearest child, start by providing yourself with Aladdin's lamp in
the first place," said Eira; but Betty had worked herself up into a
small fit of enthusiasm, as was her "way," and would not be snubbed.

"Yes," she went on, "I could do wonders with the room without any very
important changes; you see, its present monotony would do well enough as
a background, and--oh, Francie, do come in, and listen to my ideas about
this room."

Frances, who had been employing herself since luncheon, if not really
usefully, at least with the honest intention of being so, by writing
various letters to her father's dictation--for a new source of personal
uneasiness had lately suggested itself to Mr Morion in the shape of
fears that his eyesight was failing--Frances came forward into the room
and looked about her.

"Those trails and bunches of leaves are lovely," she said heartily,
"they make all the difference in the world, and it will all look still
prettier when the fire has burnt up a little," for one of the changeless
rules at Fir Cottage was that the drawing-room fire should only be
lighted at four o'clock.

She moved towards it as she spoke, and gave it an audacious touch with
the poker.

"Dear me, how chilly it is!" she went on.  "Aren't you both half-frozen,
or is it the change from papa's study, where I've been sitting?  He does
keep it so hot.  And oh! by-the-by, you will be interested to hear that
I've just been writing a note to his dictation making an appointment for
to-morrow with Mr Milne, for a letter came by the afternoon post saying
he was to be down here this evening for a couple of days, and would see
papa about those repairs that the bailiff couldn't order without his
authority, and--now wouldn't you like to know the name of the man who's
coming down with him?--all that old Webb told us was quite correct."

"_How_ interesting," exclaimed Eira, "how extraordinarily interesting!
Yes, of course, do tell us his name at once."

"He is a Mr Littlewood," Frances replied.  "I don't know his first
name, nor whether he is young or old, or indeed anything about him,
except that--"

"What?" said Eira quickly.

"Oh, it is only the tone of Mr Milne's letter which papa showed me.  He
seems to take for granted that we know something about this man, and
when I asked papa he said he had some vague remembrance of one of Mr
Morion's sisters having married some one of the name several years ago.
One of the elder sisters he thinks it was, so in this case Mr
Littlewood must be a middle-aged man," Frances added.

"I'm sure I don't mind in the least whether he's old or young," said
Eira, "if only they bring a little life about the place.  I only hope
they're not going to turn out invalids coming down here for perfect
quiet and rest, and all that kind of thing."

"It's sure to be something of that sort," said Betty, speaking for the
first time, rather drearily.  "What else, in the name of everything
that's sensible, would any one come to Craig Bay for?"

"Craig-Morion isn't quite the same as Craig Bay," said Eira.  "A country
house makes its own _entourage_.  There are lots of places--delightful
to stay at--which must look more isolated and out of the world than this
place does, when they are shut up.  But do tell us, does he actually say
that Mr Littlewood's going to take it?"

Frances considered.

"If you want his very words," she replied, "I think they are that Mr
Littlewood is coming to see the house with `a view to a possible
tenancy.'  Dear me! what a long day this has seemed!  Isn't it tea-time
yet?"

"It's," said Betty, peering up at the timepiece, for the room was
already growing dusky, "it's a quarter or twenty minutes past four.
There's one thing I do thank papa for," she added, speaking more briskly
at the prospect of afternoon-tea in ten minutes, "that he keeps the
clocks going correctly.  It would be too horrible if they were all
standing still and out of repair.  Frances," she went on, "it's a
worn-out subject, I'm afraid, but can you think of _any_ way in which we
three, or any one of us, could make a little money?  It has come into my
head so this afternoon how delightful it would be to brighten up this
room a little.  Even the thought of old Milne looking in makes me long
for it to be rather more like other people's."

Before this, Frances, who rarely allowed her hands to be idle, had
ensconced herself in a corner as near a window as she could manage,
anxious to benefit by the last remains of daylight for a beautiful bit
of embroidery, which represented her special fancy work, and this for
practical reasons.  Her materials were of the simplest, being merely
white lawn and embroidery cotton, with which, nevertheless, thanks to
her quickness at transferring designs, she was often able to add beauty
to her younger sisters' otherwise undecorated attire.

Before replying, she glanced at her handiwork.

"Personally, I can think of nothing but my work," she said.  "But there
are such beautiful imitations of hand embroidery nowadays that I don't
believe I should get much for it, so that really it's better to use it
ourselves; and I must say that the first thing _I_ want money for is to
help _us_ to be better dressed, rather than our drawing-room."

She looked at her sisters regretfully.  Nature had not done badly by
either of them, and each had a distinct style of her own, which,
however, even their sister's partial eyes could not but own was shown to
the very smallest advantage by the _chefs d'oeuvre_ of Miss Tobias, the
village seamstress, who spent a few days at Fir Cottage two or three
times a year for the purpose of manipulating new material, or
transmogrifying old, into clothes for the sisters' wear.

"Yes," said Betty, agreeing with the expression she saw in her sister's
eyes, "we are _atrociously_ dressed: there's no other word for it I
know; and what makes it doubly hard to bear is the old story.  If mamma
would allow us even fifteen pounds a year each, in our own hands, there
would be some hope of better things.  I am _sure_ we could manage
better, but as things are it is quite hopeless.  That was what made me
speak of this room instead of ourselves."

Frances sighed and folded up her work for the time, for there came the
welcome sound of the tea-tray and its contents.

"They both might look _so_ pretty," she thought to herself.  She watched
Betty's slight figure as she helped to arrange the cups and saucers with
her little white hands, and Eira's lovely hair as it glimmered and
glowed in the firelight.  "How is it that people will see things with
such different eyes?  If mamma _could_ but see them as I do! and how,
comparatively speaking, small effort might make them and their lives so
different."

For Frances thought a great deal more than she expressed.  She had an
almost morbid terror of adding or exaggerating any new grounds of
discontent to the two, who often seemed to her more her children than
her sisters, slight as was in reality the difference of age which
separated her from them.

An approaching rustle--somehow or other their father always announced
his advent by a rustle; this time it was that of the afternoon paper he
had just opened--made her look up in expectation of some request or
complaint.  This time, by good luck, it was the former.

"Sorry to disturb you, young ladies," he said in an unwontedly amiable
tone, "but if you'll allow me a _little_ bit of the fire, I should be
grateful.  Where is your mother?" and as at that moment Lady Emma made
her appearance, "I have a letter from Milne at last, you will be glad to
hear," he said, addressing her, "so I hope these wretched repairs will
now be seen to."

Lady Emma replied with unusual animation.  "You mean that he is really
coming down?" she said; "and what about the second arrival expected?  Is
it true that we are to have neighbours at Craig-Morion, as the girls
heard?"

"Dear, dear!" said her husband; "what incorrigible gossips women are!"
But his tone was still agreeable.  "It is true that a Mr Littlewood is
thinking of the place.  And, by-the-by, Emma, your memory may be better
than mine.  Is there not some connection between the Littlewoods and--
the Morions?"

"To be sure," said Lady Emma, a spot of colour appearing on her cheeks
with gratification at his flattering appeal.  "To be sure: the present
man's eldest sister married one of the Littlewoods of Daleshire.  No
doubt it's one of them--perhaps the very one."  But on Eira's following
up this promising beginning by further inquiries, her mother declared
herself unable to give any more particulars, and the conversation lapsed
into its usual monotonous and scarcely more than monosyllabic character.

Still, throughout the rest of the evening the sisters were conscious of
a slight stir in the moral atmosphere; very little, it must be
confessed, was enough to give them this sensation; and when the next
morning at breakfast their father announced his intention of shortening
his usual--when the weather was fine enough--afternoon constitutional,
by reason of the probability "of Milne looking in about tea-time," they
felt justified in harbouring a definite expectation of some break in the
regular routine.

The weather was somewhat milder, thanks to which and to Frances'
nursing, Eira's chilblains were decidedly on the mend, in itself enough
to raise her spirits to an extent which would appear disproportionate to
the happy beings who know not the woe and misery occasioned by these
unwelcome visitors.

Lady Emma was heard to give certain injunctions as to afternoon-tea,
which encouraged Frances to follow suit.

"You would like us to be in by four o'clock or thereabouts, I suppose?"
she said, "in case of Mr Milne's coming," for the old lawyer was
sufficiently man of the world for a little gossip with him to be a by no
means disagreeable variety.

Lady Emma looked up vaguely.

"He may only have time for a talk with your father," she replied.
"But--well, yes, you may as well be at hand.  For one thing, your father
may want you, and there's no reason why you all shouldn't be here at
tea-time as usual."

"Or not as usual," said Betty, as they ran upstairs to put on their
outdoor things.  "I warn you both that whatever _you_ do, _I_ am going
to try to make myself fit to be seen, for once, and I advise you to do
the same.  It stands to reason that if these Littlewoods are coming down
here, they'll be asking Mr Milne about possible and impossible
neighbours, and as they are connections of the other Morions, our name
must catch their attention."

"And we certainly don't want to be described as dowdy--no, I won't say
old maids--but getting on in that direction sort of people," said Eira.
"Yes, Betty, I back you up.  Let's, at any rate, do the best we can.
Our best serge skirts aren't _so_ bad, as country clothes go, and we may
as well wear our black silk blouses--the ones mamma gave us when Uncle
Avone died--they're such a much better cut than poor Tobias can
achieve."

"But we're not supposed to wear them till some other old relation dies,"
said Frances.  "There are ever so many still, a generation or so older
than mamma!  It's wonderful how Irish people cling to life!  And I don't
suppose we'd get such nice blouses again in a hurry."

"Well, you needn't wear yours," said Eira; "somehow you always manage to
look better than we do!"  In which there was a certain truth, for
Frances had the advantage of superior height, and her undeniable good
looks more nearly approached beauty, though of a somewhat severe type,
than Betty's delicate sweetness or Eira's brilliant colouring.

"My old velveteen looks wonderful still by candle-light, I must allow,"
said Frances, not ill-pleased by her sister's innocent flattery, "and I
dare say mamma won't notice your blouses."

"Any way she can't scold us before old Milne," said Eira, "and I don't
care the least bit if she does after he's gone.  All I do care for is
that he should be able to speak of us with a certain amount of--not
exactly deference, nor admiration, nor even appreciation, but simply as
not being completely `out of the running,' we may say, so far as
appearance goes."

The result of this confabulation was not altogether unsatisfactory.  The
two younger girls, at least, had a certain childlike pleasure in the
sensation of being better dressed than usual, which was not without a
touch of real pathos, being as far removed from any shadow of vanity or
even self-satisfaction as could be the case in feminine nature.

They were sitting in the drawing-room in the half-light of the quickly
waning day, brightened by the ruddy reflections from a much better fire
than usual, when their mother came in hastily, glancing round with her
short-sighted eyes.

"Frances," she said, "are you there?  I told you to be ready.  Your
father has just looked out of his study calling for you, and I said I
would send you."

Frances started up, not hastily--her movements were never hasty, but had
a knack of inspiring the onlooker with a pleasant sense of readiness, of
completed preparation for whatever she was wanted for.

"I am here, mamma," she said.  "I will go to the study at once.  Is papa
alone?"

"Of course not," said her mother, "Mr Milne has been with him for quite
half-an-hour.  I was just wondering if we should ring for tea."

"I will go to the pantry, if you like," said Betty, "and see that it's
quite ready, so that the moment you ring it can come in."

Frances by this time had already left the room, but she returned again
almost immediately.

"It was only some papers that papa couldn't find," she said, "but he's
got them now.  They're just coming in to tea; shall I ring for it,
mamma?"

Betty and the tea-tray made their appearance simultaneously, as did the
lamps, and a moment or two later Mr Morion and his visitor crossed the
little hall to the drawing-room.

Lady Emma greeted Mr Milne with what, for her, was unusual affability;
the truth being that she was by no means devoid of curiosity as to the
talked-of changes at the big house, though she would have scorned direct
inquiry on the subject.  The old lawyer glanced kindly at the two
younger girls, saying to himself as he did so that their appearance had
decidedly altered for the better.

"Not that they were ever plain-looking," he reflected, "but they seem
better turned out somehow--a touch less countrified."

And he felt honestly pleased, for he had known the young people at Fir
Cottage the greater part of their lives, and it had often struck him
that their lines could scarcely be said to have fallen in pleasant
places.

"You have brought us rather better weather," said Frances, when her
mother's first remarks had subsided into silence.  It seemed to her that
Mr Milne's manner was a trifle preoccupied, and neither Mr Morion nor
his wife could be said to possess much of the art of conversation.

"Yes, really?" replied the lawyer.  "I'm glad we put off a day or two in
that case, for much depends on first impressions of a place."

"You are not alone, then?" said Lady Emma; and three pairs of ears, at
least, listened eagerly for his reply.

"Why, don't you remember, my dear?" said Mr Morion, intercepting it.
"I told you that Milne was coming down with a Mr Littlewood, who is
thinking of renting Craig-Morion for a time.  By-the-by," he went on,
"what does he think of the place?"

"He's taken by it, decidedly," said the lawyer, "and though my clients
have no very special reason for letting it, still they will not be sorry
to do so.  A house always deteriorates more or less if left too long
uninhabited, and--"

At that moment came the unusual sound of the front door bell ringing--an
energetic ring too, as if touched by a hand whose owner neither liked
nor was accustomed to being kept waiting.

CHAPTER FOUR.

BETTY IN ARMS.

Mr Milne started to his feet half involuntarily.

And--"He has been expecting this summons," thought Frances.

"I am afraid," he said, turning to his hostess apologetically, "I am
afraid I must not allow myself to enjoy a cup of your excellent tea, for
that must be Mr Littlewood.  He's been looking round the place with the
bailiff this afternoon, and we arranged that he should call for me here,
as we have a good deal of business before us this evening; so may I ask
you to excuse--"

"By no means," said Mr Morion in a tone of unwonted heartiness.  "We
can't think of excusing you, Milne.  On the contrary, can you not ask
Mr Littlewood to join us?  A few moments' delay in tackling your
business cannot possibly signify."

The three pairs of ears could scarcely credit what they heard, the three
pairs of eyes exchanged furtive glances, while Lady Emma murmured
something vaguely civil by way of endorsement of her husband's proposal.

It was the lawyer who hesitated.  To tell the truth, knowing the
peculiarities of his present host as he did, he had been feeling during
the last quarter of an hour somewhat nervous, and he now devoutly wished
that he had not suggested Mr Littlewood's calling for him at Fir
Cottage, seeing that his talk with Mr Morion had been so much longer
than he had anticipated.

"I should not have let myself be persuaded to come in to tea," he
thought, "and then I could have met Littlewood just outside."

And now his misgivings, thanks to Mr Morion's unusual amiability,
turned in the other direction.

"Ten to one," so his inner reflections ran on, "Littlewood will be
annoyed at being asked to come in."  For by way of precautionary excuse
for any possible surliness on the part of the representative Morion of
the neighbourhood, should he and the stranger come across each other,
poor Mr Milne had thought it politic to describe Fir Cottage and its
inmates in no very attractive terms.

"I think, perhaps," he began aloud, addressing his hostess, and rising
as he spoke, "I think perhaps I had better not suggest Mr Littlewood's
joining us, though I shall take care to convey to him your kind wish
that he should do so.  I have been decoyed," with a smile in his host's
direction, "into staying an unwarrantable time already, and as I must
positively return to town to-morrow morning, I have really a good deal
of work to get through to-night."

Lady Emma would have yielded the point, and was beginning to say
something to that effect, when her husband interrupted her.  Mr Morion
was nothing if not obstinate, and now that the fiat had gone forth that
the stranger was to be admitted, enter he must at all costs.

"Nonsense, my good sir," he said, in what for him was a tone of light
jocularity.  "There now!  I hear them answering the door and your friend
inquiring for you.  Just ask him to come in," and he opened the
drawing-room door as he spoke.  "I'll step out with you myself."

There was no longer any getting out of it for Mr Milne.  He hurried
forward with the intention of an explanatory word or two with Mr
Littlewood, but in this he literally reckoned without his host, for Mr
Morion was at his heels, and there was nothing for it but a formal
introduction on the spot.

"Pray, come in," said Mr Morion; "we are just having tea.  My wife and
daughters are in the drawing-room," he said, with a wave of his hand in
that direction, "and Mr Milne always pays us a visit when he comes
down."

The newcomer glanced at the lawyer in some surprise.  This was scarcely
the boorish hermit who had been described to him.  All the same, he was
not desirous of embarrassing himself with the acquaintanceship of this
family, whose very existence he had almost ignored, or at least
forgotten, till Mr Milne took occasion to refer to them.

But the afternoon was drawing in to evening; it was raw and chilly
outside, and disagreeably draughty in the doorway where he stood, and
the prospect of a hot cup of tea was not without its attraction.

"Thanks, many thanks," he said.  "We haven't long to spare, but I should
be sorry to hurry Milne," and so saying he entered the little hall.

In the drawing-room, meantime, the suppressed excitement of the two
younger of its four inmates was increasing momentarily, Eira, indeed,
being so far carried away by it as to approach the half-open door, or
doorway, so as to lose no word of the colloquy taking place outside.

"Betty!  Frances!" she exclaimed, though in a whisper, her cheeks
growing momentarily pinker, "he's coming in!  I do believe he's coming
in, and his voice doesn't sound as if he were old at all.  He's tall,
too, and"--with another furtive jerk of her head--"as far as I can see,
I do believe he's _very_ good-looking."

Frances was springing forward with uplifted finger, in dismay at Eira's
behaviour, when for once, to her relief, her mother took the matter out
of her hands.

"Eira," she said quickly, so that, even if her voice had been overheard
by those outside, no chiding tone could have been suspected, "Eira, I am
really ashamed of you.  Sit down quietly and take your tea."

Eira obeyed without a word, feeling, in point of fact, rather small; so
no signs of agitation were discernible in the little group as the door
was thrown open more widely to admit of Mr Morion ushering in his
guests, the stranger naturally first.

"I have persuaded Mr Littlewood to join us for a few moments," said the
master of the house, as he introduced him to his wife.  "Frances,
another cup of tea, if you please."  And Betty quietly rang the bell as
he spoke, returning immediately to her seat near the large table, on
which was placed a lamp.

Mr Littlewood glanced at her, and then at her sisters, without
appearing to do so.

"Milne has not much power of description," he thought to himself; "if
they were decently dressed they would not be bad-looking girls;
indeed,"--and for a moment his glance reverted to Betty.

He would have been quite ready to open a conversation with her or with
any of them, but, humiliating as it is to confess it, both the younger
girls were by this time consumed by an agony of shyness.  It was to
Frances as she handed him some tea that he addressed his first
observation--some triviality about the weather, to which she replied
with perfect self-possession, taking the first opportunity of drawing
her mother into the conversation, for such a thing as independent action
on the part of even the eldest daughter would certainly have been
treated by her parents as a most heinous offence.

By degrees Betty and Eira gained courage enough to glance at the
stranger, now that his attention was taken up by their mother and
sister.

He was young and--yes--he was decidedly good-looking.  Rather fair than
dark, with something winning and ingratiating about his whole manner and
bearing, in spite of the decided tone and air of complete
self-possession, if not self-confidence--almost amounting to lordly
indifference to the effect he might produce on others.

As in duty bound, Mr Littlewood responded at once to Lady Emma's first
remark--some commonplace inquiry as to whether this was his first visit
to that part of the country.

"Yes," he replied, "practically so, though my mother informs me that as
children we spent some months in this neighbourhood, but I don't
remember it.  That's to say, I remember nothing of the country, though I
do recollect the house and garden, which seemed to me all that was
charming and beautiful--and mysterious too.  The garden was skirted by a
wood, fascinating yet alarming.  Children's memories are queer things."

"Do you think it was near here?" said Frances, "anywhere about Craig
Bay?  If so, it would be interesting to revisit it."

Betty and Eira glanced at her in mute admiration.  How could she have
the courage to address this exceedingly smart personage with such ease
and self-possession?  Nor did the manner of his reply diminish their
wonder.  He seemed to look at Frances as if he had not seen her before,
though at the same time no one could possibly have accused him of the
slightest touch of discourtesy.

"I haven't the vaguest idea," he said, "and there would be small chance
of my recognising the place if I did see it."

"How does Craig-Morion strike you?" asked Lady Emma, and the well-bred
indifference of her tone was greatly appreciated by Betty and Eira, who
by this time had labelled the newcomer as "horridly stuck-up and
affected."

"Craig-Morion?" he repeated.  "Oh, I think it may serve our purpose very
well for the time.  Of course it _should_ have a complete overhauling,
but Morion doesn't think it worth while to do much to it, and,
substantially speaking, it's not in bad repair.  I think, however, I
shall be able to report sufficiently well of it to make my sisters--or
sister more probably--come down to see it for themselves."

Even Lady Emma was slightly nettled at his tone of half-contemptuous
approval of the place which to the family at Fir Cottage represented so
much.

"It is a pity," she said, speaking more stiffly than before, "that the
head of the family should never live at what was--is--really their
original home."

Mr Littlewood raised his eyebrows.

"Why should he?" he said carelessly; "he's got everything in the world
he wants at Witham-Meldon and at his Scotch place.  He'd feel this
awfully out-of-the-world."

This last speech was too much for the feelings of one person in the
company.  Shyness disappeared in indignation, and, to the utter
amazement of her audience, Betty's voice, pitched in a higher key than
usual, broke the silence.

"I think," she said, while a red spot glowed on each cheek, "I think
it's a perfect shame and utterly unfair that any one should own a place
which they never care to see; and of course it is _actually_ unfair, as
everybody knows it should be ours!"

"Betty?" murmured Eira, as if she thought her sister had taken leave of
her senses.

"Betty!" repeated Lady Emma and Frances in varying tones of amazement
and reproof, while Mr Morion and the lawyer abruptly stopped talking,
as they turned round to see what in the world was happening.

Only Mr Littlewood smiled, as he might have done with amusement at a
sudden outburst from a silly child, which stung her still more; and
without vouchsafing another word, she rose quickly and left the room,
followed by the stranger's eyes, while an expression half of perplexity,
half of concern, overspread his face.

"I am afraid," he began, somewhat ruefully, though the smile still
lingered, "I am afraid I have unwittingly annoyed the--the young lady--
your sister, I suppose?" he added to Frances, who had half started up
with the instinctive wish to put things somehow to rights.

"Oh, no," she said, half nervously, far more afraid of the parental
displeasure than caring for what the stranger might think.  After all,
his face was pleasant and kindly, and how could he know what the very
name of Craig-Morion meant to _them_?  "Oh, no, it won't matter at all.
We are terribly stay-at-home people, you see, and Craig-Morion seems a
sort of earthly Paradise to us!"

"Nonsense, Frances!" said her father harshly.  "Betty is a foolish,
spoilt child, and must be treated accordingly.  Don't give another
thought to it, Mr Littlewood."

The young man murmured something intended to be gracious, indeed
apologetic, though his words were not clearly heard, and then with a
feeling of relief he turned to Frances with an instinct that here was
the peace-maker.

"You will tell her how sorry I am," he said in a low voice, for the
vision of Betty's troubled little face as she passed him in her swift
transit across the room was not to be quickly banished from his mind's
eye.

Frances nodded slightly with a smile, Lady Emma's attention being by
this time happily distracted by some tactful observation from Mr Milne,
who, to confess the truth, was not a little amused by what had just
passed.  And a few moments later the two visitors took their leave, the
old lawyer shaking hands punctiliously with the four members of the
family present; Mr Littlewood contenting himself with a touch of his
hostess' cold fingers, a more cordial clasp of Frances' hand, and a
vague bow in the direction of Eira, still in the sheltered corner so
abruptly deserted by Betty.

Mr Morion accompanied his guests to the hall door, leaving, by his
studied urbanity, the impression in Mr Littlewood's mind that the
master of Fir Cottage was far less of a bear than the lawyer had
depicted him.

This opinion would probably have been modified had he been present at
the scene which ensued in the drawing-room when the head of the house
rejoined his wife and daughters, who listened in silence to his not
altogether unjustifiable irritation against Betty, for as he went on he
worked himself up, as was his way, to exaggerated anger, concluding with
a comprehensive command that, till she could learn to behave properly to
her father's guests, he must insist on Lady Emma's banishing the culprit
to her own quarters when any visitors were present.  Not that this
command was in reality as severe as it sounded, judging at least by past
experiences at Fir Cottage, where visitors were scarcely if ever to be
found, and the deprivation of seeing such as on rare occasions were
admitted was certainly not what Betty would have considered a
punishment.

Poor Betty! punishment indeed was little needed by her at the present
time.  Up in the room which she shared with Eira, she was lying
prostrate on her little bed, sobbing as if her heart would break, with a
rush of mingled feelings such as she had never before experienced to the
same extent.

There was reaction from the pleasurable excitement of a break in their
monotonous life, indignation at the manner and bearing of "that
detestable man;" worst of all, mortification, deep and stinging, at
having behaved, so she phrased it to herself, like "an underbred fool."
Altogether more than the poor child's nerves could stand.  And added to
everything else was the fear of what lay before her in the shape of
reproof, cutting and satirical, from her father.  She would have given
worlds to undress and go to bed, and thus avoid facing her family with
swollen eyes, from which she felt as if she could never again drive back
the tears.

"How I wish I could leave home for good!" she said to herself.  "I don't
believe Frances and Eira would miss me much, and papa would have one
less to scold.  At least I wish I could go away just now rather than
risk meeting that man again, and if his people do come here it will be
unendurable.  Even if they condescend to be civil to us, there would be
the terrible feeling of being patronised and probably made fun of behind
our backs.  It is too late for us to improve now, we are not fit for
decent society; at least Eira and I are not, and poor Frances would
suffer tortures if--"

A knock at the door interrupted the depressing soliloquy.

"Come in," said Betty, hoping that in the gloom her disfigured face
might escape notice, and jumping up as she spoke, she hurried across to
the dressing-table, where she pretended to be busying herself in
rearranging her hair.

It was Frances who came in.  For the first moment Betty felt
disappointed that it was not Eira, but when the kind elder sister came
forward and threw her arms round her, saying tenderly and yet with a
little smile:

"My poor, silly little Betty, this is what I was afraid of.  You really
_mustn't_ take it to heart in this way.  You poor little things making
yourselves look so nice, and for it to end like this, though after all
it is more to be laughed at than cried over."

"No, no, it isn't, Francie," sobbed Betty, hiding her face on her
sister's shoulder.  "I've disgraced myself and all of us, and it's no
good your trying to say I haven't.  I don't know what came over me to
say what I did."

"I think it was not unnatural," said Frances; "even mamma was slightly
ruffled by Mr Littlewood's tone, and yet--I'm _quite_ sure he didn't in
the least mean to hurt us.  How could he?  We are complete strangers to
him, and we were doing our best to be hospitable and--and nice.  And--he
has a good sort of face, and kind, straightforward eyes, in spite of
his--I scarcely know what to call it--ultra-fashionableness, which seems
to us like affectation."

Betty was interested, in spite of herself, by her sister's comments.

"All _I_ feel," she said, "is the most earnest hope that we may never
see him again, and that his people will not take Craig-Morion."

"Come now, Betty, don't be exaggerated," said Frances.  "By the way, he
left a message with me for you: it was to say that he was _very_ sorry
if he had annoyed you, and he said it so simply that it made me like him
better than I had done before; and he took care that no one else should
hear it, which was thoughtful too."

"I don't see that it much matters," answered Betty, too proud to show
that she was a little mollified, in spite of herself.  "Heaven knows
_what_ I'm not going to have to bear from papa."

"Well, dear," said Frances, "you must just bear it as philosophically as
you can.  It may be a good lesson in self-restraint.  And after all
there is _no_ lesson of more importance.  I don't agree with you in
hoping that we may never see this Mr Littlewood again; on the contrary,
far the best thing would be to get to know him a little better, so that
any sore feeling you have--"

"Any sore feeling indeed!" interrupted Betty, with a groan, "I'm sore
feeling from top to toe.  It seems as if I should scarcely mind what
papa says in comparison with this wretched hateful disgust at having
lowered myself so."

Frances smiled.

"That _will_ all soften down," she said, "see if it doesn't; and perhaps
papa won't be so down upon you as you expect."

Nor was this encouragement without grounds, for in the interval between
his first burst of irritation and Frances' seeking her sister, Lady Emma
had exerted herself with some success to smoothing down Mr Morion's
displeasure, reminding him that Betty's family feeling could scarcely be
called ill-bred, and that it had evidently had no ill effect upon their
guest, whose tone had struck herself at first as deficient in deference.
For Betty, as has been said, was her mother's favourite.

On the whole, Frances' words had a soothing effect on her sister.

"Oh well, I must just bear it, I suppose, even if he is very down upon
me, for this time I can't say that I was blameless, and, compared to the
terrible feeling as to what that man must think of me, it doesn't seem
to matter.  Oh, Frances, how I do hope and pray those people won't come
down here!  And only a few hours ago I should have been so disappointed
at the idea of the whole thing falling through.  Frances," she went on
again after a moment or two's silence, "do you know I don't believe they
_would_ come if they knew everything."

Frances looked slightly annoyed.

"I wish, dear," she said, "that you and Eira wouldn't let your minds run
so constantly on that old grievance.  We are not in Italy, where
vendettas go on from generation to generation; and what _would_ the
Littlewoods care as to whom the place should rightly belong?"

"I don't mean that," said Betty.  "Of course, how could that matter to
them?  I was thinking of," and here involuntarily she dropped her voice
and gave a half-timorous glance over her shoulder, "what they say about
here of the big house--about, you know, Frances, great-grand-aunt
Elizabeth's `walking,' as the country people call it."

The cloud on her sister's brow deepened.  "Betty, you promised me, you
know you did," she said, "both you and Eira promised me, that you would
leave off thinking of that silly nonsense."

"I know we did," said Betty meekly.  "I'm sure I don't want to talk
about it; the very mention of her name frightens me.  I do so wish it
wasn't mine!  For it gives me a feeling as if she had something special
to do with me.  All the same, I shouldn't be a bit sorry if that Mr
Littlewood got a good fright," and her eyes twinkled, in spite of their
swollen lids.  "If it's true that she repents of her negligence, if
negligence it was, she certainly can't feel pleased at being disturbed
by any one connected with the elder branch of the family!"

"I had no idea you were so vindictive, Betty," said Frances; "but I'm
afraid it's not likely that our poor old great-grand-aunt would have
power to oust either him or his people from her old home."

CHAPTER FIVE.

AUTUMN LEAVES.

The next day passed so uneventfully that Betty began to think that for
once the Fates had taken her at her word, and that the episode of Mr
Littlewood's visit might be forgotten without fear of their meeting him
again, to revive its annoying associations.

"He must have left with Mr Milne after all, I hope," she said on the
following afternoon, alluding to something he had said to Frances about
staying a day or two longer to see if the head-keeper's roseate account
of shooting was to be depended upon.  "Oh, I do hope he has!"

"_I_ hope he hasn't," said Eira.  "I dare say we should like him very
much if we knew him better.  I think you were absurdly exaggerated about
what he said.  And even if we didn't like him, I'd be glad of anything
for a change."

"You don't mean to say," said Betty, reproachfully, "that you still hope
these people will come here?"

"Yes, of course I do," said Eira.  "But there's Frances waiting for us,
as usual.  Oh! how glad I am that my chilblains are better."

For once the three sisters were setting off for a walk unburdened by
commissions of any kind, but as the route through the park was the
starting-point for rambles in almost every direction, they, by common
accord, turned that way and were soon at the end of the side-path which
led to the main entrance.

Somewhat to their surprise, the lodge gates were open, though neither
Mrs Webb nor her husband was to be seen, as usual, peering out like
spiders in hopes of alluring some human fly to provide them with a dish
of gossip.  Eira stood still and looked about her.

"Betty," she said, after some little scrutiny, "I don't believe your
arch-enemy _has_ left, after all."

"If so," said Frances, "I wish we hadn't come through the park.  I
certainly don't want the Morions or their friends to think we claim
right of way across it."  And she hastened her steps to regain the road
as quickly as possible.

Once on it she turned in the opposite direction from Craig Bay.

"Where are you steering for, Frances?" asked Betty.

"I don't think I quite know," her sister replied, "except that I do not
want to go to the village."

"No wonder," said Eira, "I am _so_ tired of the sight of those dreary
little shops.  In the spring there's a certain interest in them--the
looking out for the `novelties' they try to attract the visitors with."

"Yes," said Betty, "and even at Christmas they get up a little show--
good enough to tempt _me_," she went on, in her plaintive way.  "I see
lots of things I'd like to buy if only I had some money.  I know I could
trim hats lovelily for us all, if only I'd some decent materials.  Oh,
Frances, if you don't mind, do let us go through the copse: it'll be
quite nice and dry to-day, and we might get some more of those beautiful
leaves.  They're even prettier there than in the park, and as `silence
means consent,' I suppose we may take for granted that mamma has given
us negative permission to `litter the drawing-room with withered
branches!'"

"I believe," said Eira, "that at the bottom of their hearts both papa
and mamma were very glad that we had made it look so nice the day before
yesterday when those men called."

Betty groaned.

"Oh, Eira!" she ejaculated, "for mercy's sake let that wretched subject
drop.  Let's get over this stile," she added: "I've a sort of
remembrance of some lovely berries a little farther on.  There they
are!" with a joyous exclamation; "_could_ anything be prettier?  I
wonder if there is any possible way of drying them and pressing some of
the leaves without their losing colour?  I feel as if I could make our
hats look quite nice with them."

"They would last a few days, anyway, as they are," said Frances.  "But,
Betty, if you begin loading yourself already, I don't see how we can go
much of a walk."

"I know what I'm about," said Betty, as she drew out of her pocket a
sturdy pair of unpointed scissors.  "I shall cut a lot of things now and
put them ready to pick up on our way back.  One must have clear light to
choose the prettiest shades."

Some minutes passed in this occupation.  Then when her spoils were
carefully tied together, Betty having also provided herself with string,
they set off at a good pace, soon leaving the little copse behind them,
and crossing the high-road in the direction of a long hilly path ending
in a stretch of table-land which was a favourite resort of the sisters.
The grass was so short and thymy that it was rarely even damp, and on
one side the view was certainly attractive.

"I have always liked this place," said Betty, "ever since I was quite
tiny.  Do you remember, Eira, the dreams we had of catching a lamb and
taking it home for a pet?  We were to hide it somewhere or other."

"Yes," replied Eira, "in the china closet out of the nursery, and get up
in the night to play with it, and then put it to sleep in each of our
beds in turn.  It was never to grow any bigger, it was always to be a
lambkin."

"And so it has remained," said Frances, smiling, "and always will!  That
is one of the comforts of dream-life: nobody gets older, or uglier, or
anything they shouldn't.  And real life would be very dull without it."

"It's dull enough _with_ it," said Betty, "or perhaps the truth is that
we're growing incapable of it for want of material to build with."

"No," said Frances; "I don't agree with that.  `Necessity is the mother
of invention,' and when one has a real fit of castle-building one
creates the stones."

"I wish one of us were poetical," said Eira.  "I've a vague feeling that
something might be made of those ideas of yours and Betty's, Frances, if
either of you had the least knack of versification.  And then perhaps we
might send your poem to some magazine and get a guinea or half a guinea
for it.  Fancy how nice that would be!"

Betty gave a deep sigh.

"What is the matter?" said Frances.

"Oh, it's only a bit of the whole," said Betty.  "Why wasn't one of us a
genius, to give some point to life?  Just because it is so monotonous,
we are monotonous too--not the least tiny atom of a bit of anything
uncommon about us."  Frances laughed.

"I don't know about being uncommon," she said; "but assuredly, Betty,
nobody could accuse you of being monotonous!  Why, you are never in the
same mood for three minutes together!"

"But her moods are monotonous," said Eira.  "She's either up in the
skies about nothing at all, or down in the depths about--no, I can't say
that there's often nothing at all as an excuse for descending in that
direction."

Thus chattering, with the pleasant certainty of mutual understanding,
they had walked on for some distance, when a glance at the red autumn
sun already nearing the horizon made Frances decide that it was time to
turn.

"It's always extra dull to go back the way we came," said Betty, "and
to-day it's my fault, for I do want to pick up my beautiful leaves and
berries."

"We must walk quickly, then," said Frances; "or you'll scarcely be able
to distinguish your nosegay.  Dear me! the days are getting depressingly
short already."

"And then they will begin to get long again, and you will be saying how
cheering it is," said Betty.  "You are so terribly good, Francie.  I
quite enjoy when I catch you in the least little ghost of a grumble.  It
really exhilarates me."  A few minutes' rapid walking brought them to
the steep path again.  Then they crossed the road and were soon over a
stile and in the copse.  None too soon--here under the shade of the
trees it was almost dark already, and Betty's soft plaintive voice was
heard in lamentation.

"I don't believe we shall ever find the bundle," she said.  "Francie,
Eira, do help me--can you remember if it was as far on as this, or--"

"Oh, farther, some way farther," interrupted Eira.  "Much nearer the
other stile.  Don't you see--"

She started and did not finish her sentence, for at that moment a figure
suddenly made its appearance on a side-path joining the rather wider one
where the sisters were.  And, though it was almost too dark to
distinguish the action, a hand was instinctively raised to remove the
wearer's cap, and a voice, recognisable though not familiar, was heard
in greeting.

"Good-evening," it said.  "Can I be of any use?" for its owner had heard
enough to guess that the sisters had met with some small mishap.

"Oh," replied Betty, who was the first to identify the newcomer, "no,
thank you.  It's only Frances," with a significant change of tone, "it's
Mr Littlewood."

Frances, self-possessed as usual, came forward quietly and held out her
hand.

"We are hunting for some lost treasures," she said, "which it is too
dark to distinguish."

"Anything of value?" he said quickly, glancing about him.

His tone of concern was too much for Eira's gravity.  A smothered laugh
added to Mr Littlewood's perplexity, for Eira's person had till now
been hidden behind some bushes where she was groping to help her sister
in her search.  Frances turned upon her rather sharply, for, despite her
comforting tone to Betty two evenings before, she had no wish for any
further gaucherie on the part of her sisters.

"What are you laughing at, Eira?" she said, and then, without waiting
for an answer, she went on in explanation to Mr Littlewood: "Oh, no,
thank you; nothing of value in one sense.  It's only a large bunch of
shaded leaves and berries that we gathered on our way out: they were too
heavy to carry, so we hid them somewhere about here, and now we can't
find them--it has got so dark."

Mr Littlewood smiled.

Perhaps it was fortunate that only Frances was near enough to him to
perceive it.  He was turning towards the hedges where the two younger
girls were still poking about, when a joyful cry from Betty broke the
momentary silence.

"Here they are!" she exclaimed.  "Help me to get them out, Eira;" which
Eira did so effectually that there was no occasion for the young man's
offered help.

And once laden with her booty, a share of which she bestowed on her
sister, Betty hurried onward, Eira accompanying her, leaving Frances to
dispose of Mr Littlewood as she thought well.

He did not intend to be disposed of just at once.  As Frances walked on
slowly towards home in her sisters' rear, he suited his step to hers
with an evident intention of beguiling the way with a little
conversation.

"I'm afraid," he began, with a touch of hesitation which scarcely seemed
consistent with his ordinary tone and bearing, "I am afraid that your--
your sister--I do not know if she is the youngest?--has not quite
forgiven me for my stupid speech the other day."

Frances tried to answer lightly, but in her heart she felt annoyed with
Betty.

"I hope she is not so silly," she replied.  "More probably she is still
vexed with herself for having taken offence at--at really nothing."

"Nothing in intention, most assuredly," he replied, with a touch of
relief in his tone.  "But still, she _was_ annoyed.  And--if I am not
making bad worse--would you mind giving me some idea, Miss Morion, what
it was that she referred to?  In case, you see, of my people coming down
here, as seems very probable, it would be just as well--it might avoid
friction if I understood just a little how the land lies."  Frances
hesitated.

"It is such an old story," she said, "and rather an involved one, and
really not of any interest except to ourselves!"

"I don't know that," he replied quickly.  "To tell you the truth--_you_
mustn't be vexed with me--I asked Milne about it, but he was rather
muddled, I think.  Possibly he scarcely felt free to explain it, so he
ended up by saying he was too busy to go into it then, all of which, of
course, whetted my curiosity."

There was something _naif_, almost boyish, in his manner, which Frances
had not before been conscious of, and it gave her a feeling of greater
sympathy with him.

"There is really no secret or mystery of any kind," she said.  "I mean
nothing that I could have the least hesitation in telling you, or any
one who cared to hear.  Though a mystery there is, a commonplace enough
one too, I suppose: a lost or hidden will!  It was long ago--" but by
this time they were at the stile, over which the two younger girls had
already clambered, and now stood waiting on the road, evidently
expecting that at this juncture their companion would take himself off.

"It's getting so chilly, Frances," said Betty, "I think we had better
walk quicker."  With which faint approach to apology for her abruptness,
she was starting off, when Mr Littlewood interposed.

"Why don't you go through the park?" he said.  "I thought you always
did.  It must make quite half a mile's difference."

"Yes," said Frances, "it does.  Come back to the lodge, Betty and Eira!"
for she felt it would look too ridiculous to depart from their usual
habit merely because this young man happened to be staying a night or
two at the big house.  Furthermore, she was conscious that her companion
was really anxious to hear what she had to tell, and if she and the
others went home by the road, he would scarcely have a pretext for
accompanying them.

"Oh, Frances," said Betty, "I think at this time of day the road is much
the best.  It's so gloomy in the park."

"Only the last little bit," replied her sister, with a certain
intonation which the younger ones understood, "and it is considerably
shorter."

"And," interposed Mr Littlewood, so quickly as to seem almost eager,
"you will of course allow me to see you through the gloomy part."

"Thank you," said Frances courteously, "it is not that we are the least
afraid.  We are far too well accustomed to looking after ourselves, and
this is not a part of the country much frequented by tramps, I am glad
to say."

She had turned already, however, in the direction of the big gates, so
there was no occasion for further discussion, and the old programme was
soon resumed, Betty and Eira hurrying on well in front, though not so
far in advance but that a faint sound of laughter--laughter with a touch
of mischief or mockery in it which made their elder sister's cheeks burn
with annoyance--from time to time was carried back by the breeze to the
ears of the two following more slowly.  This made Frances the more
anxious to divert her companion's attention from her sisters.

"I really must pull them up when we get home," she thought to herself.
"They will have no one but themselves to thank for it if Mr Littlewood
puts them down as a couple of silly school-girls."

She was turning over in her mind how best to revert to the subject of
their conversation before Betty's interruption, when, to her relief, her
companion himself led the way to it.

"Won't you go on with what you were telling me?" he said, with a slight
touch of diffidence, "that is to say, if you are sure you don't in the
least mind doing so.  Perhaps you wouldn't think so of me," he went on,
"but there's something of the antiquary about me.  Old bits of family
history always have a fascination for me."

"_This_ bit," said Frances, "is, as I was saying, rather commonplace.
It is simply that an ancestress of ours--no, scarcely an ancestress--a
certain Elizabeth Morion, a grand-aunt of my father's, in whom the whole
of the family possessions at that time centred, played _his_ father
false by promising what she never did.  That is, by leaving a will which
gave everything to the elder of her two nephews, the--yes, the
great-grandfather of your--" here she hesitated and looked up
inquiringly.  "What is the present Mr Morion to you, by-the-by?" she
asked.

"Nothing, nothing whatever," said Mr Littlewood.  "A brother's
brother-in-law is no relation."

"N-no," Frances half agreed, "but it's a connection.  Let me see, your
brother married his sister?"

"Yes, that's it," he answered.  "Ryder Morion's sister is my
sister-in-law.  There, now, that puts it neatly.  Then, this capricious
spinster broke her word to your grandfather, did she?"

"Well, yes, we must suppose so, unless--there has always been the
alternative possibility that she _did_ make the right will, and that it
got lost or mislaid."

"H-m-m!" murmured Mr Littlewood thoughtfully.  "I suppose that does
happen sometimes, but rarely, I should think.  I don't know if I have
peculiarly little faith in human nature, but in a general way there's
been something worse than accident at work in such cases.  Was the old
lady on good terms with both nephews?"

"I believe so," Frances replied.  "Though she was much more in awe of
the elder.  He had made an extremely good marriage, and, besides coming
into the more important Morion place, his wife had heaps of money.  I
have always thought," she went on, "that great-grand-aunt Elizabeth was
a little afraid of telling him that she had left this property, small as
it is, away from him.  For, you see, it has the family name; yet, elder
branch though they are, its owners have never cared for it.  So," with a
slightly rising colour which it was too dark for him to see, and a
half-deprecating tone in her voice which he was quick to hear, "there is
some excuse for the way we feel about it, though certainly Betty need
not have blurted it out as she did the other day for your benefit!"

"On the contrary," exclaimed her companion, "I enter most thoroughly
into her feelings.  And it is delightful to come across some one that
isn't afraid to speak out her mind.  But--now, do scold me if I am
indiscreet--considering these very natural feelings, which your father
must realise to the full, is it not rather a pity to have settled down
here, in constant, hourly view of what should have been your home?"

"Well, yes," said Frances, "on the face of it I can understand it
striking you so, but circumstances often lead up to the very things one
would originally have avoided.  So it has been with us.  My grandfather
bought our present little house, which did not belong to the Morions
though surrounded by the property, for a very small sum: he kept a sort
of foothold in the place I fancy, in case--just _in case_--of the will,
in whose existence he never lost faith, turning up; and also perhaps out
of a sort of not unnatural self-assertion.  And when papa retired--he
was many years in India, you know, and married rather late--it seemed
the best place for us to come to.  We three were tiny children, and
Anglo-Indians of all people believe in country air for their children,
and here we have been ever since, our income, unfortunately, having
creased as time went on, instead of improving."

For a moment or two Mr Littlewood walked on in silence.  He was really
of an impressionable nature, despite appearances, and the girl's simple
words told him even more than she was conscious of.

"Dull little lives," he thought to himself.  "Poor children!  If my
people come down here they must try to do something for them, though I
see it must be done with tact.  Dear me! what a clumsy fool I must have
seemed to that sweet little Betty."

Then turning to Frances:

"Thank you," he said gently, "thank you so much for telling me about it.
I quite see the whole thing.  I wonder," he went on, with a slight
laugh, "I wonder if anything will turn up some day?"

"Oh, no," said Frances, "it's far too long ago now.  We amuse ourselves
sometimes by building castles in the air about it, but I am not sure
that it is a very wholesome occupation."

"It would be very good fun," said the young man, "if our living in the
house somehow led to any discovery!  By-the-by," he added suddenly, "it
would make a splendid groundwork for a ghost story.  If the old lady is
repentant for breaking her word, she shouldn't be having a peaceful time
of it; or even if she were not to blame, and the will were in existence,
that's the sort of thing ghosts should come back to set right, isn't
it?"

"Well, yes," said Frances, "I suppose so, but the queer thing about
ghosts is that they so much more often appear for no reason than for a
sensible one."  But there was a certain repression in her tone which
returned to his mind afterwards.

They had crossed the park by this time, and were close to the door into
the road, where a little way farther on stood Fir Cottage.  The voices
of the two girls in front sounded softly now, and here in this more
sheltered spot the evening breeze had grown gentle and caressing in its
dainty touch.  The moon, too, had come out, and the whole feeling of the
evening breathed peace and restfulness.

"It scarcely seems like late autumn now, does it?" said Frances.  "And,
oh!" she went on, "isn't the glimpse of the old church pretty, Mr
Littlewood?"

From where they stood, the windows at one side and the ivy-covered tower
of the venerable building, more picturesque than beautiful in the full
daylight, had caught the silvery gleam.

"Yes," he agreed, "it looks at its best, doesn't it?  If Ryder was more
here, he'd have gone in for restoring it by now; and, inside, I must
say, it would be an improvement, though it would almost seem a pity to
tear down that ivy.  I looked over it this morning."

"Oh, did you?" said Frances.  "It is getting to be almost a survival.
The day must come, I suppose, for overhauling it, if it is to hold its
own much longer.  Papa says the masonry is becoming very bad.  I should
like to see it really well done, though I am heathen enough to have a
queer affection for it as it stands."

"Do the visitors from Craig Bay come up here?"  Mr Littlewood inquired.

"Not regularly," Frances replied.  "There is a very modern, tidy little
church near the station.  Were you thinking of funds for restoring this
one when you spoke of the visitors?  Our old vicar is too old, I
suppose, to take any interest in doing it up, otherwise something might
be done."

"Oh, _funds_ can't be the difficulty," said Mr Littlewood quickly.
"Ryder Morion has far more money than he knows what to do with.  I dare
say he has restored other people's churches more than once; that sort of
thing is rather in his line."

"Then, why doesn't he begin at home?" asked a clear voice, startling
them a little.  It was Eira's.  Frances and Mr Littlewood, gazing at
the church, which stood just outside the park wall in the opposite
direction from Fir Cottage, had not observed that the two younger girls
had retraced their steps some little way, and now were standing close
behind them.

Again Frances felt annoyed, though she could not help being glad that
this time the offender was not Betty.  But her companion was on his
guard: he answered gently, in a matter-of-fact tone, of itself
conciliatory, "You may well ask.  I shall tell Ryder what I think about
it when I see him," he said.  "Why, he has never been here that any of
you can remember, has he?"  There was no immediate reply.  It was,
naturally enough, a trifle mortifying that on the few occasions--rare
enough, it must be allowed--on which the owner of Craig-Morion had
visited the place, he had taken no notice, direct or indirect, of his
kindred at Fir Cottage.  But the three sisters were nothing if not
candid--candid and ingenuous in a very unconventional degree--and the
silence was almost immediately broken by Frances' clear, quiet voice.

"Oh, yes," she said, "he has been here several times for a few days
together, but we don't know him at all, not even by sight."  Again Mr
Littlewood anathematised his bad luck.

"Really?" he said, with apparent carelessness.

"I can't call him exactly a genial person," he went on, "and you know, I
suppose, that his wife died a few years ago, which has not made him less
of a recluse.  All the same,"--for the young man was on common ground
with his new friends so far as a constitutional love of candour
goes--"all the same, I'm very much attached to him.  He's been a good
friend to me in more ways than one."

"I'm glad to hear it," said Frances.  "One can never be without interest
in the head of one's family, it seems to me."

They had been strolling on during the last few moments towards their own
gate, and, there arrived, Frances held out her hand.

"Good-night, Mr Littlewood," she said simply, adding no invitation to
come in with them.

"Good-night," he repeated, shaking hands with each in turn, "but--it
need not be `Good-bye,' as I don't leave till the day after to-morrow.
Do you think Lady Emma would allow me to look in some time in the
afternoon?"

"Y-yes, I will tell her," was Frances' rather ambiguous reply; and as
the young man re-entered the park, his thoughts busied themselves with
the glimpse, the almost pathetic glimpse, he had had into these young
lives.

CHAPTER SIX.

"NOT AT HOME."

"What in the world," said Betty, "what in the whole world, Frances, did
you get to talk about to him, all that long way across the park?"

"Really, Betty," said Frances, for _her_, almost crossly, "you are too
bad!  Did I elect to have a _tete-a-tete_ with Mr Littlewood?  If it
were worth while I might blame you and Eira seriously for the way you
behaved--like two--"

Betty was on the point of interrupting with some vehement repetition of
the dislike she had taken, and that not causelessly, to their uninvited
visitor, when a significative tug at her sleeve from Eira startled her
into silence, though thereby Frances' intended lecture made no further
way, as the interruption came from Eira instead.

"You are not to say `silly school-girls,'" she exclaimed.  "I know
that's what you were going to say.  We simply walked on because three
women and one man seem--are--so stupid.  Why does it always seem as if
there were too many women?"

"In a family where there are no brothers it couldn't very well seem
anything else," replied Frances, rather shortly; but she did not resume
her remonstrances, for by this time they were by the front door, and she
hurried into the drawing-room, where, as she expected, tea, and a
somewhat ruffled Lady Emma, were awaiting them.

"You are very late, why--" were the words that greeted her; but before
hearing more, Eira softly closed the door, holding back Betty for a
moment's confabulation in the hall.

"What is it, Eira?" said Betty impatiently.  "You tug my sleeve, and
then you pull me back when I'm tired and want some tea.  What is it you
want to say?"

"We had better leave our cloaks outside," said Eira, rapidly unbuttoning
her own garment as she spoke.  "What I want to say can't be said in a
moment, it is something too tremendous!  I only felt that I must give
you a hint to be more careful in your way of speaking about Mr
Littlewood."

"Why?" asked Betty, opening her dark eyes to their widest.

"Because," said Eira, "I am not at all sure but what a most wonderful
thing is going to happen, or, for that matter, has happened.  Betty,
suppose--just suppose--that _he_ has fallen in love with Frances."

Betty gasped, unable for a moment to articulate.

"That man!" she at last ejaculated.

"Well, why not?" returned Eira.  "_You've_ taken a dislike to him of
some kind, or you fancy you have, and of course I don't mean to say that
I think he's good enough, but still--but I can't speak about it just
now, only take care!"

She had certainly succeeded in taking Betty's breath away.  The girl
would scarcely have been capable of a coherent reply, but she was not
called upon for one.  The drawing-room door opened, and their elder
sister's voice was heard.

"Do come in to tea," she said, "and, Eira, you run and tell papa it is
ready.  I had no idea it was so late," she went on.  "Poor mamma has
been wondering what was keeping us," she added, in a deprecatory tone,
as Betty followed her into the room.

"We can't blame Mr Littlewood for it," said Betty eagerly; "we were
walking almost all the time we were talking to him, so _he_ can't have
delayed us!"

"Mr Littlewood?" repeated Lady Emma, in the high-pitched tone which
with her was one of the signs of disturbed equanimity.  "Mr Littlewood?
What is she talking about?  You don't intend to say that you have been
a walk with a--perfect stranger!  Frances, what does this mean?  I
insist on your telling me."

"I have not the very _least_ objection to telling you, mamma," said
Frances.  "In fact, I have a message for you from Mr Littlewood, which
I was just going to deliver."

Her tone was absolutely respectful, but there was a touch of coldness in
it, not without its effect on her mother.  In her heart Lady Emma not
only trusted her eldest daughter entirely, but looked up to her in a way
which showed her own involuntary consciousness of the superiority in
many ways of the girl's character to her own.  But any approach to
acknowledgment of this real underlying admiration and respect would have
seemed to her so strange and paradoxical, considering their mutual
relations, as to be almost equivalent to a reversal of the fifth
commandment.

She contented herself with replying in a calmer tone, "Did you meet Mr
Littlewood, then?  Naturally I can't understand things till you explain
them."

"Yes," Frances replied, "we met him on our way home, not in the park,
but in the little copse on the Massingham road."

"I am glad you were not in the park," said Lady Emma.

"But we did come through it after meeting him," said Frances.  "It would
have been affected to do otherwise just because he is staying at the
house, and I suppose, as he was walking our way, he could scarcely have
avoided walking on beside us.  He asked me if he might call to say
good-bye to you, mamma, to-morrow afternoon?"

The last words, unfortunately as it turned out, were overheard by Mr
Morion as he entered the room.  His wife, taught by long experience,
made no reply, so the message remained uncommented upon, unless a
doubtful grunt from the depths of the arm-chair where the master of the
house had settled himself could have been taken as referring to it.

Silence, not an unusual state of things at Fir Cottage, ensued, and as
soon as the two younger girls could escape from the room they hastened
to their own quarters, a small and in wintertime decidedly dreary little
chamber, which in old days had been used as their schoolroom.  It looked
out to the side of the house and was ill lighted.  But its propinquity
to the kitchen was, practically speaking, in cold weather no small boon,
preventing its ever becoming very chilly, for, though it boasted a
fireplace, the restrictions as to fuel formed one of the most
disagreeable economies in practice at Fir Cottage.  In summer, on the
other hand, the schoolroom was apt to become unbearably hot; but in
summer, if it is anything like a normal season, and in the country, life
usually presents itself under a very different aspect.  Such things as
fires and chilblains do not enter into one's calculations; one's own
room, in nine cases out of ten, is a pleasant resort, and even if not
so, are there not out-of-doors boudoirs by the dozen?

Dreary enough, though, the little room looked this evening, when by the
light of one candle Betty and Eira established themselves as comfortably
as circumstances allowed of, that is to say, on two little low
basket-chairs, dismissed from the drawing-room long ago as too shabby,
which had been one of their few luxuries in lessons days.  Just now,
also, the extraordinary possibilities which they were about to discuss
so filled their imaginations that the uninviting surroundings over which
they often groaned would have passed unnoticed had they been ten times
worse.  And worse they might have been most assuredly!  For one fairy
gift was shared alike by the three sisters--the gift of dainty
orderliness; and where this reigns one may defy poverty to do its worst,
for with such a background the tiniest attempt at prettiness or grace is
trebled in pleasing effect.

"Eira," said Betty in an almost awe-struck whisper, "do you really,
really mean what you said?  Do you think it _possible_?  And--" with a
touch of hesitation, quaint and almost touching in its contrast to the
outspoken treatment of such subjects by the typical maiden of to-day,
"if--if he had--fallen in love with Frances, _could_ she ever care for
him, I wonder?"

A dreamy questioning came into her eyes as she spoke.

"I don't see why she shouldn't," said Eira.  "Of course neither you nor
I can picture to ourselves _any_ man being good enough for Frances, so
we need not expect the impossible.  But taking that for granted, I don't
see why she mightn't get to care for this man.  Indeed, she has liked
him from the beginning, and stuck up for him against you.  And as men
go--of course we really don't know any, but I suppose _some_ books are
more or less true to life?--as men go, I suppose any one would consider
him very attractive."

"Perhaps," said Betty gently, for she was already beginning to see her
_bete noire_ through very different spectacles, "perhaps.  And then,"
she added, with an amusing little air of profound worldly wisdom, "he
must be rich, and made a good deal of, and all that sort of thing, and
for a man of that kind to find out what a girl really _is_, in spite of
her plain simple life, and way of dressing, and all that--though, of
course, nobody can say that Francie is not good-looking, far more than
merely pretty--don't you think, Eira, that that of itself shows that he
must have a great deal of good in him?"

"Yes," Eira agreed, "I do.  Though it doesn't do to be too humble,
Betty, even about external things.  Remember, however poor we are, that
as far as family and ancestry go we could scarcely be better.  No one
need think it a condescension to marry a Morion."

"Of course," said Betty, speaking half absently.  "Oh, Eira, how
interesting it will be when he comes to-morrow!  Do let us think what we
can do to--to show everything to advantage.  If we _could_ persuade
Francie to sing, for her voice is so lovely!"

"She never would," said Eira, "not to any one like that, who is pretty
sure to be a good judge, for she knows her voice is untrained.  Why, she
has never had a lesson in her life!  Can't we do anything about her
_dress_, however?  She always looks nice, perfectly nice, but almost too
plain, too severe, as if she had retired from the world and was above
such things as dress and looks."

"Perhaps it's just that that attracts him in her," said Betty--"the
difference, I mean, between her and the fashionable girls he is
accustomed to."

"Yes," replied Eira, "up to a certain point that's all very well, but no
man would like to have a wife, however beautiful she was, who did not to
some extent look like other people.  Betty, how could we contrive to
make her wear her own black silk blouse to-morrow?  It is even more
becoming to her than ours are, and a little handsomer.  Don't you
remember her saying when we got them that hers mustn't look too young?
She is rather absurd about her age, for certainly she doesn't look older
than twenty-four at most."

"I wonder how old Mr Littlewood is?" said Betty, thoughtfully: "I'm
_afraid_ not more than twenty-seven; and Frances is one of those people
who would think it almost a crime to marry a man younger than herself."

"We can easily keep off the subject," said Eira.  "Indeed, after he has
left, I think we had better say very little about him, though we may go
on planning all the time by ourselves, you know, how to help it on in
every possible way, once he comes back again.

"Oh, Betty!" and she clasped her hands in excitement, "isn't it nice to
have something to make plans about?"

Somewhat to their surprise and still more to their satisfaction, the two
girls found their sister, the next morning, much more amenable to their
tactfully administered suggestions than they had anticipated.

"Yes," she said simply, "I should like to make the room nice, and
ourselves too, so that he may take as favourable an impression as
possible back with him to his people and the other Morions, and you will
be careful, Betty dear, won't you, not to hoist your flag of war again?"

"Don't be afraid," said Betty, kissing her sister as she spoke.  "I see
now that I behaved idiotically, and I see too how kind he was to take it
as he did."

In their uncertainty as to the time at which their acquaintance might
call, the sisters decided on taking their usual walk in the morning, and
remaining about the premises after luncheon.  There was not much fear of
their mother's not being at home, in the literal as well as conventional
sense of the words, for Lady Emma was not given to constitutionals, or,
except on the rarest occasions, to returning the formal calls of the few
neighbours with whom she was on visiting terms, and in her heart she was
rather gratified than otherwise at the stranger's overtures, due, as she
imagined, to some extent at least, to the impression made upon him by
her own cold dignity of manner, seconded, however childishly, by Betty's
outburst of self or family assertion.

All, therefore, promised propitiously for the expected visit of
farewell, though at luncheon a not unfamiliar gloom was to be discerned
on the paternal countenance which sent a thrill through the hearts of
the two younger girls, Betty's especially, the most sensitive to such
misgivings.

"Let us keep out of his way," she whispered to Eira as they left the
dining-room: "if he had the least, the very least, idea that we wanted
to stay at home he would be sending us off on some message to that
wretched chemist's, as sure as fate!"

"But how about Frances?" said Eira, in alarm.

"I think it's all right," Betty replied.  "Both she and mamma, though
they don't perhaps say so, want it all to be nice, I feel sure.  I saw
Frances giving some finishing touches to the drawing-room, which really
looks its best, and I heard mamma saying something about tea cakes, and
you know how in reality mamma depends on Frances: _she_ won't let her go
out, even for papa."

Mr Morion's "den," as in jocund moments he condescended to call it,
opened unfortunately on to the hall, almost opposite the drawing-room.
In some moods he had a curious and inconvenient habit of sitting with
the door open, and though he sometimes complained of advancing years
bringing loss of hearing, there were times at which his ears seemed
really preternaturally acute, and this afternoon, thanks to this
peculiarity, aided possibly by some occult intuition of anticipation in
the air, he was somewhat on the _qui-vive_ for--he knew not what.
Suffice to say he was in a raw state of nervous irritability, ready to
quarrel with his own shadow, could that meek and trodden-upon phantom
have responded to his need.

Four o'clock struck, the light was rapidly waning, when he issued an
order to whatever daughter was within hearing to have tea hastened, as
he wanted it earlier than usual.

It was Frances who heard him, and she at once rang the bell, though not
without a silent regret as to this unusual precipitancy.

"For Mr Littlewood is pretty certain not to call before half-past," she
reflected, "and afternoon-tea looks so untidy when it has been up some
time."

Some little delay, however, ensued.  It was between a quarter and twenty
minutes past the hour when she summoned her sisters, hidden till then in
their little sitting-room.

"Has he come?" whispered Betty.

Frances shook her head.

"No," she replied, in the same voice, "but papa would have tea extra
early.  Help me to keep the table tidy."

Mr Morion, by this time, had taken possession of an arm-chair by the
drawing-room fire, which he pulled forward out of its place, as he was
feeling chilly.  As Frances was handing him his cup of tea the front
door bell rang.  A thrill of expectancy passed through Betty and Eira.

"Who can that be?" said their father, in a tone of annoyance.

"It is probably Mr Littlewood," said Lady Emma quietly, "calling to say
good-bye.  I was expecting him."

"Very strange, then, that you didn't mention it to me," replied her
husband acridly.  "Am I in a fit state of health to be troubled with
visitors to-day?  Not that it signifies: he need not be admitted."

"Papa," said Frances, in a tone of remonstrance, "it will seem very
rude--he asked if he might call--we met him yesterday, and--"

But the parlour-maid's approaching footsteps were already to be heard in
the hall, and, without taking the slightest notice of his daughters
words, Mr Morion rose from his seat, and, opening the door, gave his
orders in a decided voice.

"Parker," he said, "if that is a visitor, say at once that her ladyship
is not at home, and that I am not at home either."

No one spoke.  In the perfect silence the short colloquy which ensued at
the front door was distinctly heard.  Then came the sound of its
shutting, and Parker appeared in the drawing-room with a card on a
salver, which bore the name of Mr Horace Littlewood, an address, and
added, in pencil in one corner, the letters, "_p.p.c_."

Mr Morion threw it on to the table without comment; then turned sharply
on Frances with a demand for a second cup of tea.

Frances handed it to him.  Her face had grown scarlet--a most unusual
occurrence with her.  Lady Emma leaned back in her chair with an
expressionless face.  The younger girls, sitting together, clasped each
other's hand secretly in mute, inexpressible disappointment and
indignation.  Frances, crossing the room on the pretext of handing them
their tea, glanced at them with such sympathy in her eyes as all but
upset their outward composure.  It is, indeed, to be questioned if in
Eira's case at least her tea was not mingled with unperceived tears; and
as soon as they dared to do so all three sisters left the room.

Two or three days later came the climax to the episode which had broken
the monotony of life at Fir Cottage, in anticipation even more than in
actuality.  For Frances, returning from one of the endless expeditions
to the village from which as often as possible she saved the younger
ones, came into their little sitting-room with a half-rueful,
half-comical expression on her face.

"My dear pets," she said, "I feel half-inclined to laugh at myself for
minding what I have just heard, but for once I must own to absurd
disappointment.  Mr Webb has just told me that the Littlewoods have
given up thoughts of taking Craig-Morion."

Betty and Eira gazed at her speechless.

"I had hoped," she went on, "that it would have brought some brightness,
change, at least, and variety into your lives, you poor dears."  They
glanced at each other.

"Dear Frances," said Betty at last.

"But how little--oh! how little," she said to Eira, when they were alone
again, "Frances suspects why we mind so much!"

Eira was by this time quietly wiping her eyes.

"Betty," she replied, "from this moment I give up castle-building for
ever.  Let us settle down to be three old maids--they always go in
threes--the sooner the better."

"Yes," Betty agreed, "and _some_ day, I suppose, Eira, we shall find out
how to make some use of our lives."

"I don't know," said Eira.  "I'm not as good as you and Frances.  Just
now I don't feel as if I cared!"

CHAPTER SEVEN.

THE CURTAINED PEW.

There is a commonplace saying that old people love best the springtime
of the year, as it brings back the brighter memories of their youth, and
to a certain extent the sense of buoyancy which fades with increasing
age; while the young, on the other hand, love the autumn with its tender
sadness in contrast to their own joyous anticipations.  But generalities
are, after all, but generalities; there was little in the lives of the
three Morion daughters this autumn to induce them to turn with any
sentimentality or even sentiment to outside nature in its fall; there
was too much real greyness, too much real endurance of daily, hourly
depressing circumstances for them to long for anything but change.

"It wouldn't be so bad, it really wouldn't," said Eira, "if it were the
spring, but another long, long winter, when we can be so much less out
of doors; and to have had the glimpse of a chance of a break in it all
only seems to have made it worse.  Surely, Frances, without wrong
complaining and grumbling, isn't it the case that we are peculiarly
unlucky in some ways--that our lives are, I mean?  Now, supposing we had
had to work for our living, we should probably have been far happier,
don't you think?"

Frances hesitated in her reply, and a shadow clouded her face.
Unwittingly enough, Eira had touched on perplexing ground, all too
familiar to the eldest sister's thoughtful mind.  Had she done wrong or
unwisely in regard to her younger sisters?  Not very much, perhaps, had
been practically in her power, but, still, had she given too much
consideration to the right of their all too quickly passing youth, the
right of happiness, of enjoyment, of the many things that only during
youth can normally exist, and too little to the actual formation of
character, to the development of their individual capacities?  Had she
been too sorry for them, or shown it too much?  Strange reflections,
more maternal than sisterly, when the actual small amount of difference
in their ages was remembered.  But since little girlhood Frances Morion
had felt herself more mother than sister to the two younger ones.

"That's a big question, Eira," she said, trying to speak lightly.  "We
must believe that the circumstances of every life are, to a certain
point at least, meant--intended."  And her voice changed as she went on,
more slowly and seriously: "The puzzle is to find out the point at which
we should resist them, and not carry resignation or submission too far."

"There's not much puzzle about it for us," said Betty.  "We are pretty
clearly hedged in!  Papa and mamma would _never_ allow us to take any
sort of line of our own."

"Then, for the present at least," said Frances, "the line is drawn, and
I suppose if by the end of life one had learnt perfect patience one
would have learnt a good deal; but still--"

"Still what?" said Eira.

"I am not quite ready to say what is in my mind," replied her sister.
"Perhaps it will come when I have thought more about it.  Roughly
speaking, I was considering if there is nothing that we can do--nothing
that I can help you two to do, in the way of extending your interest a
little, even as things are.  And, of course, the best way to do that is
to look out for what we can reach of helping others."

"We _do_ do what we can, I think, Francie," said Eira, in a tone of some
disappointment.  "We have our Sunday-school classes, and Betty's blind
old man and my bedridden old woman that we go to read to; but beyond
that there are always the old difficulties: papa's opposition and--want
of money.  I'm sure now we could do a lot at Scaling Harbour, among the
fisher-children--such a terribly rough set--_if_ we had money and a
little more freedom."

"I know," said Frances quietly; but, though for the moment the subject
dropped, she thought the more.

And the next few weeks gave her both leisure and cause for
ever-deepening reflection.

The weather was unusually and monotonously disagreeable.  Raw, grey, and
as cold as weather can be when it just falls short of the stimulus and
exhilaration which, to the young and strong at least, usually accompany
frost.  Letters, rare at all times, dwindled down to almost none.  Even
a family chronicle from their ex-governess, now a settler's wife in the
Far West, was hailed almost enthusiastically as a welcome distraction.

"There is only one thing in the world that I have to be thankful for,"
said Eira one day, when, defiant of wind and threatening rain, they
started for their afternoon walk, "and that is, that, thanks to you,
Francie, and all the wonderful things you've done for me and made me do,
my chilblains haven't got bad again--not since--oh, yes! do you
remember?--not since the time Mr Littlewood was here."

"That's _one_ good thing," said Frances, "one very good thing.  I
sometimes think I wouldn't have made a bad woman-doctor."

"What a horrible idea!" said Betty, with a shudder.  "I hope it doesn't
mean that you ever think of becoming a hospital nurse.  If you did, I
should just simply drown myself, and make Eira do the same!"

"Hush!" said Frances.  "Don't say such things, even in fun.  No, I've no
ambition of the kind--not while I've got my own place at home, any way.
But it's rather curious you should have said that, Betty, for an idea
has come into my head of something we could do for the people at Scaling
Harbour, which really would cost us nothing, or next to nothing.  It
struck me when Mrs Ramsay"--(the ex-governess)--"sent me that
commission for a few simple surgical books, to teach her to know what to
do out there in case of accidents, which she says are always happening."

"And certainly, by all accounts," said Eira, with interest, "they are
always happening at Scaling Harbour.  But what is your idea?"

"It is not very definite yet," said Frances.  "Only the first steps
towards it.  What I am thinking of is, if we could use part of this
winter, when we have so much time on our hands, for teaching ourselves
the elements of surgical aid, and then when we have, to some extent,
mastered it, to give simple little lectures--lessons, rather--to the
fisher-women down there once a week or once a fortnight."

Eira's eyes brightened.

"Yes," she said, "I would like that!  There is something, I think, very
attractive about those people; something a trifle wild, almost foreign.
They do say, you know," she went on, "that there's a strain of Spanish
descent among them; and, in any case, they are quite unlike the inland
people about here, who are peculiarly dull and phlegmatic."

"_I_ should be frightened to go much among them," said Betty.

"Possibly," went on Frances, "we might persuade mamma to let two or
three of them come up to us a few times.  We could teach them a little
of the practical part in the first place, and get to know them, and then
they might talk about it to their neighbours.  To begin with, all we
want is one or two sensible books, or possibly, a set of ambulance
lessons by correspondence.  I think I have heard of such things."

"They would be sure to cost a lot of money," said Betty, who was
evidently not inclined to take an optimistic view of the scheme.

"Don't be such a wet blanket, Betty," said Eira.  "We can but try."

"And even if we couldn't manage it just now," said Frances, "something
might make it feasible after a time.  It might prove the getting in the
thin end of the wedge; you know papa and mamma sometimes come round to
things if we wait long enough for--for them to get accustomed to the
idea, as it were."

"And when that time comes," said Betty dolorously, "all the interest of
the thing we wanted has gone."

"O Betty, do not croak so," said Eira; "it'll depend on ourselves to
keep up the interest by talking about it."

"Yes," said Frances, "you are quite right, though I _have_ noticed that
pleasant things seldom come quickly, and troubles and disappointments
do.  It isn't often that one has some quite delightful surprise!  Nice
things either come in bits, so that you scarcely realise the niceness,
or else they are pulled back when you feel sure of them, so that, even
if they come after all, the bloom seems taken off."

"Dear me, Frances," said Eira, glancing up at her with a smile, "you are
quite a pessimist for once."

"No--no," returned Frances.  "I don't mean to be.  I was really thinking
about it to myself and wondering why it is so.  When there appears to be
a sort of rule about anything, you can't help beginning to hunt for the
reason of it."

"The rule with us," said Betty, still in the same plaintive tone,
"according to the old saying, is no rule, for the exceptions never
appear."

Both Frances and Eira laughed.

"Why, Betty, you are becoming quite paradoxical, inspired by
melancholy," exclaimed the latter; but not the ghost of a smile was to
be raised this afternoon on Betty's pretty little face.

"I suppose it's very wrong of me," she said, "but I do feel cross and
dull.  Even these horrid, dirty roads, and this detestable wind, add to
it all.  It's scarcely worth while coming out, except that there's
nothing to do indoors."

"I really think it's no use attempting a long walk," said Frances.  "Let
us turn here, and get home by the other road, past the church; it will
be a little more sheltered."

"If the church were open and decently warm," said Eira, "like the little
new one in the village, it would be rather nice to go in there
sometimes.  I'm not imaginative, but I can fancy things in there.  Even
the mustiness, the very _old_ smell, carries one back in a fascinating
way.  I always begin thinking of great-grand-aunt Elizabeth, though I've
no love for her!  But she must have been young once upon a time, and
pretty and lovable perhaps."

"Perhaps she was," agreed Frances, "though her position--put in her
brother's place--makes one feel as if she may have been unsisterly and
designing.  But then, no one knows the rights of the story, or what her
brother had done for his father to disinherit him."

They were nearing the church by this time; as the old porch came within
view, Eira gave a little cry of satisfaction.

"It is open, I declare," she said.  "Do let us go in, Francie.  I hate
going home before there is a prospect of tea, and it's too early for
that yet."

Her sisters made no objection, and they entered.  Inside it felt
comparatively warm, and, though at first almost dark, as their eyes got
accustomed to the gloom they caught sight of the old vicar, standing in
a pew near the chancel, apparently looking for something.

He turned as he heard their steps, and greeted them kindly:

"Good-day, young ladies," he said.  "If I may venture to trouble you,
Miss Eira--your young eyes are keener than mine.  Mrs Ferraby has lost
a little brooch, not a thing of much value except to herself, and it
struck her that it may have dropped off her in church, as that was the
last time she remembered wearing it.  Of course it would be better to
look for it by a clearer light."

As he spoke he drew still further aside the red moreen curtain which
separated the vicarage pew from the larger square one belonging to the
big house, permission to occupy which was one of the very few advantages
enjoyed by the Fir Cottage family, as representatives of the Morions.
Betty and Eira came forward eagerly.

"Do let us look," they said, both together; Eira, who was the old
vicar's favourite, adding, playfully, "But you must come out yourself,
Mr Ferraby, please.  If it is anywhere, it is pretty sure to be on the
floor."

"I don't know that," said Betty, who had no special wish to grope on her
hands and knees.  "You may feel on the floor if you like, Eira; I shall
look on the seats and the book-rail."  And, strange to say, she had
scarcely begun to do so when she gave a little cry of pleasure.  "Here
it is," she exclaimed, "wedged into a crack in the woodwork between the
pews, ever so neatly; but no doubt it would have dropped down the first
time the pew was dusted," and with deft fingers she withdrew the little
trinket from its temporary resting-place.  "It is queer," she added;
"there must be a hollow space between this and the panel on our side.
Perhaps it's the place with a little door where we leave our
prayer-books," and, standing on a hassock, she peered over into their
own pew, adding, "No, our book-cupboard is farther along."

No one paid any attention, however, to her researches.  Mr Ferraby was
too delighted to have recovered the brooch to care much about where it
had been concealed.  He thanked Betty with effusion.

"My good wife will not have come home yet; she is in the village," he
said.  "So I am not in a hurry, and quite at your service, young ladies.
Were you looking for me?"

For, in his mild, unenergetic, though kindly way, the old vicar was
always ready to be consulted as to the few poor people under his wing,
or indeed on any other subject as to which the Morion sisters could
apply for his advice or sympathy.

For half an instant an impulse came over Frances to confide in him her
little scheme for benefiting the fisher-folk at Scaling Harbour, but a
glance at the bent and fragile figure of their old friend made her
dismiss the idea.

"He wouldn't understand it," she thought; "it would seem to him
new-fangled and unnecessary; and then he is so poor and so generous,"--
for it was well known that out of his tiny stipend Mr Ferraby was far
too ready to give more than he could really afford--"he would be writing
for books for us, even if he thought it would only be an amusement.  No,
I had better not speak of it."

And--"Thank you," Frances went on aloud, "no, we had no idea you were in
the church; seeing it open, we just strolled in, with no better motive
than to kill a little time, I'm afraid.  It is not tempting weather for
walking."

"No, indeed," the vicar agreed.  "The season is peculiarly dull and
depressing this year, even to one who should be well accustomed to this
climate and to everything about the place.  I have been here over fifty
years, half a century," and he gave a little sigh.

"And we have been here," said Eira, "nearly all of our lives that we can
remember; so _we_ should be accustomed to it, too, shouldn't we, Mr
Ferraby?"

He shook his head.

"Scarcely so," he replied, "at least not necessarily.  The sort of
`getting accustomed' to things--in reality I was thinking of more than
the climate--that I had in my mind--is not of a piece with youth and its
natural distaste for monotony.  My wife and I often think it must be
dreary for you three, and we wish we had it in our power to help you to
a little variety.  If things had been different with us--if that poor
boy of ours had been spared--we should not now be the dull old couple I
fear we are."

His hearers were touched by his simple self-depreciation.

"Dear Mr Ferraby," said Frances, "you mustn't speak like that.  It is
very nice for us to feel that we are always sure of two such kind
friends at hand."

There was more pathos in his allusion than a stranger would have
understood, for this same "boy," of whom he spoke, would by this time
have been not far off fifty himself, though to his parents he ever
remained the bright, promising young fellow suddenly cut off in his
early manhood.

"Who was here before you came, Mr Ferraby?"  Eira inquired abruptly.

The little group was seated by this time in the large, square pew, which
almost looked like a cosy little room, and even to-day it felt fairly
warm.

"Who was here before me?" the old man repeated.  "Broadhurst was the
last vicar, and before him there was a private chaplain resident at
Craig-Morion.  That was in its palmy days, when the family spent most of
the year here--quite early in this century, that is to say--for I
remember Broadhurst telling me that things had been quiet enough during
his time, and he was here for nearly twenty years."

"And you never saw our great-grand-aunt Elizabeth, did you?"  Betty
inquired.  "I think we've asked you before."

"No," the vicar replied.  "Strangely enough, her funeral was one of the
first ceremonies at which I officiated--that was in the year forty.  She
was very ill when I came, and refused to see me, and indeed, for several
years before that, she had led a life of utter seclusion.  I remember
hoping for brighter days coming, for I was young then, and no
misanthrope, but they never did, as the elder of her two nephews took a
dislike to the place, which his son--a grandson now--seems to have
inherited!"

"I wonder how it would have been if our grandfather--her younger
nephew--had come in for it, as she led him to expect," said Frances.
"Of course, you know all about that, Mr Ferraby?"

"Very different, I expect," said the vicar.  "I often wish there was a
law against pluralists of estates, as well as of livings.  When a man
has only one place, you see, it is his home, and that insures his
interest in it.  Putting aside my natural wish that the big house here
were _your_ home, I really do feel it a terrible loss that its owner
should be such a complete absentee."

"It is very wrong," said Frances, "wrong of Mr Morion, I mean, never to
come here, even though there are not many tenants.  I should be glad to
have an opportunity of saying so to him.  You heard of the talk there
was a little while ago of some of his connections coming here for a
time, I suppose, Mr Ferraby?"

"Yes," the vicar replied, "and I began to build some hopes on it, and
was disappointed to hear it had ended in nothing."

He glanced round the whole building as he spoke.

"I should like to see this church in better condition," he went on.
"Not that I go in for new-fangled ways, but a good deal could be done
without trenching on such ground.  I can't say that it is substantially
out of repair, but Mr Milne only advises what is absolutely necessary,
and unless Mr Morion came down here enough to get to care for the
place, I can hope for nothing more."

"Is it any prejudice against the place?" said Betty, in her abrupt way.
Then a curious gleam came into her eyes.  "You know what the people
about here say, Mr Ferraby?" she asked; "that great-grand-aunt
Elizabeth `walks.'  I wonder if possibly, when Mr Littlewood was here,
anything--of that kind, like seeing her--happened to him.  For he told
us his people's coming was all but decided upon."

The old vicar looked at her as if he scarcely understood, and Frances
turned rather sharply.

"Don't talk nonsense, Betty," she said.  "Somehow things of that kind--
about a place being haunted and so on--ooze out, if one isn't very
careful, and I can't see but what they may do mischief."

Mr Ferraby looked at her approvingly.

"I quite agree with you, Frances," he said: "though certainly nobody
would accuse the good folk about here of too much imagination or nerves.
Hard work have I to impress them in any way, yet it is an undoubted
fact that stolid souls of this kind are often absurdly superstitious.
They are too conservative, perhaps, or too stupid, to invent new ideas.
If they would hark back a little further still, one would have better
ground to work upon."

"Mr Ferraby," said Betty, "you're becoming quite a Radical."

"No, no, my dear," he replied, "have I not just said that I wish they
would retain some of the belief in the supernatural, even if mingled
with some superstition, which the last century did so much to destroy?
That is what I _meant_ to imply, though I did not express it clearly.
Yes," he went on, replying to her former remark, "I have of course heard
the talk about old Miss Morion's unrestful condition.  But,"--and, had
it been light enough to see his faded blue eyes more clearly, a gleam of
mischief, akin somewhat to the recent sparkle in Betty's own orbs, might
have been discovered--"you are not quite on the right tack.  It is not
the house, but this _church_ which the poor lady is said to frequent.
Indeed, the very spot where we are seated is said to be her favourite
resort."

Betty almost screamed, and even Frances and Eira involuntarily drew
closer together, for there was no denying the creepiness of their old
friend's information under present circumstances.

"No," said Eira eagerly, "I never heard that.  Have you any theory to
account for her coming here?  Can it be that she wants to be shriven for
her misdeeds, and that she chooses the spot where, Sunday after Sunday,
she accused herself of being a miserable sinner?"

"Come now, my dear," said the old man, "don't be too severe upon your
dead kinswoman."

"No," said Frances, "it isn't kind, for, after all, we don't know that
she did break her word.  The will may have been stolen or suppressed."

"I beg her pardon, then," said Eira.  "I wonder if she can hear me!
Can't you tell us something more, Mr Ferraby?  Does she suddenly appear
here, or is she seen coming from the house?"

"I believe," the vicar replied, "she is supposed to come along the path
they call the Laurel Walk, that leads from the side-entrance.  A safe
place to choose, as it is always dark and shadowy there; and her visits
are not restricted to the night, though I forget what is supposed to be
her favourite time."

"Late on a winter's afternoon, I should say," remarked Eira.  "Just such
a time as this, don't you think?"

At this Betty started to her feet.

"Eira," she said, "you are very, very unkind, and--Mr Ferraby, you
don't know how she tries to frighten me sometimes, though I dare say I'm
very silly."

The others could scarcely help laughing at her pitiful tone, though
Frances' ears detected that very little more would bring tears.

"Let us go," she said; "it is getting chilly, and mamma will be
expecting us."

Betty caught hold of her arm.

"I _dare_ not walk down the aisle alone," she whispered, "especially
with Eira behind us."

"Eira," said Frances, "are you coming, or will you follow with Mr
Ferraby?"

"I must be off too," said the vicar.  "I am eager to tell my wife of
Miss Betty's successful search."

So the quartette, Eira bringing up the rear, made their way to the door.

"I wish," thought she, "I could do some little thing to frighten Betty.
I know what--I will stretch out my umbrella and touch her neck with the
cold end," for there was still light enough for this piece of mischief;
and she was leaning forward to put it into execution when a slight sound
in the pew they had just quitted arrested her.  It was that of stiffly
rustling garments, as of a person clad therein rising with difficulty
from a kneeling posture.

The biter was bitten!

"Mr Ferraby," she exclaimed, clutching at his arm, "did you hear that?"

"What?" was the reply.  "No, nothing; but then I am a little deaf."

"What is it?" said Frances quickly.

Eira turned off the question with some laughing remark as to the
difficulty of groping their way without misadventure; but the old vicar
glanced at her curiously in the clearer light outside the porch.

"That child had better not be too confident about her own nerves," he
thought to himself.  "She is looking quite pale."

CHAPTER EIGHT.

WHEN THINGS ARE AT THE WORST.

There was no waiting for tea this afternoon; on the contrary, when the
three girls reached home, tea was waiting for them, and, beside the
table, their mother, with unmistakable annoyance in her face.

"Why have you stayed out so late?" she questioned.  "You know how it
vexes your father; in fact, he has had tea and has gone back to the
study."

"I am very sorry, mamma," said Frances.  "It was thoughtless of me.  We
have been in the church with Mr Ferraby," and she went on to relate the
little incident of the lost brooch, and how cleverly Betty had found it,
thinking that it would distract Lady Emma's attention--in which hope she
was not disappointed; so well did she succeed in gaining her mother's
interest that, under cover of the little narrative, Betty was able to
steal from the room with the teapot and to obtain a fresh supply,
without risk of tannin poisoning, unobserved.

Tea over, Betty and Eira disappeared, as was their habit, leaving
Frances to entertain their mother, during what--in a very small country
house, above all, one in which the family party is but seldom unbroken--
is perhaps the dreariest hour of the twenty-four which make up a
winter's day and night.

Frances' spirits rose on finding that her mother's annoyance had been
but passing.  For half a minute she felt tempted to relate to her their
conversation with the vicar, but on second thought she decided that it
was better to avoid the always sore subject of the Craig-Morion
inheritance.  So she went on talking lightly and pleasantly on ordinary
topics.

"I told you of Mrs Ramsay's letter, did I not, mamma?  She really seems
to have fallen on her feet, and to be quite happy as a colonist's wife."

"Yes," her mother agreed, with a little shudder, "though to me it is
perfectly incomprehensible how any one, any lady--and Miss O'Hara was
essentially a lady--can endure it."

"She was so brave," said Frances.  "I often think, mamma, that I owe a
great deal to her--or rather, to go to the root of it, to you, for
choosing her so well."

Her mother looked gratified.  To do her justice, in spite of her cold
reticence of manner, she was easily gratified, especially by any
expression of appreciation from her eldest daughter.

"Her coming to us," she said, "was really more good luck than good
management on my part, and I do believe she was happier with us than she
could have been in many other families.  She knew that I understood her
position--in a sense," with a little sigh, "not unlike my own.  We poor
Irish always sympathise with each other, whatever our faults are.  I
often wish Miss O'Hara--no, I really must say Mrs Ramsay--could have
stayed longer, for the sake of the two younger ones, except, of course,
that had she not married it would have been too much of a sacrifice to
expect of her--the staying on, I mean, at a still smaller salary."

"Perhaps it was all for the best," said Frances cheerfully, if tritely.
"The teaching Betty and Eira was an immense interest to me; and I can
never be thankful enough that I had it.  Indeed, sometimes, mamma,"--she
stopped, hesitating.  "May I tell you something I have been thinking
about?" she went on, for it seemed just then one of the occasions on
which her mother and herself were drawn together in fuller sympathy than
often happened.

"Of course," replied Lady Emma.  "Why need you hesitate?  I am sure I am
always ready to give attention to anything you want to say."

"It is about Betty and Eira," said Frances.  "Sometimes it does seem to
me that we look upon them still too much as children; that they haven't
enough interest--responsibility--I scarcely know what to call it, for
they are not idle exactly."

Lady Emma sighed.

"Oh, my dear Frances," she said, "I don't think there's any use in your
worrying yourself or me about that sort of thing.  It is simply a bit of
the whole--inevitable, as we are placed.  At their age, of course, girls
of our class are usually absorbed by amusement and society--too much so,
I dare say, in many cases.  But still there it is, and I hope I should
have steered clear of letting them spend their lives in empty frivolity
in other circumstances.  I think my mother did so; for, of course, poor
as we were, it was nothing to be compared with what my married life has
made me acquainted with.  Each of us had one or two seasons in London,
and there was always a good deal going on at Castle Avone in the winter,
and yet we were taught to be good housekeepers and to look after our
poor people, and all that sort of thing."

"Yes," said Frances, "I know."  For in her more effusive moments her
mother had sometimes entertained the three girls with reminiscences of
the happy, careless Irish home-life, in which, to see her now, it was
difficult to believe that poor Lady Emma Morion had ever had the heart
or spirit to join.  "Yes, I know," Frances repeated, "it always sounds
to me delightful.  But it was not so much amusement that I was thinking
about for Betty and Eira.  That kind of thing is literally and
practically out of our power.  But I have been wondering if we couldn't
help them to have some more definite occupation or interest--they are
both, though with such perfectly different temperaments, in danger of
becoming very desultory, I fear--if not, what is even worse,
discontented, and every one knows there is nothing so invigorating as
feeling oneself of use to other people," and with that she proceeded
with great care and tact to unfold to her mother her simple little
scheme in connection with the fisher-people at Scaling Harbour.

Lady Emma listened with attention, and not without interest, but with no
brightening of expression or respondent gleam, such as had sprung out of
Eira's eyes when the plan was first mentioned.  Not that Frances had
expected this--even Betty, unselfish and tender-hearted as she was, had
none of the latent enthusiasm which Frances often found so invigorating
in her youngest sister, and which went far to balance her greater amount
of self-will.  And Betty had not welcomed the suggestion with any
eagerness; so how could she expect anything of the kind from her mother,
tired and in a sense worn out by the incessant small worries of her
restricted home-life?

No, it was not to be wondered at that Lady Emma could not rise to any
very great interest in philanthropic work.

"Poor mamma," thought Frances, always ready to judge the deficiencies of
others in the gentlest and most generous spirit, "she has reason enough
to be absorbed by home things."  But she watched her mother's face
anxiously, nevertheless, hoping for at least conditional consent, and
what furtherance of the scheme should be possible for her to promise.

And the disappointment was extreme when Lady Emma slowly shook her head.

"That's been put into your mind by Mrs Ramsay's writing to you on the
subject," she began, and immediately poor Frances' hopes faded.  "I
can't say that it's the sort of thing I should at all care for you to
do, though what ever I feel about it really does not signify, as your
father would never allow it.  Then there is the expense of it--
everything of that kind costs money."

"Very little, as I tried to explain," said Frances; "some of the books I
got for Mrs Ramsay were most inexpensive."

"I dare say," said her mother, touched a little, in spite of herself, at
the girl's evident disappointment.  "Of course, if I had any money to
spare, I should have no objection to your all acquiring a little good
practical knowledge of the kind.  We, my sisters and I, were by no means
ignorant about household remedies.  The poor people used to come to the
Castle as a matter of course when they were at a loss what to do.  But
it was so different!  The people at Scaling Harbour can send for a
doctor.  There is a parish doctor, I suppose?"

Frances said no more.  She knew by experience that it was a mistake to
enter into an argument which would only end by emphasising opposition.
She had learnt for so long the philosophy of thankfulness for small
mercies that she was even glad of the inferred permission to get the
books, should the chance of so doing ever present itself--but for the
present, yes, the outlook was dreary enough.  Frances could not but own
it to herself.

"It does seem hard," she thought, "very hard, not even to be allowed to
use what little talent one may have in some good, sensible direction."

She was on her way to join her sisters when she made these reflections,
though with no intention of repeating to them the conversation that had
just passed.  She found them in the dining-room, kneeling on the rug
before the fire--at this hour of the day a safe resort, as Mr Morion,
though nothing would have made him acknowledge it, indulged in a
before-dinner nap, apt to be somewhat prolonged, between tea and
dinner-time.  Considerably to her surprise, even more to her relief, the
two girls were talking eagerly, almost indeed excitedly, though their
voices were low.

"Oh, Francie, I'm so glad you've come!" said Betty.  "Do you know what
Eira has been telling me?  She didn't want to frighten me, but I made
her tell.  Do you know she really did hear something in the church?" and
she proceeded to repeat Eira's strange experience of the sound of
rustling garments in the big pew.

Frances was inclined to be sceptical; sensible people usually are when
first confronted with anything of the kind.  It was easily to be
accounted for, she thought, considering that Mr Ferraby had just been
telling that the squire's pew was, by repute, the haunted spot.

"I dare say it was one of the stiff moreen curtains dropping back into
its place again, after you had been pushing them aside," she said.  But
Eira shook her head.

"No," she maintained, with conviction in her voice, "it wasn't the least
like that.  It was a slow, rising sort of sound, and it was the rustle
of silk, of stiff silk--of that I am certain; at least, I mean to say I
am certain that that was the impression produced on my senses."

"You'd better write it out for the Psychical Society, it has made you so
eloquent," said Frances laughingly, though in the depths of her heart
she was not a little impressed.  Then came an exclamation from Betty,
which, accustomed as they were to the startling suggestions she was apt
to burst out with, for once really took their breath away.

"Frances," she said, "I've thought of something.  I'm getting nearly
desperate for a change of some kind, and I feel as if I could be brave
enough to do _anything_, especially if you and Eira will back me up.
Supposing we three manage to get into the church some evening and wait
for the ghost, and try to get something out of her?  Would you have the
nerve for it?"  Her eyes gleamed with excitement, and her whole face was
lighted up in a way that for the moment transformed it.

"Betty!" exclaimed her sisters, together, in amazement.

"You must be joking," Frances added.  "You, of all people, to dream of
such a thing!"

"I am not joking," Betty replied.  "Just fancy, if we _did_ find out
anything.  It would be worth while having one's hair turned grey with
fright to begin with."

"Betty," said Eira solemnly, "you don't know what you're talking about.
If you had said such a thing this time yesterday, I should have felt
quite different about it.  But I can't put into words the impression
left upon me by what I heard--little as it seems.  No, indeed," and she
shook her head, "I should never be able to attempt anything of the
kind."

"If you both work yourselves up about it so," said Frances, "you will
make me sorry that it has ever been alluded to.  Don't talk about it any
more to-night, or neither of you will sleep.  Promise me you won't?"

"Very well," Betty replied reluctantly, though her face fell as she gave
the promise; for, although it only bound her to the avoidance of the
subject for that evening, she felt pretty sure that there would be no
chance of enlisting either of her sisters in her scheme.  "And," she
thought to herself, "I'm _afraid_ I should never have courage to try it
alone, and without courage it would be no use, as everybody knows that
unless you speak first to a ghost, he, or she, or _it_--why does `it'
seem so much more terrible?--will never speak to you!"

If it is true, as is often said, that happy times require no chronicler,
it is certainly also the case in life that one has to traverse dreary,
monotonous stretches of which there is literally nothing to record.
This, certainly, was no new experience to the Morion sisters, but it is
to be questioned if they had ever before been so painfully conscious of
the almost unendurable dreariness of their general circumstances.

Nature, even, seemed maliciously inclined just now to make things worse
for them.  No winter sprightliness came to relieve the autumn gloom
which, in this country, we have come to look upon as more or less
inevitable.  It was the dullest of dull weather; the very thought of
Christmas seemed out of place.

"It is as if the sun had really said `good-bye' to us for ever,"
remarked Betty one day.  "I am growing so stupefied that I think the
only living creatures I now envy are dormice.  Don't you think, Eira,
that Providence, if that isn't irreverent, might have arranged for human
beings to have a good long sleep of several months together, if, or
when, they have absolutely nothing to do which it would in the least
matter to themselves or any one else if they left undone?"

Eira's only answer was a sigh, and even Frances, from the low chair
where, for once in a way, she was sitting idle, said nothing.  For poor
Frances' spirits were, at the present moment, really depressed by
physical causes; she had had a wretched cold, which, though not very
severe, had been sufficiently so to lower her vitality uncomfortably and
disturb her usually well-balanced mental and moral condition.

She glanced at the window.

"Who would think it was Christmas week?" she said.  "Actually, it comes
next Friday, and this is Tuesday."

"I had almost forgotten it," said Eira.  "What about those little
things, Frances, that you said you had still to get in the village?
Cards, wasn't it?"

"Yes," Frances replied, "and one or two trifles; literal trifles they'll
have to be this year, for the servants and our two or three poor people.
Which of you will come with me this afternoon to help me to choose
them?"

Eira looked at her doubtfully.

"Are you _sure_, Francie dear," she said, "that you are fit to go out
to-day?  Your cold has pulled you down so."

"Oh, it's over now," said Frances.  "A walk will do me good.  Are you
coming too, Betty?"

"Would you mind if I didn't?" said Betty; "for once I've got some sewing
that I'm rather in a hurry about, but I will come to meet you--you won't
be very long?"

"As quick as possible, you may be sure," replied Frances.  "But, any
way," she added, with a smile, "if possibly we are later than I mean to
be, we won't expect to see you, Betty, as I know you've no love for
being out alone when it's getting dark."

So they set off, and Betty, exhilarated a little by the work she hoped
to finish in their absence, which had to do with her Christmas presents
for her sisters, spent the first part of the afternoon cheerily enough,
though by herself.

"I do feel brighter to-day somehow," she thought, "and, after all, it's
terribly pagan not to cheer up at Christmas-time.  Then, too, though
it's such a platitude, things are never so bad but they might be worse.
Supposing Francie's cold had turned into bronchitis, or something
dreadful like that, and she had been very, very ill, how miserable we
might have been just now!  What would Eira and I do without her?  Even
if she married, how dreadfully dull it would be--but no, it wouldn't,
she would have a charming home of her own, and we would go and stay with
her and--oh, yes! it would change everything.  But I must remember I had
made up my mind to give up building castles in the air!"

By four o'clock she was ready to go out to meet her sisters, her work
completed and laid safely away.  It was dusk, almost more than dusk,
when she opened the gate and passed out into the road.  But a little
further on it grew lighter again, as here the trees were less thickly
planted.  Betty went into the park through the usual entrance, and,
crossing through the shrubbery quickly, stood for a moment on a little
knoll which commanded a view of the open drive from the lodge, by which
her sisters would make their way.

It was light enough still to have perceived them, had they been within
the park walls; but they were not to be seen.

"I don't care to go all the way to the gates," she said to herself.
"I'm not in the humour for gossiping with the old Webbs.  I'll just walk
up and down about here till I see them, or till I hear the gates clang.
It is so very, very still to-day, and the ground feels harder, as if
frost were coming; I could almost hear their steps before I saw them."

But, though clear and still, it was not a bright evening.  Walking up
and down soon palls, and Betty stood still, half hesitating as to
whether she should change her mind and go farther to meet the others.

Suddenly--most things were sudden with Betty--an idea struck her.

"I have a great mind," she thought, "to run up to the church end of the
Laurel Walk, and peep along it, just to see if possibly--oh! of course
there could be nothing to see, or even to hear; but it would be rather
fun to be able to tell Eira that I had done it.  She couldn't but think
it brave of me, and I can certainly be back in time to meet them, before
they're half across."

But she had reckoned without her host--that is to say, in ignorance of
her own uncertainty as to the nearest way to the aforesaid Laurel Walk,
for it was in a part of the grounds she seldom frequented, as it led
straight from the church to a side-entrance of the big house, nowadays
rarely used.  Betty made two or three wrong _detours_--not to be
wondered at, for, once in among the shrubs again, it was really almost
dark; and when at last she came out at the point she was in search of
she began to repent what now seemed to her foolhardiness, for the
thickly bordered path in question did look from her end of its long,
narrow course extremely eerie and forbidding.

"I can't risk losing my way in those shrubberies again," she thought.
"I remember now that there is a side-path a little farther along, which
will take me by a short cut out into the open again.  I'll run along as
fast as I can till I come to it."

But alas! for poor Betty.  There was more than one side-path, and the
first she tried, after pursuing it for some yards, only landed her more
confusingly than ever in the thickest part of the plantation.

"This isn't the right one," she thought.  "I must go back again, and
rather than risk remaining hereabouts I'll go straight to the church."

Running just here was not an easy matter.  The nervous fears which were
beginning, in spite of herself, to overcome her, were once or twice
dispersed for a moment by a bang against some obtruding tree or branch.

"Oh, how silly I have been!" thought Betty.  "But here's the opening
into the Laurel Walk.  Yes, I'd better make straight for the church."

Something--she could not have said what--made her stop for a moment, as
she turned into the path of uncanny reputation.  She started--what was
that?  A rustle of some kind in the direction of the house, a falling
branch or leaf, no doubt--all was so still!  She turned towards the
churchyard, walking fast, her heart beating quickly enough already,
when--oh, horrors!--she heard all too distinctly the sound of a tread
behind her.  For half an instant she stopped in vain hope that she might
have been mistaken.

It stopped.

"Shall I have strength to get out of this horrible place?" thought
Betty, for she felt her limbs already all but failing her, from her now
excessive trembling.  But desperation gives courage.  She hurried on
again; again, too, the footsteps behind became audible.

"Oh," thought Betty, "if it tries to overtake me, I shall die.  If I can
but keep up for half a minute more, I shall be at the little gate into
the churchyard, if only--oh, if only it's not padlocked!"

CHAPTER NINE.

THEY BEGIN TO MEND.

Alas! for poor Betty, the little gate, her only hope of escape, _was_
padlocked.  At the first moment she scarcely realised this.  She seized
its upper bar by both hands and shook it violently, and for half a
moment she fancied it yielded; all her faculties were confused by
fright, and even the short distance over which she had run so fast had
been enough to add materially to the overwhelming beating of her heart,
the surging of blood into her ears, which all but deafened her.

But as her repeated shaking proved of no avail, and the tumult in her
veins somewhat abated, terror notwithstanding, again, to her horror, she
became conscious of the advancing footsteps behind.  True, they did not
sound like those of any one in pursuit; but what then?--ghosts didn't
run!  The steady tread of the advancing presence was scarcely a source
of consolation, till, frightened as she was, she began to perceive that
the footsteps were firm and unfaltering--there was something commonplace
and matter-of-fact about them, by no means ethereal or feeble, such as
one would picture those of a ghostly visitor, especially the ghost of an
old lady, who, in the many years during which she was supposed to have
perambulated the Laurel Walk, was not likely to derive any increased
energy from her fruitless peregrinations.

A sudden impulse of courage, though perhaps but the courage of
desperation, flashed through Betty.

"I will face it," she said to herself, "and know the worst."

She turned.  The advancing figure was now but a short distance from her,
and--oh! thank Heaven--it was that of a man!  Cold drops slowly gathered
on her forehead in the intensity of her relief.  At another time she
might have been frightened at the very fact for which she was now so
thankful.  But all visions of tramps or other nefarious-minded intruders
had been banished for the moment by the overpowering dread of the
supernatural.

Her heart still beat uncomfortably, but she moved forward a few steps.

"This gate is locked," she called out, trying to master the quaver in
her voice.  "Is that you, Webb?"--though before the name had passed her
lips she could distinguish enough to make sure it was not that of the
newcomer.  "Have you got the key with you?"

There was no immediate reply.  Then came the sound of hastening
footsteps, and an exclamation of surprise.

"Is it--can it be Miss Morion?" were the first words, "or--"

"It is I, Betty Morion," she replied mechanically, for her own
astonishment was far greater than her questioner's could have been, as
regarded herself, when her eyes as well as her ears told her that he was
none other than Mr Littlewood.  "Oh!" she ejaculated, with a strange
sense of weakness and relief, while her arms dropped to her side, "can
it be you?  I have been so terrified!  I thought you were the ghost."

"The ghost?" he repeated; "what ghost?"  But then, seeing how really
startled and upset the poor child was, he continued in a matter-of-fact
tone: "No, no, I am no ghost, though dreadfully sorry to have frightened
you.  If I had had the least idea who it was, I would have called out
before.  But till a moment or two ago I was scarcely sure it was any
one!  Yes, I have the key of the padlock.  I only arrived this
afternoon, and I was going across to the vicarage to consult Mr Ferraby
about a little matter.  I used this short cut two or three times when I
was here before.  Allow me," and he came forward to the gate, and in
another moment it stood open and they passed through.

Betty, who was slowly recovering her wits by this time, glanced up half
shyly at her companion.

"If I hadn't been so frightened, I should have been still more
astonished," she said, "at seeing you.  We thought--we were told that
you had given up all idea of coming down here."

"So we had," he replied; "it's rather a long story.  I needn't go into
it all.  My mother heard of another place which she thought would be
better.  I was awfully vexed when I went back to find it so.  But it's
all right now.  You will have us down here soon after Christmas.  This
time I have come with plenipotential powers to settle everything."

Betty could scarcely believe her ears.  What news for Frances and Eira!
A real prospect of change and variety and break in their dull life at
last, not to speak of the fascinating possibilities for the future which
Eira and she had given up with such wistful regret.

"I--I am very glad," she said timidly, and her words evidently pleased
her hearer.

"It's very good of you to say so," he replied heartily.  "On my side I
hope you will find us pleasant neighbours.  My sister--I've one still
unmarried--is looking forward very much to coming here."

"I do hope the weather will be better," said Betty; "it has been--oh! so
horrid since you were here, so dull and depressing."

"It has been pretty bad all over the country, I fancy," he replied.  By
this time they were at the gate of Fir Cottage.  "I hope," he continued,
"that Lady Emma and Mr Morion are well, and that I may have the
pleasure of seeing them in a few days.  I shall probably stay on here
now, as I have a visit to pay in the neighbourhood.  I mean I shall not
go all the way home again before my people come down.  And--though I
mustn't detain you now--you will tell me the story of the ghost some
day, I hope--and how you came to be wandering in search of it?"

"Oh!" cried Betty in alarm, "_please_ don't speak of it!  Please,"
imploringly, "don't ever tell any one that I did.  I should be so
scolded.  I was really going to meet my sisters, and it was very silly
of me to go near the Laurel Walk."

"Oh, well," he said, "I won't betray your confidence, but on your side
you must promise to tell me all about it some day soon.  Perhaps,"--with
a slight touch of hesitation--"I may look in to-morrow afternoon on the
chance of finding some of you at home."

A sudden inspiration seized Betty.

"Is--is there possibly anything that you would like to ask papa about?"
she said abruptly.  "I am sure he would be pleased to--to be of use to
you, if there were:" and to herself she added mentally, "It is the only
chance of propitiating papa, I am sure, for Mr Littlewood to seem to
seek his advice.  He rarely has the pleasure, poor papa, of being
applied to as if he were of any consequence, and he'd be gratified at
it."

Horace Littlewood was by no means devoid of tact and insight into the
peculiarities of those with whom he had to do.  His first blunder, as
regarded the feelings of his new acquaintances, had also sharpened his
perceptions with regard to them--he read between the lines, so to say,
of Betty's innocent appeal; indeed, it was not difficult to put two and
two together in this case, for Mr Milne had descanted at some length on
the idiosyncrasies of the master of Fir Cottage.  And even kindly old
Mr Ferraby had given more than one hint of the same nature, greatly
influenced, no doubt, by his earnest wish that circumstances might arise
to break the monotony of the three young lives in which both he and his
wife felt so natural and sincere an interest.  So Betty's suggestion
fell on prepared ground.

"How very kind of you to think of such a thing!" he said quickly.
"Well, yes, if it were not troubling your father too much--for I know he
is something of an invalid--I should be glad of his opinion on some
little local matters.  There is one of the keepers I don't quite like
the look of, and yet, as you can understand, I don't want to begin by
making myself disagreeable."

"There is one, I know, that papa doesn't like," said Betty eagerly,
"though he has been a long time about the place.  Of course papa never
shoots now, himself, though he used to be a very good shot.  But it will
be far the best for you to ask him yourself."

And delighted with having obtained a definite message for her father,
she held out her hand in farewell, and ran up the little drive to her
own door, brimful of her unlooked-for news.

They were all in the drawing-room when she got in, tea half over, to say
the least, and Betty's heart went down in some apprehension of paternal
or maternal reproof.  But the first words that greeted her came from
Frances, and, simple as they were, something in her tone carried
immediate conviction to Betty that the news she was so eager to tell had
already reached her sister's ears.

"Where have you been?  How did you manage to miss us?"  Frances
inquired.  "We had quite a nice walk; it is really getting to feel more
like Christmas."

"The missing you was my fault," said Betty.  "When I first went out it
was fairly light, and as I couldn't see you in the park I strolled about
a little, and came home another way.  And--oh, papa, I mustn't forget to
give you a message I have for you.  I met Mr Littlewood on my way in,"
and as she named him she took care to avoid looking at her sisters, and
to speak in a studiously matter-of-fact voice; "he has just arrived here
again, and his people _are_ taking the big house, after all.  And he
wants to talk over something, something private about the keepers, as to
which he thought you would be so kind as to advise him if it will not be
a trouble to you--though he said he knew that you are a good deal of an
invalid."

"What does he want?" said Mr Morion, and though his tone was
superficially testy, it was easy for his family to discern his
underlying gratification.  "Is he going to write to me, or does he
expect me to call on him, or what?  Of course he couldn't apply to any
one who knows more about the place, and the idle lot of rascals with no
one to look after them--it will be an uncommonly lucky thing for him to
be forewarned."

"Oh," said Betty, "of course he didn't expect you to go out of your way;
he only seemed afraid of bothering you.  He asked if he might call
to-morrow afternoon on the chance of your being able to see him."

"He must take the chance," said Mr Morion, evidently by no means
displeased.  "If I'm well enough, I will see him; if not, he must wait
till I am."

"Is he to be here for some time?" asked Lady Emma.  "And when do his
people mean to come?"

"He said soon, I think," Betty replied; "but no doubt he'll tell papa
all about it," and then she turned her attention to the tea, which
Frances, with her usual thoughtfulness, had managed to keep hot for her,
though she nearly scalded herself in her eagerness to swallow it
quickly, so as to leave the room on pretext of taking off her outdoor
things, sure that she would at once be followed by Eira at least, if not
by Frances.

And in this expectation she was not disappointed, for before she had had
time to unbutton her boots the bedroom door was burst open, and in
rushed Eira, followed more deliberately by Frances.

"Oh, Betty," exclaimed the former, "what an afternoon!  Just fancy you
having met him, and we having heard it.  The only pity is that neither
of us had the pleasure of telling the other.  But how well you managed
to smooth down papa!"

"Eira, dear," said Frances, "do be a little more careful how you speak.
I don't like the idea of managing or planning, though I _was_ glad that
Betty had a definite message, for of course, as the Littlewoods are
coming, it would be most disagreeable, and a great loss to us all
probably, if we were not on friendly terms with them."

"Who told you?" asked Betty.

"The old Webbs, of course," said Eira.  "But, Betty, there's some other
news!  Only Francie must tell you herself.  You'll _scarcely_ be able to
believe it."

Betty turned to Frances, with intense curiosity in her eyes.

"What is it?  What _can_ it be?" she ejaculated.

For all reply Frances held out a large thin-looking envelope, from which
she proceeded to extract, with great care and deliberation, a sheet or
two of what is called "foreign" writing paper.

"This is," she said at last, "a letter from Mrs Ramsay.  Look, Betty,"
and here she displayed a smaller slip of paper which told its own tale.
"She has done it so thoughtfully," Frances continued; "it is an English
bank-note, you see.  I wonder how she managed to get it out there in New
Zealand?  A bank-note for ten pounds, so there will be no trouble about
cashing it, or anything of that sort!  And, Betty, it is a Christmas
present to be divided between us three!  Isn't it--oh! isn't it good of
her?"

Betty, as yet, had not gotten beyond a gasp.  The full realisation of
this fairy gift of fortune was still to come to her.

"You must read the letter," went on Frances.  "She doesn't want us to
tell papa and mamma; she is so terribly afraid of it vexing them.  And,
of course, it isn't as if we were children now, I especially."

"Of course not," Eira chimed in.

"It _is_ good of her, so good that I can scarcely believe it," said
Betty, who by this time had found her voice; "but, Francie, I don't
think you should divide it equally.  I think you should keep five
pounds, or four, any way, and Eira and I have three each.  Think of how
you gave us what you once made by your lace--and of the lace itself you
have given us, which, after all, you might have sold."

"No, no," Frances replied.  "Don't talk such nonsense!  Of course it
must be in equal shares, though I'll tell you what we might do, if you
two agree to it.  We might spend one pound on books and things for our
`ambulance society,'" and she laughed, "which would leave three pounds
each to do as we like with.  And I certainly think you two should spend
it on your clothes."

"You _too_?" said Eira.

"Well, yes," Frances agreed.  "There are lots of little things, gloves
and shoes, that we can scarcely do without if we are to see anything of
the people at Craig-Morion--things that are matters of course for other
girls."

"Let us settle it that way," said Betty.  "If you _promise_, Francie, to
spend your three pounds on yourself, on your own adornment, I don't mind
using the odd pound for--in a sense--charity: at least, for something
which we hope will be of use to other people some day!  It may bring us
good luck!"

"Better than that, I hope," said Frances softly.  "A tenth is a nice
proportion to spend _not_ on ourselves!"

"Though I warn you," said Betty again, "that _I_ could never be of the
least use in your medical or surgical lessons.  I hate everything to do
with illness or suffering!--unless you like to make a dummy of me for
bandaging me up, and rolling sheets under me without my knowing it, and
so on."

The joke was of the mildest, but the new sensation of happy excitement
made them all laugh.  Then Eira got out paper and pencils, and began a
series of abstruse and most interesting calculations as to how many
pairs of gloves, including a possible pair each for evening wear, shoes,
re-trimmings for hats, and additions to Frances' lace for the one
presentable evening dress possessed by each could, by dint of good
management, be coaxed out of three pounds a head.

The result proved on the whole very satisfactory.  The sisters even went
the length of discussing what shops they should write to for the various
treasures so unexpectedly placed within their reach.

"It is too late for to-night's post," said Eira, "and perhaps, after
all, we had better wait till Christmas is over."

"Yes," said Betty, "let us each make a definite list of what we want,
by--let us see--next Monday; and then, Francie, darling, you will write
for us, won't you?  You would do it so much the best, and then you know
the shops."

For once upon a time, four or five years ago, the eldest sister had
spent a never-to-be-forgotten fortnight in London, every detail of which
was impressed upon her memory with an almost pathetic vividness.

The wonderful subject of Mrs Ramsay's gift discussed and dismissed for
the time being, Eira's curiosity had to be satisfied as to all that had
passed between Betty and Mr Littlewood, for by this time Frances had
left the two younger ones by themselves.

Eira's eyes grew round with excitement and sympathy, as Betty related
the fright she had had.

"It _was_ silly of you," she said, when she had heard the whole, "really
very silly of you to go to the Laurel Walk after dark, when you know how
nervous you are.  I don't know what Frances will say when she hears
about it."

"She will say nothing," said Betty, decidedly, "because she is not going
to hear anything.  You are not to tell her, Eira.  I especially don't
want her to know; and, besides the delight of that money coming, I am
very glad that it prevented her cross-questioning me any more about my
walk."

"But if Mr Littlewood calls to-morrow," said Eira, "is he not pretty
sure to talk about it?  Or did you ask him not to?"

"Yes," said Betty, "I did, and he promised he would not, on condition
that I would tell him all about our great-grand-aunt's ghost some time
or other."

"It's all very queer," said Eira meditatively.  "Till the other day when
Mr Ferraby told us about it, we really knew very little ourselves.  But
why do you specially not want Frances to know of your fright?"

"Because," said Betty slowly, "I've got a curious feeling now that some
day something else will happen, and I don't want to be hedged in by
promises to Frances, promises of not doing anything `foolhardy,' as she
would call it.  Now that I have got over my fright, I feel as if I were
braver than I was before!  I _think_, if need were, I could almost make
up my mind to speak to _her_, to the poor old thing, if I knew she were
there!"

She fixed her dark eyes impressively on her sister as she spoke.  But
Eira shook her head.

"What are you doing that for?" asked Betty.

"Because," replied Eira, "from what you say, from the feeling you have
about it, I am more and more convinced that what _I_ heard in the church
was something real.  You couldn't possibly think of trying it again if
you had felt what I did.  I know I wouldn't for worlds--not for a dozen
Craig-Morions--risk meeting the ghost.  And I am naturally both stronger
and braver than you."

CHAPTER TEN.

THE EYRIE.

A tall girl was standing at the window of a drawing-room in a large
house at the corner of a certain London square.

It was a good house, though with nothing very distinctive about it; one
of the class that now, at the end of the nineteenth-century, people are
beginning to look upon as somewhat old-fashioned.  There was nothing
"Queen Anne" about it, or its furniture; though, to make amends for
this, it gave the impression of dignity and stateliness: perhaps, after
all, the points that it is safest to aim at in a definitely town house,
where light and height and air are the great desiderata.  And there was
nothing grim or gloomy in the colouring of the room, though a perhaps
too studied avoidance of mere prettiness, which would, I fear, have been
designated by its mistress as "tawdry frippery" or something analogous
thereto.

And this was the home--since his father's death, that is to say--of
Horace Littlewood, who at this present moment was successfully
accomplishing the afternoon call which, with Betty's assistance, he had
arranged to pay at Fir Cottage, primarily, of course, on the master of
the house, whose favour he had gained to such an extent that, after a
discussion of local matters in his study, his host had begged him to
join the ladies of the family at tea in the drawing-room.

Madeleine Littlewood, his only unmarried sister, was the tall girl who
stood gazing out into the gloom of the late winter afternoon.  From the
position of the house she could see more ways than one.  In the square
itself the lamps were now in process of being lighted.  One by one she
saw them twinkle out, though the result was but faint and dim in
comparison with the brilliance of the adjoining street--a wide and
important one, where the presence of shops made the contrast with the
silent square the more striking.

The girl gave a little sigh.

"Dear me," she said to herself, "how well I remember watching the
lamplighter when we were children!  We each used to try to catch sight
of him first.  There seemed something mysterious about him.  I think it
began the first winter we were ever in London; it was all so new, and
then for so long we only came up in the summer, and everything was
different.  And now again it will be quite a new experience to be in the
country for so long together in the winter.  I wonder how we shall like
it, and if mamma won't find it dreadfully dull, after all."  She turned
from the window as she spoke, partly because at that moment the front
door bell rang sharply, and, as a rule, at this hour, she and her mother
were supposed to be "at home."

"I wonder who that is," she thought.

She was not long left in doubt, for a minute later the door was thrown
open, the butler announcing--"Mr Morion."

"Bring the lamps," she said, as she moved forward a little to greet the
newcomer, "and let Mrs Littlewood know Mr Morion is here."

"Horace is away, I suppose," were the visitor's first words.

"Yes," she replied, "the day before yesterday; in such spirits too.  He
seems to be greatly taken with that eyrie of yours up in the North.  He
was quite disappointed when mamma gave up thought of it."

"I hope you'll all like it," was the reply, though the tone was
indifferent enough.  "But you mustn't blame me if you don't."

"Well, no!" she replied.  "I can't say that you painted it for us in
very attractive colours; in fact, you have not praised it up at all."

"I could scarcely have done so," he said; "I know it so little.  But
hearing what you, or rather what your mother wanted--bracing northern
air, with a touch of the sea, and to be left at peace, it would have
been rather dog-in-the-manger of me not to suggest it."

"Oh! it was very kind of you to think of us," she replied, more
cordially than she had yet spoken.  "You must come down when we are
there and learn to know your own home, or rather the home of your
forefathers, for Horace tells me it was the cradle of your race.  It is
odd," she went on, reflectively, "that you should never have cared to
know it better."

Something in her words or tone slightly jarred on the owner of
Craig-Morion.

He pushed his chair back a little, and hesitated in his reply.

"A great many things seem odd to outsiders," he said, dryly.

Madeleine smiled.  Somehow, though she scarcely could have said why, for
she had no real antipathy to her sister-in-law's brother, she and Ryder
Morion never "got on," though underneath this surface antagonism each
had for the other a solid foundation of respect and even liking.

"Yes," she replied coolly, "it is not always the case that they see `the
most of the game.'  I am afraid I am a born gossip," she added, with a
little laugh.  "I like to know the ins and outs of my friends' affairs.
And oh, by-the-by, _a propos_ of Craig-Morion, you have relations there
of your own name, I hear!  Do tell me something about them."

"You could not apply in a worse quarter," he said.  "I know literally
nothing of them, except that the father is a peculiar, and, as far as
any personal experience of him goes, a very disagreeable man.  There was
an old--complication.  He believes _his_ grandfather should have
inherited the place, instead of my people, though really, as it all
happened ages before I was born, I don't see why he visits it on me."

"And _does_ he?" inquired Madeleine.

"Well, yes, I fancy so.  He was very rude to me once, at all events, and
naturally that didn't add to the attractions of Craig-Morion, for these
people live almost on my own ground.  But really," he went on frankly,
"there are no reasons for my avoidance of the place, except negative
ones.  I get into grooves, I fear, and feel lazy about things that I
have not always done."

There was silence for a moment or two, then Miss Littlewood spoke again.

"Horace has interested me in those relations of yours," she said, "from
what he has told me of them.  Let me see, cousins, are they not?  But
not at all near?  Or is the father a sort of great-uncle to you?"

"Oh, dear, no," replied Mr Morion, speaking more briskly than he had
yet done.  "The father is actually of my own generation, though old
enough almost to be my father.  I have never counted the cousinship--it
must be of the third or fourth degree by this time--in fact, as I said
before, I have had little or nothing to do with them."

Madeleine did not reply.  A certain occult suspicion of unexpressed
disapproval in her mind made itself felt by her companion.  He glanced
at her rapidly.

"They are very poor, from what Horace says," she remarked.

"Are they?"  Mr Morion answered indifferently.  "I really can't say.  I
don't suppose they are rich, but there is no son, and little girls are
easily educated."

"Little girls!" repeated Madeleine, with a slight laugh.  "Why, you
_are_ ignorant about them.  The eldest certainly, if not the middle one,
is as old as I, four or five and twenty."

"Really?" he said, in the same tone.  "I thought their father married
late in life, and I am getting to an age when youth at any stage seems
some distance from me.  Poor girls! their life must be dull enough up
there with that old bear.  You may be able to show them some kindness,
Madeleine.  I know you are one of those people whose benevolence is
somewhat abnormally developed."

"I should like to be kind to them," she said, simply, and Mr Morion
believed her and admired her, as he often did.  But yet something in her
very downrightness had a slightly irritant effect upon him, and of this
in return Madeleine was not unconscious.

"I _wonder_," she thought to herself, "why Mr Morion and I always rub
each other the wrong way?  I never feel sure if he is talking in good
faith or sarcastically.  I suppose one must put down a good deal to the
change in him caused by his wife's death.  And yet that is long ago now,
and she was so very young, and the marriage only lasted a year or so.
Still--" Her train of thought was interrupted by the door opening to
admit her mother, who came forward with an expression of pleasure as her
eyes fell on their visitor, for Mr Morion was decidedly a favourite of
hers, and on the whole he preferred her society to that of her daughter,
though by no means unaware of the latter's great intellectual
superiority.

Mrs Littlewood was still very pretty, though she by no means obtruded
this fact, for her taste was good, and her tact excellent.  As a rule,
she was a very gentle woman, but a strong will underlay the gentleness,
genuine though it was.  She liked to be liked, and disliked making
herself disagreeable, in consequence of which perhaps, when her
disapproval or opposition was once aroused, it was not easily resisted.

"We have, of course, been talking about Craig-Morion," said Madeleine,
when she had provided her mother with tea.  "But I can't get much
information about it."

"I really know it so little," repeated Mr Morion.  "My chief feeling
about it now is the hope that you will like it, and not be
disappointed."

"That is not likely," said his hostess.  "To begin with, I am one of
those philosophical people who never expect perfection, and what we do
want I think we are sure to find there: fresh, bracing air, quiet, and
some amount of amusement for Horace."

"I hope it won't be too bracing for him," said Mr Morion, "or too cold
rather, though they do say that the first winter home from India one
never feels the cold so much--still, there was his illness."

For Horace Littlewood had but recently returned home from his regiment
in the East, in consequence of an accident at polo, complicated by a
sharp attack of fever, and at present his future career was, to some
extent, in abeyance.  His mother, whose favourite son he was, was most
anxious for him to settle down in England, to which, however, the very
fact of his dependence upon her--for Mrs Littlewood had been more or
less of an heiress--caused him to hesitate in his consent.  He hated the
thought of an idle life, and was not, moreover, without experience of
the love of power, but little suspected by many who imagined that they
knew her well, latent in Mrs Littlewood.

"I think he will be all right," Horace's mother replied, "with us--
Madeleine and me--to look after him, and he is very pleased with the
shooting.  Oh, yes, Mr Morion, I am sure we shall be quite satisfied,
and, if you won't take it on hearsay, the only thing to do will be for
you to come down and judge for yourself."

"Thank you very much," he replied, adding, somewhat to Madeleine's
surprise, if not to that of her mother, "Yes, I think I should like to
come down for a little while you are there."  For, as a rule, any
invitation to Mr Morion was either politely put aside or accepted on
such general terms as to leave but vague probability of his ever
availing himself of it.

Mrs Littlewood glanced at him as she responded cordially that she was
delighted to hear it.  And across her own mind there flashed again a
reviving hope--a hope which she had once cherished eagerly, though for
some time past it had all but faded.

"Can it be," she thought, "that, after all, he does care for Madeleine?
They say that such things often begin by a kind of antagonism.  And in
many ways, _au fond_, they would be so well suited."

Madeleine's unspoken reflections ran in a very different direction.

"I wonder," she said to herself, "if it has possibly struck him that he
should know something of those poor relations of his.  He is not the
sort of man to shirk a duty, or even a piece of kindness, once he
recognises it; but he has got into a curiously indifferent sort of way
of looking at things.  Lives and circumstances are oddly arranged.  He
is just the type of man who would have been quite happy and content, and
probably more useful in his generation, had he had moderate means and
been able to devote himself to study--as, indeed, I suppose he does; but
then comes the question, Has he a right to do so, considering that he is
a large landed proprietor, with so many, in a sense, dependent upon
him?"

She looked at him, as the thoughts, as they had often done before,
passed through her mind.  He felt conscious of her involuntary
scrutinising expression, and again he grew slightly irritated.

"That girl lives upon criticising other people," he said to himself.  "I
wonder what she is inwardly arraigning me for now."

To some extent he did her injustice; to a greater extent she was guilty
of the same offence towards him.  But there _are_ people who, in obeying
the command of concealing from the one hand the good deeds of the other,
lose sight of the equally authoritative warning against hiding our
light, humble as we may and should esteem it, "under a bushel."  And
such people must often be misjudged.

"When do you think of going down?"  Mr Morion went on.  "I believe
Horace mentioned a date, but I have forgotten it."

"The end of next week probably," replied Mrs Littlewood promptly, for
she still kept the reins of family plans and arrangements well in her
own grasp, her daughter being often in ignorance of them till the eve of
their accomplishment.  "Horace does not come south again--or at least
only part of the way.  He has an invitation to the Scoresbys for the
next few days; then he will return to Craig-Morion and be there to
welcome us--some of the servants go on Monday."

"And how do _you_ propose to employ--nowadays one is frightened to say
`amuse' to young women--yourself in my eyrie (I rather like the name),
as you call it, Madeleine?" inquired their visitor.  "Horace has his
shooting, and a little hunting for a change if he thinks it worth a
short journey for, and your mother quiet, and, I trust, the
consciousness of invigoration.  But what are _you_ going to do?"

"Oh," said she, "I have given no very special thought to it as yet.  Of
course we shall have books, as usual--by-the-by, have you a library
there?  And driving--we are taking down a little cart on purpose for me,
and Horace is looking out for a stout pony, not afraid of hills.  And--
walking--I have a great idea that exploring a new country is better done
on foot than any other way, and I love exploring.  I expect I shall be
able to make a guide-book for you of your unknown part of the country
before we leave it."

"But you cannot explore all by yourself," said Mr Morion, "and I don't
suppose Horace will be always at your command."

A very slight twinkle of amusement might have been discerned in
Madeleine's eyes by a close observer.  She guessed that almost in spite
of himself Mr Morion was leading back again to the rather delicate
subject of his ignored relations, which seemed to have a kind of
fascination for him.  And she was not unwilling to play into his hands.

"Perhaps," she replied, "once I have made acquaintance with them, your
cousins may be good enough to accompany me in my rambles.  Doubtless
they know their own neighbourhood well."

"Mr Morion's cousins?" said her mother, before he had time to say
anything.  "Whom are you talking about, Madeleine?  Oh, yes, I remember;
Horace said something about a family of your own name, I think," turning
to her visitor, "who are living up near there.  But they are scarcely
within countable relationship, are they?"

"I'm afraid I have got into the way of thinking of them as not so, or
rather of not thinking of them at all," he replied.  "But Madeleine has
been obliging enough to remind me, at least tacitly so, that blood is
thicker than water.  Horace, too, has discovered that these cousins of
mine, many times removed, are very poor, so on the whole I am beginning
to feel rather guilty."

Mrs Littlewood turned to her daughter with something in her manner
which to Madeleine revealed a sense of annoyance, though her tone and
words were gentle.

"My dear child," she said, ignoring the latter part of Mr Morion's
speech, "you should be getting old enough by this time to realise that
few of us have a mission for correcting other people.  In _very_ early
youth such ideas are more excusable."

Madeleine's rather pale face flushed all over.  She looked reproachfully
at their guest.

"Mr Morion," she exclaimed, "I really don't think you are--" and then
she stopped.

"Mamma," with considerable appeal in her tone, "truly I don't think that
I was so impertinent as--as it sounds."

Mr Morion felt sorry for her, and again vexed with himself.

"I was more than half joking," he said apologetically.  "Forgive me.  I
must be becoming more bearish than I realise.  You will have to take me
in hand, Mrs Littlewood."

The elder woman smiled pleasantly.

"On my side," she replied, "I fear I am growing very matter-of-fact in
my old age.  But no harm is done.  Of course you have only to tell us if
you wish us to make friends with the family in question.  Did not,
by-the-by, one of the Avone family marry a Mr Morion?  The Avones, as
every one knows, are terribly poor for their position, so it sounds as
if it might be the same."

"It is the same family," answered Mr Morion.  "The mother was Lady Emma
Marne."

Then the subject of the Fir Cottage people dropped, and was not again
reverted to.  Still the illusion to them had left its mark, in a decided
amount of curiosity as regarded them, in Madeleine's mind; some
self-reproach and a touch of interest in Mr Morion's; and a quick
questioning, which darted across Mrs Littlewood's, in connection with
Horace's name.

"I do hope," she was already saying to herself, "that there are no
pretty daughters among them.  It would never do for Horace to entangle
himself in any stupid way, when even Conrad, who had so much less reason
to consider ways and means, made such a wise choice.  But I need not be
afraid.  Horace is far too difficult to please to be attracted by any
girl who has laboured under the enormous disadvantages of these poor
Miss Morions."

And she dismissed the unknown sisters from her mind, nor was the Fir
Cottage family again alluded to, even between Madeleine and herself,
when Mr Morion had taken his leave.

Madeleine thought about them, nevertheless, a good deal.  She had
extracted a certain amount of information from her brother--more than
she had mentioned to the owner of Craig-Morion, more than she thought it
expedient to retail to Mrs Littlewood.  For while she thoroughly, and
with reason, trusted her mother and greatly admired her, she had learnt
by long experience that even with those nearest and dearest "least said
is" not unfrequently "soonest mended."  There were directions of thought
in which she felt intuitively that their two minds would not run
together.  For Madeleine, beneath her calm, occasionally, in appearance,
almost too composed and self-contained manner, was at heart
enthusiastic, eager, and impetuous.  She knew this well, however; she
was on her guard, and thus the very fact of her impressionable nature
made her appear cold and even "stand-off," while Mrs Littlewood's
though not unreal or insincere of its kind, often misled others into
stigmatising the daughter as hard and dictatorial--"laying down the law"
to the mother, with whom, in point of fact, she very rarely ventured to
disagree, whose slightest wish or opinion was weighted for her with
authority, but rarely, nowadays, existent in such a relationship.

Horace had not said _much_, after all.  He had not seemed inclined to
discuss the family whose acquaintance he had made the first time he went
down to Craig Bay with "Old Milne."  And this of itself struck Madeleine
as unlike him, and prepared the ground with her for greater curiosity
concerning them.  She had satisfied herself that one, at least, of the
sisters was "pretty"--"very pretty, indeed, if she were decently
dressed," but beyond that, and replying to some of her questions as to
the manner of living, etc, of the Fir Cottage Morions, she had found her
brother more reticent than usual.  Of this, the principal reason had
been his own annoyance with himself for his clumsy blunder, as he styled
it, to which he could not but attribute the "not at home" with which he
had been met the second time he called, and which somehow he had not
felt inclined to relate to his sister.

Had it been possible for Madeleine to have seen him _this_ evening, she
would have found his mood greatly changed, for, thanks to Betty's
inspiration, and the good tact of Frances and her mother, this third
bearding of the lion in his den was crowned with success.

Horace left the cottage after a somewhat prolonged visit in the best of
spirits, full of projects for introducing his sister and his new friends
to each other--inclined, as he had never before been in his life, to see
everything through very rosy-coloured spectacles.

The next few days passed monotonously enough for Madeleine.  She missed
her brother; the weather was wretchedly dull and gloomy; there was no
interest in looking up such friends as were winter residents in London,
and likely to be returning there after spending Christmas in the
country, seeing that she herself was on the verge of leaving; there was
no interesting shopping to do, as Craig-Morion was not likely to make
great demands on her wardrobe.  In short, everything seemed very flat
and unexciting: an impression increased by the more or less dismantled
aspect of the house in preparation for a long absence.  Nothing seemed
worth while, and Madeleine felt half ashamed of herself.

It was with feelings very much the reverse of those of one anticipating
an "exile"--as some of their friends had chosen to call their voluntary
banishment to an out-of-the-way part of the country--that both Madeleine
and her mother found themselves at last fairly started on their journey.

"I don't know how it is," said the former, when they were comfortably
seated in the railway carriage, "that I have never felt better pleased
to leave London than just now; not even after a hot summer.  Don't you
feel a little the same, mamma?  Somehow I fancy you do."

"Yes," Mrs Littlewood replied, "I am glad to get away.  I have a sort
of longing to feel myself farther north, and, above all, free to do just
as we like, and to see no one if we are not inclined for it.  I suppose
Conrad and Elizabeth will be coming to us, but not just yet, I hope.
They are sure to prefer waiting till the days are a little longer," and
she turned to the book with which she was provided, with an evident and
wise determination not to tire herself by talking in the train.

Madeleine did not regret this, for she was not inclined to talk either.
After a certain point on the journey, the country was new to her, and
therefore interesting, and she regretted the early falling darkness
which soon hid the outside world from view.

It was _quite_ dark when they reached Craig Bay, quite dark and very
cold when they stepped out on to the platform, where her brother had no
difficulty in at once distinguishing them, as they were almost the only
arrivals.

It was cheering to hear his voice in welcome.

"Come on quickly," he said, as he gave his arm to his mother, "the
carriage is waiting for you, and I have made everything as comfortable
as I could.  You must expect a tiresome bit of hill, though at first the
road is on the level; it takes more than half an hour to get to the
house."

"I am glad of it," said Madeleine; "I want to forget everything about
trains and stations, and everything civilised and modern."

Horace laughed.

"I don't think the absence of civilisation will be as pleasant as you
think," he said; "but it isn't as bad as that; it is really a place
where comfort and antiquity might be excellently blended."

And when at last they turned in at the lodge gates, and a few minutes
later found themselves in front of the somewhat rugged granite steps
leading up to the door, and then, in another moment, inside the lofty
arched hall, of which the walls were hung round with trophies of the
chase interspersed with old--and, it must be confessed, rusty--armour, a
great wood fire burning in the vast stone hearth, an indescribable
feeling of isolation and yet homelikeness pervading all--Madeleine drew
a deep breath of satisfaction.

"It is delightful," she said, turning to her brother.  "I am sure we are
going to love being here."

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

FIRST IMPRESSIONS.

Breakfast-time the next morning found the brother and sister at table by
themselves, for Mrs Littlewood, of late, did not make her appearance
much before noon.

"How did you sleep, Madeleine?" asked Horace.  "Nothing disturbed you, I
hope?"

"Why do you ask?  I am not given to bad nights.  I slept very well,
except that I think one never sleeps quite as soundly the first night in
a new place," she replied.

"H'm-m!" murmured her brother, but there was a good deal of meaning in
the inarticulate sound, and a decidedly mischievous sparkle in his eyes
when she again addressed him and he was obliged to look up.

"Horace," she said, "you have some reason or motive for asking how I
slept!  You must tell it to me.  Are you only wanting to tease, or is
there something that you've kept to yourself about this house?  Is it
supposed to be haunted?"

Mr Littlewood's face put on an expression of preternatural gravity, but
Madeleine knew him too well to be deceived by this.

"Don't be silly," she said.  "I believe you are trying to invent
something just to frighten me.  I know your little ways of old.  If
there had been--" she hesitated.

"What?" asked her brother.

"I was going to say anything real," she replied: "if there had been
anything real of the kind, you would not have let us take the house, or
rather Ryder Morion would not have done so without warning us."

"Perhaps he doesn't know," said Horace mysteriously, with a shake of his
head which expressed more than his words.

"Tell me at least what you know," rejoined his sister, rather
impatiently.

"Will you first promise me," he replied, really in earnest, "that you
won't mention it to mother?  Though she is so strong-minded, I honestly
don't think she'd like it, not having been well lately."

Madeleine nodded in acquiescence.

"I promise," she replied; "but do be quick."

"Well," he said, "to tell you the truth, up to now I know very little,
but I mean to find out more, and I hope you will help me.  It has
something to do with an old story of the place being left away from the
other branch of the family, to whom it had been promised by an
ancestress.  _She_, as far as I can make out, is credited with
conscientious remorse for her misdeeds or non-deeds, and walks about a
certain part of the grounds in the stupid way that ghosts always do.
There, now, that is really all I know; but I am not inventing."  And
Madeleine felt satisfied that he was speaking in good faith, as his
story tallied with the allusions made by Mr Morion, that last time she
had seen him in London, to some ancient family complications.  "I know
you've good nerves," Horace went on, "and it may add a spice of
excitement to our time here!"

"But how are we to find out more?" asked Madeleine.  "It would never do
to be cross-questioning the people about; that might annoy Ryder Morion
seriously.  Who told you what you do know?"

"Two or three people," he replied.  "The old vicar knows the whole
story, I strongly suspect, but I couldn't get much out of _him_.  The
best people to apply to, but we must do it carefully, are the Miss
Morions--the other Morions, you know, at the cottage over there,"
inclining his head as he spoke in the direction alluded to.

Madeleine's interest increased.

"Would they not mind talking about it?" she asked.  "Family ghosts are
ticklish subjects sometimes, and in this case there really is some sore
feeling still existent, it appears."

Horace looked up in surprise.

"How do you know that?" he inquired.

And then she told him what had passed between her and Mr Morion on the
subject.

"The daughters, at least one of them," said her brother, "I know would
not mind talking about it to us privately.  She has half promised to
tell me all she knows; but I certainly would be very sorry to allude to
it to the father, or to their mother, for that matter.  They are both so
peculiar, though quite different."

"Well, I hope we shall get to know the girls," replied Madeleine,
"whatever the parents are."

"That reminds me," said Horace, in a would-be offhand tone, "I was to
tell you that Lady Emma hopes to call on my mother.  Will you tell her
so?  She surely won't mind having to know these people, the only ones
really in the place that there would be any question of knowing.  Of
course there are others farther off, at the other side of the county,
or, indeed, some in the next county, nearer at hand, whom we know
already, the Thurles and the Laughtons--the Scoresbys are almost too far
off to count--and these we can arrange to see or not, as we like, later
on."

Madeleine's expression was somewhat dubious.

"Of course, when Lady Emma comes, mamma must see her, and return the
call," she said; "but there, as far as mamma is concerned, the
acquaintance would probably end.  She really does want--mamma, I mean--
to be perfectly quiet here.  Anything more than that, Horace, I can
scarcely answer for."  And she watched with some curiosity the effect of
her words.

A shade of disappointment crossed his face--as to that there was no
doubt--but he threw it off quickly.

"I don't see that that matters," he said.  "The old bear and his wife--a
very submissive wife, too, I should imagine her--wouldn't interest my
mother, or be interested themselves.  I believe they ask nothing more
than to be left alone.  But as regards the daughters--to tell you the
truth, Maddie, I can't help being very sorry for them, and it would
really be kind of you to cheer them up a little."

"I have no objection," said Madeleine cordially; "on the contrary, it
would be a pleasure and interest to me to make friends if--you are sure
you are not reckoning without your host, Horace?--if--I was going to
say--these girls, on their side, would care about it."

"I am sure they would," said her brother.

"I don't know," Madeleine went on.  "The way they have lived may make
them extra shy--proud--I don't know what to call it!--ungetatable.  But
I promise you to do my best, and that carefully in every way.  I don't
want mamma to begin warning me against flying into sudden friendships!--
at my age it is absurd; but then, mamma never remembers that I am no
longer in my first youth."

As she said the words, something in her mind seemed to contradict them,
and gradually she recalled what gave her this feeling.  It was the
remembrance of her mother's remark the afternoon that Mr Morion had
called, as to her no longer having the excuse of "early youth" for
thinking she could set other people to rights.

"I wonder what made her say that?" thought Madeleine to herself, but
Horace's next words put the subject out of her head.

"I don't think you need anticipate any holding back on their side," he
said.  "Certainly not on the part of--two of them.  The youngest _is_
almost childlike, and the eldest, oh! she is really charming and out of
the common.  I am sure you will take to her."

"And why do you except the middle one?" asked Madeleine.

"I don't feel as if I could judge of her," he said indifferently.  "She
seems a changeable sort of girl."

"And they are all pretty, more or less, I think you said?" continued his
sister.

"I don't know that I did say so, though--well, yes, I suppose they are.
But Miss Morion is the sort of person whose looks you forget in what you
feel she must be in herself, and the others--they really are so
atrociously dressed!" he broke off rather ruefully, and yet with a
little laugh.  "You won't be hypercritical, Maddie, but I don't know
about my mother."

Madeleine was standing looking out of the window by this time.  For a
midwinter day it bade fair to be a very pleasant one.  The sky was
clear, though the lights were thin, and in the air there was a decided
touch of frost.

"I am glad to be here at last," she said.  "You are not doing anything
to-day, I hope, Horace--shooting or anything?  For I want you to show me
all over the place."

"I've kept free on purpose for that," he answered.  "Shall we go out at
once?"

"No," replied Madeleine, with some regret in her tone, "I don't think
that would quite do.  Mamma may want me.  I had better wait until after
luncheon, except for a mere stroll near the house.  And in the first
place I want to see something of the house itself.  Is this the only
dining-room?" glancing around her as she spoke.

"Yes," Horace answered; "none of the rooms are very large, except the
hall and the library.  That is really the most curious room.  I can't
make it out: it seems disproportionately big, and perfectly filled with
books, the most modern of which must be fifty years old, I should say.
Lots of rubbish among them, no doubt, and probably some of value if we
had an expert to look them over."

"Long ago," said Madeleine, "no books were considered rubbish.  They
cost too much, and the bindings were so heavy that they took up much
more room.  Let us go and have a look at them.  Just ring the bell to
let the servants know that they can come in."

Horace led the way through a little anteroom, on the opposite side of
which high doors led into the two drawing-rooms--all the rooms at
Craig-Morion were lofty--down a short passage leading into a longer and
wider one, then up two or three shallow steps to a sort of little dais
or landing railed round with heavily carved balusters.  Then, with a
certain air of proprietorship, he threw open the heavy oaken door facing
them, and stood back for his sister to pass in.

She gave a little cry of surprise.

"Yes," she said, "this is quite a unique room.  And oh! what a musty
smell, Horace!"

The mustiness was quickly accounted for.  Up to a certain height the
walls were lined with books, except at one end, where two long painted
windows looked out on to a dark and gloomy path among the shrubberies.
The room, even in full daylight, would have been almost dark had these
windows been its only source of illumination.  But this was not the
case, for the walls rose to the full height of that part of the house,
and the arched roof was completed by a glazed dome, through which some
rays of wintry sunshine lighted up the dusty old volumes into an almost
uniform tint of orange-brown which would have delighted the eyes of many
a painter.

"I wonder," continued Madeleine, "if possibly in old pre-Reformation
times this was a private chapel?"

"How clever of you to think of it!" said Horace.  "It never struck me
before, but it may very well have been so, I should say, though I am no
archaeologist.  We will suggest it to Ryder when he comes down.  That
gloomy walk," and he crossed to one of the windows as he spoke, "is the
short cut through the grounds to the church, which stands just outside
the park wall.  So the chaplain, if chaplain there was, must have found
it convenient, as you see there is a door in this window."

He opened it, and Madeleine looked over his shoulder at a short flight
of broken, moss-grown steps leading to the ground.

"_What_ a gloomy place!" she said, with a little shiver, caused partly
no doubt by the sharp air which met her, "and how long and straight the
walk is!  I should _not_ like, Horace, I confess, to pace up and down
here in the twilight, and scarcely, indeed, at any time of the day--it
can never be anything but twilight here!"

"They call it the `Laurel Walk,'" said her brother.  "It is--" but he
stopped short, and Madeleine, who had retreated inside the room again,
did not notice his breaking off.

"It's too gloomy here," she said.  "Why isn't there a fire?  A huge fire
would mend matters a little and be good for the books too, though the
room does not seem damp, I must say."

"No," Horace replied, "the whole place is wonderfully dry.  You see, it
has splendid natural drainage from standing so high.  There is a fire
once a week or so, I believe, but we can have one every day if you like,
though I fear the books, if there _are_ any valuable ones, are gone past
redemption with the long neglect."

"I should like to get to the brighter part of the house--the other
side," said Madeleine, moving towards the door by which they had
entered; but, to her surprise, Horace crossed the room to the other
corner--that farthest from the windows, and appeared to be fumbling
among the book-shelves.

"Oh come," she said impatiently, "it is so cold, and I don't want my
first impression of the house to be a gloomy one."

"Nor do I," he answered; and then, glancing in his direction, Madeleine
was almost startled by a sudden glow of light and warmth behind him.
"You don't call _this_ gloomy," he proceeded, and Madeleine, hastening
forward, saw that his apparent fumbling among the books had in reality
been the feeling for a spring, by which to open a door, concealed by
rows of "dummy" volumes, which now stood wide open, giving access to a
cosy and inviting looking sanctum or smaller library, where a splendid
fire was burning, and where, moreover--for this was at an angle of the
building--the morning sun penetrated brightly, through windows facing
east and south.

"Oh, how charming!" cried Madeleine, hurrying over to the fireplace.
"Is this where you have established yourself, Horace?"

"Yes," he replied, "hence my intimate acquaintance with the library, and
the short cut down the Laurel Walk.  This is one of the jolliest rooms
in the house, and you see I've got all my own belongings here already.
And you don't know all its attractions yet!  There is a hidden door in
the corner here too, opening on to a private staircase up to a couple of
capital rooms--bedroom and dressing-room--which I've taken possession
of.  They communicate as well with the main part of the house, where all
your rooms are.  But it is jolly, isn't it?  I don't believe Ryder has
any idea how comfortable this old place might be."

He seemed as pleased as any school-boy with his new quarters; and
Madeleine, on her side, was girl enough to enter into the little
excitement in connection with their temporary home with equal zest.  She
insisted on following her brother up the little staircase to see his
other rooms, then down passages and across landings to the main
staircase, down which they came again to visit the drawing-rooms.  Of
these there were two, on the whole the most attractive rooms on the
ground floor, for they had windows on both sides, and though their
furniture was somewhat scanty and quaint, and there was naturally an air
of unusedness about them, Madeleine's quick eye soon decided that with a
little rearrangement, some high-growing plants and ferns here and there,
books, photographs, and so on, it would be easy to give them a homelike
and gracious aspect.

"I thought," said Horace, "that mother could probably use the smaller
one as a sort of boudoir, and if you want a den of your own, Maddie,
there's rather a nice little corner room close to where you are,
upstairs.  A plainly furnished little place, as you prefer, I know, for
your various avocations, which don't always find favour in the maternal
eye."

Madeleine laughed.

"Show it to me," she said.  And upstairs again they went.  The little
room was greatly approved of.  "Yes," agreed Madeleine, "it is just what
I like.  Not so very little, after all--large enough to have a friend or
two at tea privately.  You must hunt me up a few more chairs and a sofa
from somewhere.  Yes, this room is a capital idea.  I can bring in any
botanical spoils, or cut out my poor work, without fear of annoying
mamma by my untidiness."

"You _are_ very untidy, you know," said Horace, who had all a soldier's
precision and orderliness.  "I don't mean in your dress, of course, but
I do sometimes sympathise with mother."

"Oh, don't preach, Horace!" answered his sister, for her untidiness was
an old story.  "By-the-by, are there any poor people about here?"

"Scarcely any in the place itself," said Horace.  "But there is a queer
fishing village not far off, the old vicar tells me, full of attraction
for the artistic as well as the philanthropic.  The people keep very
much to themselves, and are delightfully picturesque, awfully dirty, and
generally barbaric."

"Why doesn't he look after them, then?" said Madeleine rather sharply.

"Poor old chap," answered Horace, "he can't.  He would if he could, even
though it isn't his business.  But he has plenty of _work_ in his own
parish, even though there's very little actual poverty."

"Of course," said Madeleine, "the cure of souls is the same
responsibility whether it concerns the well-to-do or the poor.  What is
the name of the fishing village?"

"Scaling Harbour.  The people are supposed to be partly of Spanish
descent," said her brother, "and they look like it."

"Is there no church, then, or mission-room, or anything?" inquired
Madeleine.

Horace shook his head.

"Certainly no church; and mission-rooms don't seem to have found their
way up here.  The parson at Craig Bay _should_ look after it, I suppose!
He is certainly not overburdened with money, though."

"And whom does the place belong to?" asked his sister.

"Partly to Ryder," Horace replied, as if rather tired of the subject.
"You can tackle him about it--you generally have a crow of some kind or
other to pick with him, it seems to me."

Madeleine flushed a little.

"Don't say that," she began.  "To tell you the truth, I fear I have
already annoyed him rather about his `absenteeism' as regards this
place."

Horace laughed.

"Upon my word, Maddie," he said, "no one can accuse you of not having
the courage of your opinions.  It isn't everybody--not I, I confess, for
one--who would venture to pull up Ryder Morion for anything he does or
does not do, or choose to do."

Madeleine still looked annoyed.

"I think it must run in the family," she said, in a tone of irritation.

"What--and what family?" inquired her brother.

"Bearishness," she replied curtly--"bearishness in the Morion family, of
course."  Horace shrugged his shoulders.

They were crossing the landing to go downstairs again; but at that
moment Mrs Littlewood's maid met them with a request that Madeleine
would go to her mother's room for a moment.  So, telling her brother
that she would join him in a few minutes for their projected stroll
round the house, she left him, to do as she was asked.

CHAPTER TWELVE.

LADY EMMA "GETS IT OVER."

A day or two passed.  The weather fulfilled its amiable promises to the
Littlewoods on their first arrival, and was all that could be desired,
excepting that the cold increased.

But then, as Mrs Littlewood observed with warmth, what else could be
expected up in the north, and in the month of January?  For her part she
enjoyed the bracing air--it was what she had wanted.  Nor did Madeleine
object to it: she drove with her mother in an open carriage in the
afternoon, Mrs Littlewood well enveloped in furs, and she went long
walks with her brother in the morning, so that before she had slept
three or four nights at Craig-Morion she had already acquired some
knowledge of the locality.

There came a day, however--the Friday after their arrival--when the
forbidding aspect of the sky made Mrs Littlewood decide that it would
be scarcely prudent to risk the possibilities of the heavy clouds, and
more advisable to remain indoors.  Her daughter received this ultimatum
with philosophy, even though Horace was off on his own account, and not
available for a walk or drive.  _The_ pony had not yet been found,
though several had been interviewed.  But this morning's post had
brought news of one which, according to the description, bade fair to
unite all desirable qualifications, and Madeleine's brother had gone at
once--a journey of some little distance--to judge for himself as to its
suitability.

Luncheon over, Madeleine, wrapping herself up warmly, started for a
brisk walk to the village, which had not yet begun to pall upon her by
its familiarity.  Indeed, the shops were so far a source of amusement to
her, combining, as most of them did, during the winter, a little of
everything, including some things rarely to be found except in such
"olla podrida."

"It reminds me," she said to herself, "of that queer little hamlet on
the Devon coast, where Horace and I were sent for change of air after
whooping-cough.  I remember the wonderful little work-boxes, or
button-boxes, with landscapes on the lid, which we considered perfect
works of art, and which I am certain one could never have found in any
London shops at any date.  Horace and I joined together to get one for
mamma, and I believe she has it still."

She entered the shop in front of whose window she was standing, and made
some trifling purchases--two or three baskets of different sizes and of
rather quaint construction, which would be "just the thing," she
thought, for the treasures--botanical and others--which, even in
midwinter, she seldom came home from a ramble in the country without.
Then she took a fancy for some wonderful, many-coloured check material,
which she caught sight of on a shelf: it was of the old-fashioned
"gingham" make, and struck Madeleine as a pleasing variety for the
aprons she contributed to her needlework guild.  And she was much amused
by finding, when she came to give her name and address for sending the
somewhat bulky parcel, that doing so was quite a work of supererogation,
as the well-pleased shop-woman intercepted the words of direction by a
deferential, "Oh, yes, ma'am, quite right--_Miss_ Littlewood, at the big
house!"

Madeleine walked home briskly, but she had made a detour on her way to
the village, and it was now later than she had imagined.  As she paused
in the hall on her return, intending merely to divest herself of her
outermost wraps before glancing in to see if her mother was in the
drawing-room, a door leading to the offices opened, and a footman--who,
to tell the truth, had been posted by his superior in office, to look
out for the young lady's return, in order to pave the way for a possibly
called-for mediation with his mistress--appeared, of whom she made the
inquiry.

"Yes, ma'am," was the reply.  "Mrs Littlewood is in the inner
drawing-room, and," with the air of announcing an event which made
Madeleine realise how far they were from London, "there are visitors,
ma'am."

"Who are they?" she inquired, with some apprehension of her mother's
displeasure.

"Lady Emma Morion and two young ladies.  Bateson thought it right to say
`at home,' though we had no orders, owing to the name, ma'am."  But
there evidently was some misgiving in his mind, not unshared by
Madeleine.

"It is unlucky," she thought, "that I should have gone out this
afternoon, for I don't want mamma to be prejudiced against these
Morions, for the daughters' sakes.  Who could have thought of them
calling on such a threatening day?  I must do my best."  And without
further delay she passed through the larger drawing-room into the
smaller one, where her mother usually sat.

It was not till long afterwards--an "afterwards" bringing with it
relations which allowed the tragic element to melt into the comic, on
looking back to that afternoon's history--that Madeleine fully knew the
relief her appearance brought with it to the very unhappy-looking group
in the boudoir.

"You came in like a ray of sunshine or a breath of fresh, sweet air,"
she was told in that hereafter-to-come "afterwards."

She meant to do her best, and she did it, and she was not one to do such
things by halves.  As far as "good-will" went Frances Morion was
certainly not behind her; but then Frances was at a disadvantage from
her want of social experience--more at a disadvantage than the quiet
calm of her manner might have led one to suppose, as this only made her
appear somewhat impassive and phlegmatic.  Madeleine, on the contrary,
forearmed by a certain amount of knowledge of the ground, discarded for
once the self-containedness which was usual to her, and which she had
learned to adopt as a cloak for her real impulsiveness.  Nothing could
have been easier, kindlier, more girlish even, without a touch of
self-assertion, than her greeting of the three strangers--Lady Emma
stiffly established on one end of her hostess' sofa, her eldest daughter
a chair or two off, cudgelling her brains for some observations which
might possibly draw forth a spark of kin-making "nature" in the
direction of sympathy from Mrs Littlewood; Betty seated at a much
greater distance, dreamily gazing out into the wintry garden, apparently
indifferent, in reality throbbing with disappointment for Frances' sake
at "Mr Littlewood's" non-appearance, and at the well-bred
unapproachableness of the two seniors of the party.

She had begged to be allowed to come, and Lady Emma had given in, little
suspecting the girl's real motive of hoping, by some innocent tact and
diplomacy, to help the position, perhaps to "throw _them_ together," as
Eira expressed it, seeing that it was almost a case of "three being no
company."

"For mamma and Mrs Littlewood are sure to talk," said Eira, "and then
_Miss_ Littlewood would absorb Frances, and Frances in her usual
dreadfully unselfish way would think herself bound to talk only to her,
and _he_ would feel himself snubbed very likely."

And, alas! "mamma and Mrs Littlewood" found nothing to say; and for
once even Frances seemed discomfited, and no "he" appeared, and his
sister evidently did not want to make friends.  For her mother forgot to
mention--or refrained from doing so--that Madeleine was out.

Altogether it was a terrible fiasco, and Betty's one great longing was
to get out, and rush home, and burst into tears in the arms of the
sympathetic Eira, when--the door opened, and, with it, light and life
and "sugar and spice and all things nice" seemed almost immediately to
pervade the atmosphere.

Madeleine's first greeting--to Lady Emma, of course--had just that touch
of deference which gratified the elder woman.  Mrs Littlewood, who, to
give her her due, was feeling far more conscious of being bored and
stupid herself--for to tell the truth she had been more than half asleep
when the visitors were announced--than of any positive irritation at
them, gave an inaudible sigh of relief.  Frances, when the newcomer
turned to her with something in her eyes which said tacitly, "I hope you
will like me, I mean to like you," was won on the spot.  Only Betty's
half-childish gravity, her big dark eyes fixing themselves on Madeleine
with dubious inquiry--only Betty struck Madeleine as somewhat baffling
and unresponsive.  The thought darted quickly through her mind:

"I wonder if this is the youngest of the or the middle one, whom Horace
spoke of as a `changeable sort of girl not easy to understand.'  I fancy
she must be that one.  She is pretty, very pretty, but the other one is
almost beautiful."

We all know how much more quickly thoughts pass through our minds than
it takes to relate them.  The sound of the door opening seemed still in
the visitors' ears as Madeleine seated herself in the best position for
talking to Frances, and at the same time keeping an alert though dutiful
eye on the two mammas.

"I am so sorry I was out when you came," she began.  "I wish I had
happened to meet you in the park; I should have turned back, as I had
really nothing to do of the least consequence."

"I am very glad you have come in," said Frances, in a tone that gave the
commonplace words real meaning.  "But we have only been here a few
minutes."

"What a gloomy day it is!" resumed Madeleine.  "My mother was afraid of
going out, though really, mamma," she went on, turning to her, "it is
scarcely colder than yesterday."

"Do you dread the cold much?" inquired Lady Emma.  "I did when we first
came here, but once I got used to it a little I found it really less
insidious than the damp of the winters of my own old home."

Mrs Littlewood brightened up.

"In Ireland that was, I believe?" she inquired, with more interest than
she had yet shown.  "How one's life changes!  _I_ was brought up
principally abroad, a good deal in hot climates, as my father had
several diplomatic appointments in South America and elsewhere, and yet
now I prefer a cold, or at least a bracing, climate to any other."

"So do I," said Lady Emma, "though it necessitates some care.  I make a
rule of never staying out--" But Madeleine listened to no more--the good
ladies were sufficiently launched on their way probably to as much
intimacy as they would ever achieve.  This reflection, however, did not
trouble Mrs Littlewood's daughter.

"It is not the least necessary," she thought, "for them to see very much
of each other.  Neither wishes it, I am sure, and it will do just as
well, or better, to be just on friendly terms, and leave me free to see
as much as I can of the daughters, at least of this eldest one.  I quite
agree with Horace about her," and she turned with a pleasant feeling of
relief again to Frances, feeling at liberty now to give to her her whole
attention, not troubling herself specially about the younger girl with
the dreamy, just now almost gloomy eyes, who still sat gazing out of the
window, as if absorbed in the wintry scene before her.

The next few minutes passed rapidly for the two elder girls.  Something
in Frances' quiet eyes told Madeleine that the attraction she felt was
reciprocated, and not likely to be effervescent, and already they
touched upon several topics which promised to call forth their common
sympathy--like glades in a forest clearing, gently lighted by the
sunshine, inviting and promising further charm in exploring at one's
leisure.

Then afternoon-tea made its appearance, and Madeleine's duties in
dispensing it, tactfully aided by Frances, for still the little figure
in the window sat motionless, scarcely arousing itself even when
summoned to come nearer the tea-table.

"Can I help you in any way?" she--Betty--asked, half mechanically.
Then, seeing that everybody's wants had been supplied, she retreated
again, cup in hand, to the corner.

"What a queer girl she seems," thought Madeleine.  "Perhaps she is only
desperately shy."

Suddenly the door opened, and Horace made his appearance.  By this time
the fading daylight was giving a shadowy look to the room, and for the
first moment the young man's eyes were a little at a loss.  But the fire
was burning brightly, and another glance or two revealed to him the
position of things.  It all looked very comfortable and friendly, and a
feeling of satisfaction stole through him, though his manner was
studiously quiet, almost deferential as he shook hands with Lady Emma
and her elder daughter.  Then turning in quest of Betty, whom he had
early perceived by her window, to his surprise he found her flown.  For
with one of her sudden movements--Betty's impulses were not confined to
speech--she had darted at his entrance across the room towards the
tea-table, and was now established as near to Madeleine as she could
manage, looking up in her face, greatly to the latter's surprise, with a
curious air of determination to find something to talk about to her!

Considerably amused, a little puzzled, but nothing loath, Madeleine
responded to Betty's unexpectedly friendly overture.

"She _is_ a funny little thing," she thought.  "But Horace will enjoy
talking to Miss Morion;" and she devoted herself with kindly
unselfishness to encourage Betty's spasm of sociability.

"Do you care for pictures?" inquired the younger girl, so abruptly that
Madeleine for an instant or two scarcely took in the sense of the words.

"Pictures," she repeated absently, "what kind of pictures?" with the
sort of smile with which one encourages a timid child.

"Oh!  I don't know exactly," said Betty, "any kind of pictures.  I--I
suppose you see lots in London?"

"Do you mean in exhibitions?" said Madeleine.  "Yes, of course, they are
always interesting.  I don't paint myself, though; do you?"

"Oh dear, no," said Betty, with rather unnecessary emphasis; "and I
don't know _anything_ about pictures.  I don't think I care for them
much."  And then, as she fancied that Madeleine's head was veering in
the direction of Frances and her brother, she burst out into another
little rush of polite conversation.

"I have never been in London," as if this fact was sure to enlist her
companion's interest, which, to tell the truth, it did.

"Really?" said Madeleine.  "I rather envy you.  I often do envy those
who have not seen much or travelled much till they were old enough to
understand something of what they saw."

At another time Betty would have understood and probably taken up the
suggestions in this remark, but just now her brain, by no means a
deficient one, was too absorbed by one dominant idea.

"They are getting on nicely," she thought as some snatches of the
_tete-a-tete_ a few chairs off caught her ears.  "I must keep Miss
Littlewood talking to me, or Eira will think me stupid when I tell her
about it."

"Frances was there once," she said, "for a fortnight.  She got to know
several of the shops, which was a very good thing, wasn't it?  She wrote
down the names and addresses of some of them, and just lately we have
written for things--we had--" here she stopped and grew crimson, and
Madeleine, wondering what could be the cause of this sudden
embarrassment, said kindly:

"Yes?  I hope the results were satisfactory.  About Christmas-time, in
the country, one seems always to have so many wants."

Betty laughed.  Her laugh was extremely pretty, and it seemed to set
both her and her companion more at their ease.

"Wants!" she said, with, for the first time, some of her own natural
manner.  "I don't think our wants are confined to Christmas!  They go on
all the year round, but--" then with a little flush again, and a mental
"she looks so kind"--"I don't see why I mayn't tell you," she went on
aloud, though with a slightly lowered voice.  "This Christmas we were so
lucky.  A friend--an old friend--sent us a present to spend as we liked,
and you don't know how delightful it has been!  We _have_ so enjoyed
ordering things!  The only fear was that mamma wouldn't like it, but it
has come all right.  Frances explained it so nicely to her!"

"How nice!" said Madeleine.  "That kind of present often gives far more
pleasure than anything else.  I remember when I was about--I suppose
about your age--the intense delight of my father's giving me money one
birthday, when he had not been able to choose a gift as usual."--"She is
a dear little thing, after all," she thought to herself: "she cannot be
more than eighteen or nineteen: she is surely the youngest!"

"How interesting it must be," she went on again aloud, "to have sisters
to consult with about such things.  My two sisters were the eldest of us
all, and I am the youngest.  They married before I grew up, so I almost
feel like an only daughter at home.  And you are like me, are you not?
the youngest, though you still have your sisters with you."

Betty shook her little head sagely.

"No," she said, "I am not the youngest.  Eira is nearly two years
younger, just twenty-two."

"Just twenty-two!" repeated Madeleine, "and you two years older!  You
don't mean to say you are twenty-four!  I can't believe it."

"But it's true," said Betty, with a smile; then, a sudden misgiving
seizing her that by her way of speaking Miss Littlewood might infer that
Frances' age was more mature than it was in reality, she went on
quickly: "We are all three near in age, though Frances is so much better
and wiser than Eira and I--especially than I--that it often seems as if
she were a second mother to us!"

"I see," said Madeleine thoughtfully, her eyes straying in Frances'
direction.  Then a smile irradiated her whole face, adding greatly to
its charm.  "I dare say you wouldn't suspect me of such a thing," she
said, "but do you know, if I let myself go, I should really be afraid of
getting too enthusiastic about your sister?  She is so--beautiful, in
the best way; beautiful with goodness as well as literally!"

Betty's heart was now completely won.

"Yes," she said simply, "what you say is true."

Just then there came a little break in the conversation between Frances
and her host, which had hitherto been progressing most propitiously.
Horace glanced in Betty's direction.

"Madeleine is greatly interested in this house," he observed.  "I
suppose you all know it well?" and, as he addressed himself directly to
the younger sister, she had no choice but to reply, and at the same
moment, Frances moved to a chair nearer Madeleine's, and the two went on
with their interrupted talk.

"No," said Betty, "not so very well, though of course we have been all
over it."

"My sister was much struck by the library," he resumed, in his turn
changing his seat for one nearer hers.

Betty's shy eyes glanced at him questioningly with latent reproach.  She
knew that he knew the association that the room must have for her with
the dreaded Laurel Walk, and she looked upon his avoidance of the other
evening's adventure as tacitly promised, till an opportunity presented
itself of her explaining more to him.

"I don't like the library," she said, in a lower tone.  "I don't like
that side of the house at all."

He understood her.

"Don't be afraid," he said, dropping his voice also.  "I am not going to
tease you about it, though I should like to know more of the story."

A grateful glance out of those same eyes was his reward, and at that
moment Lady Emma rose from her seat.

"Dear me!" she exclaimed, with unwonted affability.  "I had no idea it
was so late.  Frances, my dear, Betty, we shall be benighted if we don't
make haste!"

"I hope you have plenty of wraps," said Mrs Littlewood.  "Are you
driving?"

"Oh no," Lady Emma replied, though the inquiry did not displease her,
"it is nothing of a walk.  Mr Morion hopes to find you at home some day
soon, I was nearly forgetting to say."

"I shall be delighted," murmured Mrs Littlewood, not sorry, however,
that the farewells to Frances and her sister obviated the need of saying
more.  Her eyes rested a moment somewhat coldly on Frances as they shook
hands, then glanced off with more cordiality to Betty's solemn little
face.

"Good-by, my dear," the last two words escaping her almost
involuntarily.  Then, to everybody's surprise, her own possibly
included, she gently touched the girl's soft slightly flushed cheek,
with a little gesture of caress in her pretty fingers.  "You will come
to see us again soon, I hope?"

And Betty, lifting her eyes, realised for the first time the delicate
charm of "Mr Littlewood's mother," as she smiled in response.

"What a lot I shall have to tell Eira!" thought Betty, as she followed
her mother and sister out of the room.  "After all, it has gone off
capitally, and I thought everything at first was turning out wrong."

Their host accompanied them to the hall door.  "You are sure you don't
mind crossing the park alone, now it is so nearly dark?" he said, with
some little hesitation.

"Oh, not in the least," replied Lady Emma, with decision; for, truth to
tell, she had had enough and to spare of "society" for the time being,
though on the whole it had been less antipathetic than she had expected.

"Oh dear, no, we are so accustomed to it," Frances repeated, though as
her mother walked on she was obliged to delay a moment to listen to
Horace's last words.

"There is a pony in the yard," he said, "waiting for Madeleine to see.
Otherwise I hope you would have allowed me to escort you home."

Betty had already run on.

"Oh, we are quite right, I assure you," said Frances.  "I hope the pony
will please your sister."

Horace stood for a moment looking after them, then turned into the house
again to summon Madeleine.

"Well?" he began, when they were on their way to the stable-yard.  "What
do you think of the Fir Cottagers?"

"I like the daughters extremely," said Madeleine heartily, "both of
them, though they are so different; and mamma and Lady Emma took to each
other quite satisfactorily--quite as much as is necessary."

"I'm glad of that," her brother replied simply.

On their side the three wending their way homewards were discussing
their new acquaintances in greater detail.

"I think them charming," said Betty eagerly, "even the mother, and
somehow I didn't expect to like her.  But didn't she speak kindly at the
end?  And, oh! how pretty she must have been, Frances."

"Yes," agreed Lady Emma, one of whose good qualities, negatively
speaking, was an absence of any spirit of small feminine jealousy.  "Her
daughter is not nearly so pretty."

"But she, Miss Littlewood, has a very nice face," said Frances.  "On the
whole, I am sure we shall find them pleasant neighbours."

Lady Emma gave a sigh.

"I am glad to have got the call over, any way," she said, in a tone of
relief, adding, reflectively, "and I daresay if your father has no
objection you may enjoy seeing something of the girl.  It might be
mutually pleasant," mentally resolving to put things in this light to
her husband, whose terror of being patronised was a mania.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

GROWING INTERESTS.

Pleasant bits in life's journey are in reality not unfrequently
monotonous, though this fact may not be realised at the time.  This much
indeed is certain: that they often leave little for their chronicler to
record.

With the coming of the Littlewoods to Craig-Morion, things in general
took almost at once an aspect of new and unwonted interest for Frances
and her sisters.  There was no longer the dreary waking in the morning
to the often reiterated question: "What shall we do with ourselves
to-day?"  For once its few "musts" and "oughts" had been attended to,
and that dutifully, there yet always remained a doleful stretch of hours
to fill up as best might be, and Frances' anxious invention was taxed to
the uttermost, in winter especially, to employ this enforced leisure,
healthily as well as pleasantly, for the two younger ones, whose welfare
was seldom if ever absent from her mind.

Now all seemed different.  For even if meetings or expeditions of some
kind were not planned for every day, and even if these same little plans
were of the simplest and least exciting nature, there was always the
consciousness of outside interest and sociability at hand, hitherto so
peculiarly absent from the young lives at Fir Cottage.

Ten to one, before Frances had left her father's study, where most
mornings she wrote to his dictation business letters, more often than
not entirely works of supererogation, or while Betty and Eira were doing
their best to brighten up the drawing-room with such wintry spoils as
were to be had, the parlour-maid would appear with a note from the big
house, asking: "If one of you would care to drive with me this
afternoon, and the others meet us at tea-time in my own room?"

This of course from Madeleine.

Or Horace would make his appearance with unacknowledged calculations as
to its being an hour when the great bear was not to the fore, with a
proposal, were the weather specially promising, for a good walk, not
seldom in the direction of Scaling Harbour; as to the increasing
attractions of which unique spot more hereafter.

On these occasions the two younger sisters always found it impossible to
give an answer without an appeal to their senior, and Mr Littlewood
waited with exemplary patience while Eira made some excuse for
penetrating into her father's sanctum, and there conveying by means of
some "family masonic" sign a hint to Frances that she was wanted.

Things fitted themselves in marvellously well and apparently without
effort.  The three elders of the two groups scarcely realised how much
the young people were together.  Horace's utmost tact was employed to
propitiate Mr Morion in various ways.  Now and then he made a special
call upon him, during which the ladies of the family were not alluded
to, or he would ask his advice on some matter on which the elder man's
opinion was really worth having, as he himself knew.  And, if her
husband was content, Lady Emma, who had thoroughly learnt the lesson,
not perhaps uncongenial to her temperament, of letting well alone, was
not likely to make or notice rocks ahead of any description.

But there remained Mrs Littlewood, as a matter of fact the most acute
and the most powerful of those concerned.  She knew much more than the
parents of her young neighbours, whose worldly experience through disuse
had grown rusty, the possible complications that this familiar daily
intercourse might initiate.  But it was a rule of life with her to
refrain from acting till she was pretty sure of being able to do so
effectually.  She contented herself negatively with reflections that
"Horace knew what he was about"--"All young men were the
same"--"Conrad," naturally far more inflammable than his younger
brother, "could not have done better for himself than he had done, and
even Madeleine--well, Madeleine might be Quixotic and romantic in
certain ways"--for Mrs Littlewood gauged the impulsive side of her
daughter's character more accurately than that daughter suspected--"but
_au fond_ she had her brother's real interest at heart."  And,
positively, Mrs Littlewood now and then exerted herself to bring a
fresh element into the group.  It was she who suggested Horace's
inviting his old friend, Mark Brandon, to give them a day or two on his
way south from Scotland; though as far as Madeleine was concerned such a
visit could result in nothing, Sir Mark Brandon not being in the very
least to her taste.  It was also by a hint from Mrs Littlewood as to
the kindliness of such an attention that the curate-in-charge at Craig
Bay was more than once invited to join their expeditions, and on the one
or two occasions when Frances or her sisters were at luncheon at the big
house, to make one of the party.

"For _that_ now," said Mrs Littlewood to herself, with the comfortable
ignoring of ways and means below a certain level, peculiar to the rich,
"is the sort of marriage that a sensible girl like Frances Morion should
make.  She would have nothing new to face considering her present life."

But curates-in-charge, like more important people, may be led with
facility to the water's edge, and arrived there refuse all attempt to
drink thereof.  Mr Darnley had eyes and ears for no one except Miss
Littlewood, whose growing concern as to Scaling Harbour and the grave
questions of what could be done for it made her always ready to respond
to the young man's gratification in her interest in his work.

There came a day on which some self-invited guests for a couple of
nights at Craig-Morion opened the way, naturally enough, to asking Mr
Morion, his wife and eldest daughter to join the party there at dinner
in a quite unceremonious way.

It was Horace who undertook the negotiation, for his mother hesitated
not a little as to the propriety of such a step.

"The poorer people are, the prouder they are, of course," she reminded
him, "and, old-fashioned as Lady Emma is in her ideas, I should greatly
dread offending her."

"Put it upon your own health, my dear mother, and make a favour of it--a
great favour of it on their side.  Say how kind it would be of them to
help us to entertain the Charlemonts coming to us so unexpectedly, or
something of that kind.  No one is cleverer than you, mother, at saying
the right thing.  And I'll take the note this afternoon and see what I
can do."

"After all," said Mrs Littlewood quietly, "we are not at all obliged to
have them, and it does not matter whether they come or not except--"

Her son glanced up with a shade of disappointment on his face.

"Except what?" he said quickly.  "Though not of course that you need do
it unless you thoroughly like it."

"It is really of too little consequence to talk so much about," said his
mother languidly.  "I was only going to say, except that I think it
might please Madeleine.  She has taken to these girls a good deal, and
they really are quite unobjectionable.  I fancy, too, she would like to
show Ryder Morion, if he comes down while we are here, that the sympathy
she expressed for them has led to friendly relations."

Horace gave a slight laugh.

"I am by no means sure," he replied, "that Morion would look upon it in
that way.  It would be tacit reproach to him for his neglect of them!"

"He would not be so foolish," replied Mrs Littlewood calmly.  "He is
not a small-minded man, and very likely he has been thinking over what
Madeleine said"--"and," she added in her own mind, "likes her all the
better for the interest she has taken in them.  Furthermore, if there
were any fear of Horace's being seriously attracted by that eldest girl,
nothing would be so fatal as for me to _appear_ to oppose it."  No more
was said on the subject, at least by or to Mrs Littlewood, till the
next day, and even then not till the evening, when, after the servants
had left the dining-room, she looked up suddenly, with an inquiry:

"By-the-by, Horace, what about the invitation to Fir Cottage?  I have
had no answer."  Horace started to his feet with an exclamation of
annoyance.

"Really," he said, "I am not to be trusted.  The answer was written
there and then by Miss Morion and given to me, and is at the present
moment, I have no doubt, in my overcoat pocket.  Excuse me an instant,
mother," and he left the room to return immediately with the letter in
his hand.  Madeleine, as it happened, had not seen her friends that day,
though she had known of her mother's invitation.

"Oh!  I hope they are coming," she said.  "You are talking about next
week, I suppose, when the Charlemonts will be here?"

Mrs Littlewood did not reply till she had opened and read the note.

"Yes," she said, "they accept.  Not that I had much doubt of it.  Pretty
handwriting," she went on.  "I wonder how those girls got educated?"
Her daughter's face grew rather red.

"They are very well educated," she said.  "Frances undoubtedly is, and
she is naturally the cleverest.  Whatever the other two are, and they
would certainly pass muster to say the least, they owe greatly to her.
She is a model elder sister."

"She would be a model in any relation of life, it seems to me," said
Horace, for the slight irritation which his mother's tone had caused his
sister was not unshared by him.

Mrs Littlewood's underlying, though usually well-controlled spirit of
perversity, here slightly got the better of her.

"For my part," she said, "I confess to being very much more attracted by
the younger sister.  I don't mean Eira--what a fantastic name!--she is
too much of a hoyden still to please me, but by that dark-eyed Betty.
There is something quite unique about her."

Madeleine said nothing, but glanced at her brother with a certain
anxiety.

"Horace is by no means a diplomatist," she thought to herself, "if what
I more than half suspect is the case," for her glance revealed to her a
slight deepening of colour through the sunburn of his face.  "He _is_
annoyed," she went on in her own mind, "but he should not show it."  And
anxious to change the subject to some extent, and at the same time to
please her mother, she turned towards Mrs Littlewood quickly.

"Yes," she said, "Betty has something very uncommon about her.  I should
like to see her in the evening.  I wonder how she `lights up.'"

Her success was greater than she had expected, greater than she had
dreamed of, for though her mother's next words contained a suggestion in
every way congenial to Madeleine, it was one she would never herself
have ventured upon making.

"I don't see why she should not give you an opportunity of satisfying
your curiosity," said Mrs Littlewood pleasantly.  "Supposing we ask the
two younger girls to come in after dinner?  Gertrude Charlemont would
make friends with them--she must be about the same age."  Gertrude
Charlemont was only eighteen or nineteen at most, as Madeleine knew.
But she did not correct her mother's impression as to Betty or Eira's
age.  "She is all the more likely to judge them leniently if she thinks
of them as so young," said the Morion sisters' warmhearted champion to
herself, with some pardonable calculation, as she turned to her mother
and replied quietly--Madeleine was always afraid of laying herself open
to any charge of "gushing" or exaggeration--

"What a good idea, mamma!  I am sure they would be very pleased to come.
Shall I ask them when I see them?  It is scarcely worth while to write
another note about it."

Horace said nothing.

"Do just as you like, my dear," Mrs Littlewood replied.  "I leave it in
your hands."

And she could not have done better.

To describe the excitement caused at Fir Cottage by Madeleine's message,
delivered in a kindly, matter-of-fact tone, as if it were a suggestion
of but slight importance, would expose the chronicler of these simple
annals, deservedly enough, to a strong suspicion of exaggeration.  So no
attempt to do so will be made.  All the more that the expression of this
excitement had to be confined to the sisters' own quarters, and private
confabulations.  For in their different ways both parents would have
resented any appearance of treating the invitation as anything out of
the common--Mr Morion, when by any chance such a subject as his now
grown-up family's isolation from ordinary social life came on the tapis,
always speaking as if it were entirely a question of "choice" on his
part; Lady Emma, though more practical, also taking for granted that
only material difficulties as to ways and means were to be thanked for
the exceptional state of things.  And in this she was probably correct.
For her husband's eccentricities would undoubtedly have never become so
marked had he been a rich man, or, even had he all the same deserved
Horace's sobriquet of "the bear," bears are tolerated when their
trappings are of gold--sometimes with really astonishing leniency.

There was from the first no opposition to the invitation of which
Madeleine's brother was the bearer.  Lady Emma thanked him--or rather
requested him to thank his mother--with calm equanimity.

Yes, Betty and Eira would be pleased to come, she had no doubt.  That is
to say, if there were no very appalling change in the weather, which
would make it scarcely desirable to go out so late.

"You know," she added, with a smile, "we are terribly rustic in our
habits, Mr Littlewood.  It is so seldom that anything in the way of
evening engagements tempts us to leave our own fireside."

"I suppose you have any amount of garden parties and that sort of thing
in the fine season," he said; "though you probably find them a great
bore?" he added, turning to Betty.

The girl opened her eyes very wide.

"A great bore," she repeated; "oh dear, no.  I think they are
delightful.  But there are not many here.  The Ferrabys have one on the
vicar's birthday if it is fine--that is the end of July, so it suits
very well, as it is just about the time for the school feasts, and--"

A glance from Eira arrested her confidences, and Horace was left to
wonder why the two entertainments coming together should be so
desirable, Betty meekly accepting the reproof from her younger sister
administered in privacy that she really need not say things "like that."

"Mrs Ferraby would not like it," she explained; "for of course I know
what you were going to say--that the cakes and buns and things over came
in so usefully."

Her interruption in Mr Littlewood's presence had been, she flattered
herself, skilfully managed.

"The Ferrabys' garden party is the dullest of any; I don't think you
need give it as an example, Betty," she had said, and Horace listened
with some amusement to her graphic description of the few neighbours
within hail, who blossomed out into entertaining of even this mildest
description.

"It is certainly rather an unusually isolated part of the world," said
he.  "We shall be all the more grateful to you next week for helping us
to amuse these good people--the Charlemonts.  The daughter, by-the-by,
Gertrude, is quite a nice little girl, about your own standing--eighteen
or nineteen."

This time it was Eira who was interrupted.  She was just beginning a
protest against being defrauded of the three or four years of seniority
to the "nice little girl," of which she was young enough to be rather
proud, when Frances crossed the room with a note she had been writing to
Miss Littlewood, which she wished her friend's brother to take charge
of.

"You won't forget it?" she added, with a touch of playfulness rather new
to her.  Of late Frances had seemed younger; her manner to Horace was
decidedly cordial and friendly--increasingly so, as they got to know
each other better--and as he replied with an earnest disclaimer of any
such possibility as his omitting to execute her commission, Eira's
slipper toe touched Betty's significantly.

"Isn't it lovely?" she said five minutes later, when their visitor had
left and they were alone in her own quarters, "isn't it delightful to
see how well they are getting on?"

"Yes," Betty replied, though there was a half-absent, almost dreamy tone
in her voice.  "Yes," she repeated, rousing herself a little, "that is
if--you are sure they are getting on all right, Eira?"

"Of course," said Eira, "nothing could be better, and I really think,
though I'm younger than you, Betty, that I understand some things more
quickly!  Indeed, more than Frances herself does!  She has lived so for
other people, so entirely putting herself in the background, that I dare
say it will be difficult for her to realise such a thing.  It will come
to her," she went on sagely, "through friendship, so to say, and anyone
can see how Mr Littlewood respects her opinion, and tries to get it on
all subjects.  He loves talking to her, of that I am certain."

"And Madeleine is devoted to her," said Betty, "and she and her brother
are firm friends.  That must be a good thing.  But, O Eira, we must make
her look very, very nice the night she dines there."

"I'm sure she will," said Eira.  "I really think I've got everything
about her dress quite settled in my head, though there are a few points
we had better not come upon to her till the last minute.  The thing for
her hair that we've ordered, she won't be able to refuse it when she
sees that we've actually got it.  O Betty, what should we have done with
all this happening but for Mrs Ramsay's present, for you see now that
we are going too, or half going anyway, we _couldn't_ have done without
our new shoes and gloves and sashes."

Betty looked up anxiously.

"You've been thinking it all over already, I see," she said.  "You do
think our best evening dresses--the new white nun's veiling ones, I
mean--will do?  Of course they are perfectly clean, we've never worn
them since we've turned them into evening dresses, and we took such care
of them last summer!"

"Oh dear, yes, they'll be all right," said Eira reassur
ngly.  "Thanks, of course, to the blue sashes."  Then, with a little
laugh--"Especially," she added, "as Mrs Littlewood thinks we are only
eighteen and nineteen."

The eventful day arrived.  Fortunately on all accounts, looks included,
the weather was mild, and Lady Emma, with unwonted maternal solicitude,
had told her daughters they were not to think of dressing without fires
in their rooms.  And Frances' appearance, thanks to her two devoted
tire-women, when she joined her parents in the drawing-room--where Mr
Morion was already fuming, ten minutes before the time, at the
anticipated unpunctuality of the fly-driver--was in itself a reward to
her mother for this same unusual amount of motherly concern.

"You do look very nice, indeed," she exclaimed, with a little rush of
surprise at her own enthusiasm.  "Look at her, George," on which Mr
Morion condescended to turn in his daughter's direction.

"Very nice," he murmured, as without entering into detail he took in the
general impression of her tall, well-proportioned figure, which it would
have been difficult to disguise by even the least "well-cut" of
draperies.  As it was, the prettily shimmering black gauze, broken only
by a large bunch of violets at her waist, was unexceptionable in the
almost classic of its long, straight folds, and the lovely fair hair in
which glistened the little coronal of fairy plumes, which Eira's quick
eyes had picked out in a fashion plate and ordered forthwith, made up a
whole which a father would have been almost _in_human not to feel proud
of.

"Good-night, dears," whispered Frances to her sisters, as she followed
her mother to the fly, which, after all, had appeared to the moment.
"Good-night for the time being, I mean.  If you only take half as much
pains about yourselves as you have done about me, papa _will_ have
reason to be pleased."

She was feeling deeply touched by her "little sisters'" evident
devotion.  And for almost the first time a faint suspicion dawned upon
her that their ultra concern about her appearance might have a special
cause.  Her fair face flushed at the mere suggestion, though it was too
dark in the fly for either of her companions to notice it.

"They are dear, good little things," she thought to herself, "but they
mustn't fancying that other people see me with their eyes.  And as for
me, at my age it would be too absurd to begin thinking of anything of
that kind for the first time."

But the half-unconscious confession to herself that such a warning might
be salutary was significant.

As the mother and daughter, followed by Mr Morion, made their way into
Mrs Littlewood's drawing-room--the larger of the two, well lighted and
beautified by hot-house flowers, so that the impression was a brilliant
one--more than one pair of eyes turned in their direction, to rest for
the moment with pleasure on the stately girl whose dignity of bearing
was scarcely perceived ere it was tempered by the charm of her sweet
expression.

"She _is_ beautiful," thought Horace, while Mrs Littlewood thought to
herself, "I had no idea she would light up so well--I am glad that
Horace must take in her mother, and not herself;" while Madeleine turned
with frank delight in her eyes to a dark, grave-eyed man who was, at the
moment of the Morions' entrance, standing near the fireplace talking to
her.

"Do you know who that is?" she said, with a smile, dropping her voice.

"There are three `thats,'" he replied dryly, smiling too.  "Yes, I think
I can guess, for I knew whom you were expecting--your mother, by-the-by,
seemed rather taken back on my unlooked-for appearance, and I was glad
to find that her only reason was the fact of my cousins dining with you
to-night."

"Then you don't mind?" said Madeleine quickly.

"Of course not," he said, "why should I?  No, I set your mother's mind
quite at rest by undertaking to smooth down the other side also--Mr
George Morion, I mean.  I should have known him anywhere, though it's
years since we met.  I had better go over and speak to him at once."

"He is still taken up with mamma," said Madeleine hurriedly.  "Do wait
one instant.  I want to know what you think of my special friend,
Frances?  I have been longing for you to see her."

Mr Morion's eyes strayed half carelessly again in the direction of the
little group where stood the newcomers.

"That is surely rather unreasonable," he said.  "I have not even heard
the tone of her voice," and he crossed the room as he spoke.

"You are contradiction personified," was Madeleine's mental ejaculation.
"All men are contradictory, but you are the quintessence of it!  I wish
I hadn't asked him what he thought of her!"

By this time Ryder Morion was gravely shaking hands with his kinsfolk--a
word from Mrs Littlewood having already explained the situation to some
extent.

"Yes," he went on to Lady Emma, cleverly including her husband in what
he said.  "I arrived more than unexpectedly, for my letter, which should
have preceded me, has not yet appeared.  I am specially fortunate in
finding you here this evening."

Mr Morion the elder eyed him somewhat grimly; Lady Emma replying more
graciously, though with a touch of nervousness as she caught her
husband's expression.

"You have not been here for a good many years, I suppose?" she said.

"No," he replied candidly, "I am beginning to think it has been wrong of
me, and I cannot really give any reason for it, except multifarious
occupations elsewhere.  And--I don't think I have realised," he went on,
turning to Horace's bear, "that it would have been better to give things
up here more personal attention.  I must not begin about private matters
just now, but I _am hoping_," with some slight hesitation, "I should be
grateful if while I am here you would allow me to consult you a little."

No one but Lady Emma detected the slight softening in her husband's face
at this speech.

"Are you making some stay?" was his rather abrupt reply.

"It depends on two or three things," Ryder answered.  "I scarcely know
what may suit Mrs Littlewood yet, and I am always busy in my own,
perhaps useless, way.  But a few days, yes, I must stay a few days if
possible, and I hope I may take my chance of finding you at home?"

He glanced round with the half intention of asking to be introduced to
the tall fair girl, whose appearance, to tell the truth, had
considerably surprised him, but he gave up the idea.  Frances was seated
at some little distance, and bending over her, as he stood beside her
chair, was Horace Littlewood, talking eagerly.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

IN THE OLD LIBRARY.

When the ladies returned to the drawing-room after dinner, two figures
in white, with broad blue sashes, rose to greet them.

Frances' face grew still brighter.  She had dreaded for her sisters an
entrance into an already crowded room, for such to their inexperienced
eyes would it have appeared a quarter of an hour or so later, though the
number of guests was in reality but a small one.  In addition to the
Charlemonts, father, mother, and daughter, were one or two odd men, whom
Horace had managed to secure from no great distance, and a young married
couple, who thought nothing of a twelve-mile drive for the sake of a
little variety in what they considered the dullest of dull
neighbourhoods, where they were forced to pass three months of every
winter, for the sake of pleasing an elderly uncle.  They, like the rest
of the party, were spending the night at Craig-Morion, and the young
wife had been confiding to Frances, in their progress _from_ the
dining-room, her regret that they were not nearer neighbours.  For Miss
Morion's appearance and name had at once caught her attention.

"You would find it unbearable here," said Frances, "if you think
Mellersby dull.  We consider that neighbourhood quite in the centre of
things compared to this."

"Oh, you don't know--" her companion was rejoining, when her glance fell
on the two expectant figures standing near the fireplace.  "Who are
these?" she broke off.  "Parson's daughters, no doubt."

"They are my sisters," Frances replied, with dignity, though not without
a gleam of amusement in her eyes.

"I beg your pardon," was the instantaneous rejoinder.  "They are not
like you; but very pretty--" she was going on, when a second glance
somewhat modified this impression.  _One_ was pretty, the taller and
fairer of the two, though in neither respect did she equal her eldest
sister, but then she was evidently "very young" and would probably
improve.  But the other, the little slight dark one, was scarcely
pretty, not noticeable in any way.  And Frances, quick to perceive the
hesitation, realised with disappointment that her Betty was by no means
at her best.  Of her, Mrs Littlewood could not have thought to herself,
"How well she lights up!"  Frances felt grateful to her hostess when she
saw the kindliness with which she was greeting her little guest, seating
her on a low chair near herself, and expressing regret at the increasing
coldness of the night.

"It was really so good of you and your sister to come to us this
evening," she said; "especially as I am afraid the weather is changing."

Betty's dark eyes looked up in hers gratefully.

"Eira and I would have been very disappointed not to come," she said,
"and, oh!  I was so glad to get here before you had all come in from the
dining-room.  May I stay beside you here, Mrs Littlewood, and then--"
She stopped.

"Certainly," replied her hostess, with a smile.  The girl's
appealingness was a new experience to her.  "But what were you going to
say?--`And then?'"

A tinge of colour crept into Betty's cheeks, making her look prettier,
at least to one close beside her; indeed, the delicacy of her features
and colouring, like those of an exquisite miniature, could scarcely be
appreciated from a distance, where the general effect was apt on small
provocation, such as a cold day or a little extra fatigue, to fade into
insignificance.

"I was only going to say," she replied, "that if I stay near you, mamma
and the others won't think I was shy or `absent,' as they do sometimes,
even if I don't talk much."

"I will protect you then," said Mrs Littlewood, laughing, though while
she spoke she glanced round with the quick discernment of a well-trained
hostess.  The result was satisfactory.  Lady Emma and Mrs Charlemont
were getting on famously; Eira and the latter's daughter had already,
thanks to Madeleine's introduction, coalesced; while at a little
distance a group of the remaining three, Frances, her new friend, Lady
Leila Bryan, and Madeleine, were talking with interest and animation.
Till the men made their appearance at least, Mrs Littlewood was free to
devote herself to her little favourite.

"We had an unexpected arrival this evening," she told her, "did you
know?  Oh no! how could you?  Your father's cousin, Mr Ryder Morion--
Mr Morion, I suppose I should say!  But since we've been here I have
learnt to associate that with your father.  Ryder Morion arrived here
this afternoon."

Betty opened her eyes, profoundly interested.  This was news indeed.

"Mr Ryder Morion!" she repeated.  "I have never seen him.  I suppose
your being here has made him come.  He is a relation of yours, too,
isn't he?"

"Not a _relation_, only a connection," Mrs Littlewood corrected gently.
"My elder son married his sister Elizabeth."

For a second time Betty repeated the name that her hostess had just
pronounced.

"Elizabeth--Elizabeth Morion she must have been.  That is my name, too,"
she said; "sometimes I wish it were not.  We must both have been called
after the same person, our great-grand-aunt Elizabeth."

"It is a nice name," said Mrs Littlewood, "and Betty is a charming
`little name,' as the French say.  I am so glad it has come into fashion
again.  Why do you at all dislike it?"

"Because," said Betty, glancing round her cautiously--Betty firmly
believed that she was acquiring great tact and discretion--"because it
was she that did all the harm to _us_, and caused the sort of feeling
there has been ever since."

"I have heard something of it," said Mrs Littlewood.  "But it is all so
long ago," she added soothingly.

"Yes," said Betty eagerly, throwing discretion to the winds, "but you
know they do say that in one way it isn't so long ago.  I mean--it is
still there, so to speak, for they say that _she_"--with an instinctive
glance over her shoulder--"has never left off thinking about it, and
that she _comes back_,"--in an awe-struck whisper--"and I can't help
thinking it is true.  I wouldn't go along the Laurel Walk, and in at
that library door at night, for--oh dear!" with a sudden start of
horror, as she caught sight of her hostess' startled expression, "what
_have_ I been saying?  Frances would be so vexed with me!"

"Don't look so distressed, dear; she shall hear nothing about it, and
don't suppose I am the sort of person to be frightened at things of the
kind!  Not that it doesn't interest me.  You must tell me all about it--
some other time.  But, of course, it would not do to risk a panic among
the servants, and--oh, here they come--the men, I mean!"

They all entered the room as she spoke, Horace bringing up in the rear.
Catching sight of the as yet ungreeted guests, he crossed at once to his
mother's sofa, and shook hands with Betty, his face lighting up as he
did so, but solemn was no word for the glance with which he was greeted,
as Betty instinctively crept a little closer to her hostess.

"I shall die of fright," she thought to herself, "if Mr Ryder Morion
speaks to me.  And I'm so afraid Mrs Littlewood will introduce him.  I
feel as if he _must_ know all the horrid things we've said of him behind
his back ever since we were old enough to know there was such a person.
And now if he knew that I've just been telling Mrs Littlewood stories
against this place!  I wonder which he is?" she went on, for her
prejudice against the owner of Craig-Morion was strongly mingled with
curiosity.

Her first guess fell on a good-looking, brown-haired, rather florid
young man, to be, however, almost instantaneously dismissed on hearing
him addressed as Hilton or some such name.  And then her eyes, straying
a little further, lighted on an older, darker man, less "smart" perhaps,
but with something about his general bearing more calculated to arrest
her attention.  He was speaking to Madeleine--no, to Frances--no, after
all he seemed to be more engrossed by a very pretty, beautifully dressed
young woman, whom Betty, never having seen before, could not identify as
Lady Leila Bryan.

"How can she?  Oh, how dare she talk in that easy, merry sort of way to
that grave-looking man?" she thought to herself.  "I am _sure_ he is Mr
Morion, and he's awfully frightening looking; even if he weren't himself
I should think him so.  Oh, I beg your pardon," she said aloud, with a
start, as she became aware that Horace Littlewood was speaking to her,
had, in fact, addressed her two or three times, without succeeding in
obtaining her notice; "were you speaking to me?" she went on, while her
face grew crimson.

He looked down at her with a curious expression, in which both amusement
and annoyance might have been detected.  _Betty_ thought it bespoke but
contempt, and her confusion increased.

"It was nothing--nothing of the slightest consequence," he replied.  By
this time his mother was engaged in talking to Mr Charlemont.  "I was
only asking you if you would care to accompany us on a raid into the
library, and that part of the house.  Mr Morion--Ryder--says it is
years and years since he entered it, and Bryan is interested in old
books, so I've had it lighted up.  I thought," and here his expression
grew significative, "perhaps you would like to see--the library for once
at night, in cheerful company."

Betty's face, as she took in the proposal, was a curious study.  In
spite of what she had just been saying to Mrs Littlewood, the grim
strange room which she had never thoroughly explored had a strong
fascination for her.  Sometimes when she woke in the night to a fit of
tremors, her imagination would picture to itself the long, black,
tree-shrouded aisle leading from the old church to the deserted wing of
the mansion.

"Perhaps," she would say to herself, "at this very moment _she_ is
creeping out at that door, down those steps, to pace up and down the
Laurel Walk;" and then, too frightened even to call out to Eira, she
would bury her head in the clothes, only to dream, when she did manage
to fall asleep again, of the poor old ghost, for whom, in spite of her
terror, she always felt an irrepressible pity.  And all this of course
had been much more defined since the evening when they had met the vicar
in the church, and heard from him more particulars of the heretofore
vague old family legend.

Joined to these private sensations was the wish to fall in with any
suggestion of Mr Littlewood's.  She got up almost with a spring.

"I should like very much to come," she said eagerly.  "But, please, is
Frances coming too?"

Horace smiled.

"I expect so," he replied.  "Do you need her to protect you?  There'll
be three or four of us, at least."

There were more.  For Madeleine, as well as the Bryans and Mr
Charlemont, accompanied them, though Eira refused the invitation with so
much emphasis that her new acquaintance, Gertrude Charlemont, could not
resist, when they were left alone, inquiring what it all meant.

It seemed as if Horace had had some prevision of this incursion into
what he considered his own quarters at Craig-Morion.  For there was a
splendid fire burning on the huge hearth, which really did more to
lighten up the lofty room than all the lamps and candles which had been
hastily carried in, though, in spite of all the sources of illumination,
more than half the walls were lost in gloom, culminating in a black
expanse of dome overhead.

Ryder Morion, who was one of the first to enter, gave a little
exclamation.

"Dear me," he said, turning to his nearest companion, who happened to be
Frances, "it is a queer-looking place--I had almost forgotten about it.
I dare say your father could tell me something about the books," he
continued, when he took in whom he was speaking to.

"I scarcely think so," was the rather cold reply.  "I have never heard
of his going through your library.  It is only the second time in my
life that I have entered it.  Indeed, it is only since Mrs Littlewood
has been here that we have got to know the house at all well," and Mr
Morion saw that he had made a mistake.  But he was not of the nature to
be easily baffled.

"I am sorry to hear it," he said quietly.  "But I hope it is one of the
cases in which it is not too late to mend--my ways, I should add," and
here for the first time he smiled, and his cousin of the fourth or fifth
degree was obliged to own to herself that the smile was decidedly happy
in its effect.  Somehow he was conscious of the slight thaw in Frances'
manner.

"Miss Morion," he said, speaking for once in what for him was almost an
impulsive tone, "don't think I'm not aware of my shortcomings hitherto
with regard to this place.  I shall be more than grateful to you for any
hints or information as to the real needs hereabouts.  I have heard from
Miss Littlewood how good you and your sisters are to your poor
neighbours, and--"

"Madeleine--Miss Littlewood," she began, "_sees things_ too partially.
In the first place, as you must know, there are scarcely any poor on
your property; such as there are, Mr Ferraby can tell you all about far
more satisfactorily than I can.  And as to other things--other places in
the neighbourhood--well, no, I suppose they are not more your affair
than that of several other people, to whom I could not apply without
seeming officious, and gaining nothing in the end."

But through her rather curt manner he detected a slight hesitation.  And
in point of fact, at that moment she was asking herself if she should
suppress all other feeling in the hope of gaining his interest and
assistance where both were so badly needed.

"Are you thinking of Scaling Harbour?" he inquired abruptly.

Frances' brow cleared, while her doubts vanished.  Yes, this was her
opportunity; there was now no mistake about it.

"Yes," she replied, and for the first time she raised her eyes and
looked at him fully and unconstrainedly, "I was."

"Thank you," he said quickly.  "I shall not forget.  Now, Horace," he
went on, turning to young Littlewood, who had got down a big book
containing some very quaint illustrations which he was exhibiting to
Betty on a side-table.  "Do the honours, can't you?  Oh, I beg your
pardon, I see you are doing them already."

Horace looked up, but kept his place.

"What do you want me to do?" he inquired; then, without waiting for an
answer, he turned to his folio again.

"Francie," came in Betty's clear treble, "do look here.  Did you ever
see such queer old figures?"

Frances crossed over to her sister's side, not sorry on the whole that
her _tete-a-tete_ was over.

"Yes," she said, examining the pictures with interest.  "They must be
about the date of--let me see--Queen Anne! or older than that?"

"It is easily seen," said Horace, turning back to the title-page.  There
was no fly-leaf, but at the top was written in clear, still black
handwriting:

"Elizabeth Morion: the gift of her father on the 16th anniversary of her
birth."

"Oh!" exclaimed Betty.  "It was _her_ book," and she drew back with a
little shiver.

"Don't be silly, Betty dear," said Frances.  "It makes it all the more
interesting."

But Horace's face expressed some concern, and he murmured something, of
which the word "unlucky" was the only one audible to his companions.

"What have you got hold of over there, Horace, that is absorbing you
so?" said a voice close at hand, and, glancing up, Frances saw Mr
Morion standing beside her.

"Only one of these queer old books," Horace replied carelessly, though
as he spoke he turned over the pages so that the first one, with the
inscription, was no longer visible.  For which piece of tact both
sisters felt grateful to him.

"It would have been disagreeable to have come upon the subject of the
split in the family this very first time of our meeting," thought
Frances, while Betty, too, was relieved, though on different grounds.

Ryder Morion glanced at the book indifferently.  Then his eyes strayed
back to the other side of the room.

"I've found some better books than that already," he said.  "Just look
over here, Miss Morion."

Frances could not but follow him, though not particularly desirous of
doing so.  Horace and Betty remained where they were.

"I wish he would leave us alone," said Betty, half petulantly.  "Frances
was interested in the book, and then," with some hesitation, "she
doesn't mind about our great-grand-aunt the way I do.  Do you think,"
she went on naively, "that it can have anything to do with my being
named after her, or just--just that Frances is so sensible and good
about everything, and that I'm silly?"

"Frances," began Horace, then he checked himself, and his colour
deepened a little.  "I beg your pardon," he said, with a slight laugh;
but Betty's face was far from expressing displeasure.  "Your sister," he
began again, "deserves most assuredly what you say of her, but you can
scarcely expect me to endorse what you say of yourself."

"Oh, I shouldn't mind in the least," Betty rejoined.  "I _am_ silly--
very silly in some ways, I know," and she glanced up at him with a light
in her shy eyes, which illumined all the little flower-like face, as if
it were a ray of sunshine.  "I thought it was because of _that_ that you
turned over the pages of this creepy book so quickly."  For by this time
Betty had redeemed her promise of telling Mr Littlewood all that she
herself knew of the reputed ghost.

He looked gratified.  Everybody likes to be credited with tact.

"I knew it wasn't exactly a subject you cared to speak about--to
strangers," he replied.

"Less still," said Betty, "to Mr Ryder Morion, who, besides being a
perfect stranger to us himself, has to do with it, of course."

"He doesn't seem to have taken your fancy," said Horace tentatively.

Betty closed her lips in a way she had which expressed more than words.

"Tell me," persisted Horace, "I promise not to let him know.  Is it a
case of Dr Fell?"

"No," said Betty, in a funny little tone of defiance, "for I _do_ know.
Besides the old reasons, just now I'm vexed with him for teasing
Frances!"

Her remark, childish as it was, provoked no smile, but, on the contrary,
an almost grave reply, as if the speaker were well considering his
words.

"You are very, very fond of your elder sister, I see," said he.  "I
suppose you have scarcely a thought apart from her?"

"Not a single one," said Betty eagerly; then she stopped suddenly.  "No,
that isn't quite true; just lately--well, for some little time, I have
had a thought--some thoughts, that she doesn't know about."  But no
sooner had she uttered this sphinx-like speech than her cheeks grew
crimson, painfully crimson.  "Oh dear," she exclaimed, "I wish I talked
at all!  I always say what I don't mean to!"

Horace was regarding her with a very perplexed expression.

"Never mind," he said.  "Can't you get into the way of thinking that it
doesn't matter what you say to _me_?  I wish you would.  I really am to
be trusted, and--"

"What?" said Betty, the distress in her face beginning to fade.

"You don't know," he went on, "how I like being treated quite--
naturally, as you sometimes honour me by doing--as if, so to say, you
were beginning to think of me as--as an old friend."

Almost before he had finished speaking Betty's expression had undergone
one of the sudden transformations so characteristic of her.  It was all
but radiant.

"How nice of you!" she said.  "How very nice of you to put it like
that!"

But, strange to say, though he smiled indulgently, a shadow had crept
across Horace Littlewood's face at her eager words.

"Perhaps," he said, "we had better go back to the drawing-room," and he
glanced round to see what the rest of the party was about.  _Three_ had
already left the room, Lady Leila and Mr Charlemont escorted by Miss
Littlewood, who had come to the rescue on finding them mutually boring
each other, Mr Bryan following them with a couple of volumes under his
arm, which he meant to study at leisure.  There remained Frances and Mr
Morion, who were staring out through the unshuttered door-window into
the blackness of the Laurel Walk, as if fascinated.  And when Horace
suddenly addressed her, he was startled as Frances turned to see that
her face had grown strangely pale.  Or was this only his fancy?

"There _is_ something uncanny about the place," he thought to himself.
"Can they have seen anything?  I shall find out afterwards from Ryder."

For evidently, if his suspicion were true, this was not the moment for
satisfying it, as Ryder Morion hurried forward at once.

"Yes," he said, "we had better return to the drawing-room."  And
somewhat to his surprise, Betty started forward at his words.

"It is getting chilly," she said, addressing him directly.  "Do let us
go," on which he naturally accompanied her; thus leaving Horace and
Frances for a moment or two in the rear.

"Wasn't Madeleine saying something about a walk to Scaling Harbour
to-morrow?" began the former in a low and rather hurried tone.  "If so,
may I join you in it, Miss Morion?  I should be glad of the chance of a
talk with you."

Frances lifted her grave eyes to his face.

"Certainly," she said, "we quite mean to go, if it is fine."

The words and tone were matter-of-fact and commonplace enough.  Not so
the inward surmises which his words, still more his manner, suggested.

For the first time Frances allowed her thoughts to entertain a
possibility which till this evening she had resolutely refrained from
even considering.

Could it be that her fanciful little sisters had any ground for the
castle they were busily constructing, of which the foundation hitherto
she would have refused to believe more stable than "in the air?"

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

BREAKING GROUND.

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.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

"I DON'T QUITE REMEMBER."

The summons had come from one of the younger girls, for they had reached
a point on the road to Scaling Harbour at which there was a question of
two ways thither.

"Shall we take the sea-road?" said Eira, "or the higher one?"

Frances hesitated and glanced at Horace.

"Which do you think gives the best view, the most picturesque to
newcomers?" she asked.

"The sea-road, I should say," he replied, "decidedly so.  Shall we lead
the way?" he went on, addressing Betty as he hastened forward to where
she, Eira, and Miss Charlemont were standing; and in a moment or two,
Frances, who by this time had attached herself to Madeleine and the two
other men, heard by the sound of their merry voices that Horace's
spirits were at their highest.

"How considerate he is!" she thought to herself, "so careful not to
involve me in any kind of notice.  I wish I could--I do hope--" but then
she put it all resolutely aside for the moment; the time had not yet
come for a good thorough "thinking out" of it all, and in spite of
Madeleine's evident readiness to leave her undisturbed should she wish
it, she joined with seeming interest in the talk going on around her,
thereby winning still more golden opinions from her friend as to her
unselfishness and self-control.  For the little manoeuvres by which her
brother had cleverly secured the coveted _tete-a-tete_ had been by no
means unperceived by his sister.

A few minutes' quick walking now brought the party on to what was called
the sea-road; another quarter of an hour and the queer little village
lay close before them.  Unanimously they came to a halt.

"It is indeed picturesque," said Gertrude, whose taste lay in the
direction of sketching.

"If only it were summer--not too cold for sitting still!"

"Wait till we have gone a little farther," said Horace.  "It isn't only
the place, the people themselves will tempt you still more."

And when they found themselves in the one straggling street, where the
reddish sandstone cottages looked much as they might have done at any
time since the famous Armada days, when--so ran the legend--the strange
little colony had first been founded, Miss Charlemont fully agreed with
him.  Here and there swarthy-faced men were seated at their cottage
doors, occupied in the never-failing resource of a fisherman's
"off-hours"--mending their nets.  A few women looking out, or here and
there gossiping with each other, had a strangely un-English air, not
only as to their, in most cases, black hair and eyes, but in the very
colour and tone of their carelessly adjusted garments, in which a vivid
blue and almost orange-scarlet, however stained and faded, still
predominated.  The very children, from the tumbling-about babies to the
bare-legged, brown-skinned urchins of both sexes, who, considering the
cold especially, seemed to take life uncommonly easily, all shared the
same distinct and peculiar characteristics.

The strangers were much struck.

"Curious," said Mr Charlemont meditatively, "how the Southern strain is
still so predominant.  It reminds me of--" but his daughter interrupted
him.

"It's worth coming any distance to see," she said enthusiastically.
"Even the very smell of the place isn't like an English village!  Do you
often come here?" she went on, turning to the _Morion_ sisters.

"_I_ don't," Betty replied.  "I like our own poor people far better.
But Frances and Eira--and Madeleine too--have taken to rushing off here
this winter, as often as they can get; once or twice a week sometimes."

"What for?" asked Miss Charlemont.  "Sketching?  I don't mean out of
doors, of course, but the people themselves?" and as, at that moment, a
woman passing along the road--a young and handsome woman--looked up with
a smile and a half-graceful, half-bashful gesture of greeting, she
added, glancing at her, "Is she a model of yours?"

Frances and Eira smiled.

"Oh no," said the latter, "we are not half as accomplished as you think
us.  It is for something quite different that we come.  And but for
Madeleine we should never have been able to do it at all."

Eira and Gertrude were now walking together; Horace and Betty behind
them.  Madeleine, who was just in front, caught Eira's words, and looked
back with a smile of deprecation.

"Don't praise me so undeservedly," she said.  "I assure you, Gertrude,
it is all their doing.  I have only helped in the smallest way.  I don't
see how I could possibly have done less."

"Tell me about it," said Gertrude to her companion; and Eira, by no
means unwillingly, gave her a rapid little sketch of their "plan" for
helping and instructing the poor, neglected fisher-folk of this outlying
little village.

Gertrude listened with interest, the greater perhaps for the impression
made upon her by the uncommon aspect of her surroundings.

"So you see," Eira concluded, with her usual frankness, "we couldn't
possibly have managed it without Madeleine's help, though Mrs Ramsay's
money did come in for the first start.  Madeleine has given us, I know,
all she possibly could, out of her own money."

"But she has plenty," said Gertrude, though with no wish to decry one
for whom her admiration was unbounded.

"Of course I know she is rich," said Eira in a lower voice; "but then
she does and helps such heaps of things already.  It isn't as if this
were her home.  I don't know," she went on reflectively, "if she will be
able to continue things here when she leaves.  It doesn't do to look
forward--we had never hoped to manage half we have already got done this
winter."

"But doesn't the village belong to Mr Morion, Mr Ryder Morion I mean?"
asked Gertrude, a practical little person in her way.

"_Only_ part of it," was the reply; "and he has never,"--she stopped
abruptly.  "Oh, Gertrude," she exclaimed--for the two young things had
already arrived at the Christian-name stage of intimacy--"oh, Gertrude,
speak of--" and again she stopped, for at that moment down a steep,
rocky path, leading on to the main street from some cottages perched
above, appeared two figures, those of the part-proprietor of the village
and of Mr Darnley, the Craig Bay curate-in-charge, the eager aspirant
to the same post at Scaling Harbour.

He was talking eagerly, with some explanatory gesticulation, to his
companion as they came along.  Mr Morion, on the contrary, looked
cooler, almost colder, than his wont.  It was he who first caught sight
of the little procession of visitors.  A shade, though but a slight one,
of annoyance crossed his face: he had heard something of the projected
expedition, but had hoped and intended to get his own business there
completed in time to leave before coming across any of the others.  But
his investigations, even under Mr Darnley's experienced guidance, had
taken longer than he anticipated; taken longer and impressed him more
deeply and more painfully than he had been in any way prepared for.  But
he was not the man to show this; on the contrary, he hastened forward
with more than usual alacrity to meet the party.

"So there you are," he said, in a pleasant but somewhat nonchalant
manner.  "I have had the start of you, however; indeed, I scarcely
expected to see you down here."

"But you will wait, now we have met, and walk back with us, won't you?"
said Madeleine.  "You don't know the treat that is in store for us all,"
she went on, turning with her hearty smile to Frances and the others.
"Tea and buns! half-past three, at Mrs Silver's!  I sent down about it
this morning."

"What a good idea!"  "How nice!" were the exclamations that greeted this
announcement.  For the walk in the keen air and the very early luncheon
had naturally an invigorating effect on everybody's appetite.

"I am specially glad to hear of it," said Mr Darnley, "on Mr Morion's
account.  I'm afraid I have used you very badly," he went on, turning to
the person in question.  "We have been at it since ten this morning, and
you have had no luncheon at all.  Though," with a touch of admiration
and pleasure that he was too young and enthusiastic to suppress, "I must
say it wasn't all my fault, you have gone into things so very
thoroughly!"

A look of real annoyance flashed into Mr Morion's eyes at these words,
to be, however, as instantaneously expelled, for he caught sight of the
flush of gratification on his companion's eager, still boyish face, and
he had not the heart to snub him.  One person only, of those about him,
saw and understood this little by-play, and that was Frances.  And often
in days to come she was glad that she had done so.  For the memory of it
helped to obviate, or at least modify, misconstruction of a character
none too easy to interpret.

"And how about your own luncheon, my good fellow?" were the words
genially substituted for the cold rejoinder which had been on the
speaker's lips.  "You deserve at least three buns and two cups of tea.--
Yes, Madeleine," he went on, "yours was a capital thought, and if some
one will lead the way to Mrs Silver's we shall all gladly follow."

"It is distinguished," said Madeleine, "by being the cleanest cottage in
the place, you will be glad to hear.  Indeed," catching sight of a
slightly apprehensive look on Betty's face, "it is more than that, it is
really _clean_."

"Thank goodness," Betty murmured to herself, at which Horace, who was
beside her, could not repress a smile.

"You don't share your sister's enthusiasm for--no, I won't say
`slumming,' it is such a hateful word, and has been so abused," he said.

"Slumming?" repeated Betty, "I don't quite know what you mean."  And she
looked up in his face naively.

The questioning in her eyes made her look even more childlike than
usual.  For a moment Horace seemed to have forgotten what they had been
saying; then he pulled himself together, as it were.

"I am very glad you don't," he said, "and of course anything your sister
does would be on quite different lines from that kind of sensational
philanthropy.  I only meant that you have a natural shrinking from--
well, dirty cottages and people, and that sort of thing!  I am sure I
sympathise with you in it.  Any one so sensitive--"

But, rather to his surprise, Betty's expression had grown somewhat
shamefaced.

"Oh," she said quickly, "it's just selfishness, I'm afraid.  I often
think I am rather the spoilt one at home; Frances and Eira are so good,
and never think about themselves.  I dare say disagreeable things are
quite as disagreeable _to them_ as to me.  But they always save me from
them in every way.  I believe it began by my not being as strong as they
when I was quite a little girl.  And even mamma petted me much more than
the others."

"I don't wonder at it," said Horace; "there are some people made to be
petted, and the world would be a worse place than it is without them."

"But," said Betty, again scarcely seeming to notice his words, and with
a funny little air of dignity, "I am really not so babyish as you might
think!  With such an elder sister as Frances, how could I be?  I do help
a little, even in what they do here.  I write out a good deal.  We have
made large sheets of directions in printed letters of what to do in
accidents and so on, copied from our books, of course, and the others
say I can print better than they can.  So that is _something_," with a
touch of satisfaction.

"Yes, indeed," said her companion, "a pretty big something, I should
say.  It must be tiresome work.  I hope," he went on, with a little
hesitation, "that now Ryder has seen things for himself more thoroughly
than before--indeed, I doubt if he ever walked through this village
before to-day--I hope that he will give some substantial help."

"I hope so too," said Betty dryly.  "Oh," she went on, with a little
gasp, "it _would_ be nice to be rich!"

Horace's face fell a little.

"Do you feel that?" he said quickly.  "Don't you think that people are
often quite as happy, or happier, who are not very rich, especially if
they are without great responsibilities?  Of course few things would be
worse than to be a large proprietor with lots of people you should look
after, and no means for doing it."

"Yes," Betty agreed, "it reminds me of what mamma has often told us
about grandpapa's and Uncle Avone's difficulties in Ireland.  But with
your Mr Morion it is quite different, of course--isn't he _very_ rich?"

"I should say so," said Horace.

"I don't think I should wish to be very rich like that," said Betty
simply.  "There would be such a lot of trouble about it, and I should
not be clever enough to manage things well--even a woman's part of
things.  Now Frances, for instance," she went on thoughtlessly, "would
be perfection in such a position."

"I can well imagine it," said Horace cordially; but, instantly realising
that she had said one of the things she had better have left unsaid,
Betty looked up at him with one of those sudden changes of expression
peculiar to her, and by no means always easy to interpret.

"Oh, but don't misunderstand about her," she said.  "She's not a bit
ambitious or fond of being important, or--or anything like that.  She
would be quite happy in a far simpler kind of life.  Indeed, I don't
know _any_ sort of life she couldn't fit herself into, though Eira and I
can't help feeling that she is thrown away here, in this little
out-of-the-way corner."

"But yet what would you do without her?" said Horace.  "Could you--can
you imagine for yourself--we'll say--the ever being happy away from
her?"

"Oh yes," said Betty, eager to remove any false impression she might
have given.  "She often says it would be better for me to have to depend
a little more on myself."

"I can scarcely picture your ever being very independent," said Horace.
"I should not like to do so.  But--you may not always have her to take
care of you, and yet not be left quite to your own devices!"

He glanced down at her as he spoke, with some scrutiny in his smile.

"No," she replied, in a matter-of-fact tone, "of course there would
still be Eira, though she says she would _make_ me be the elder sister."

Mr Littlewood turned away half abruptly.  "Here we are," he remarked,
"this must be Mrs Silver's abode!"

He was right.  The young woman who was to act as their hostess, or, as
she would have expressed it, "to serve tea to the gentlefolk," was on
the lookout for them.  She was a pleasing-looking person, though of a
slightly different type from the people about, with fairer hair and
skin, which rather curiously contrasted with her dark eyes.  For her
mother had been an "inlander," to use the term of the fisher-people for
any one not purely of themselves.  Her husband did not appear.  He had
been out for two days, she informed her visitors, on some remark being
made about the weather and the fishing prospects, but she expected him
home that evening.

"Isn't it dreadfully dull for you when he is away?" asked Gertrude
Charlemont, "and don't you get terribly frightened if you hear the wind
at night?"

The young woman shook her head with a little smile.

"We get used to it, miss," she replied.  And Mr Morion, whom the girl's
questions had struck as scarcely judicious, came to Mrs Silver's
assistance.

"Dwellers by the sea learn to have brave hearts," he said; "and then
there is always the pleasure of a safe home-coming to look forward to."

"It will be an out-of-the-way pleasant one to-night, if all's well,
thanks to you, sir," the young woman replied; and turning to Frances,
she added, "It's the pigsty I'm thinking of, miss.  I'm that pleased
about it.  We've been wishing for one so long.  It'll be company for me
when Joe's away!"

It was impossible not to laugh at this, impossible for Mr Morion not to
join, though he had been more than half-inclined to be vexed at the
matter being mentioned.

"There must be something Irish about these good people as well as
Spanish," he said, in a lower voice, as Mrs Silver, to his relief,
turned her attention to the tea-table.

"Scarcely so," said Frances in reply.  "In Ireland the absence of a sty
would certainly not be any difficulty in the way of keeping pigs!"

"No," Horace agreed, "they would be in and out all over the place.
Genuine company if you like!"

This provoked another laugh, for when people are inclined to be happy it
takes very little to give things a merry turn.  And tea at Mrs Silver's
proved a great success.  There was not much time to spare after it was
over, if they were to get home by a reasonable hour.  A little detour by
the shore, sufficient to give them some idea of the picturesqueness of
the rugged coast, was all that could be attempted, and Gertrude
Charlemont declared that by hook or by crook she must come back to the
neighbourhood in the long-day season, for sketching purposes.

"Oh, I wish you would," said Betty eagerly.--"Craig Bay is quite a nice
place to stay at, isn't it, Mr Littlewood?" she went on, as, happening
to glance round, she caught sight of him at her side, "and we should so
enjoy having friends there!"

"I should say you could get very comfortable quarters there," he agreed
heartily; "and I hear there is excellent fishing--river fishing--a
little way inland.  I mean to find out about it, and come down here
again, later on, perhaps, before my leave is up.  You won't think me too
much of a bad penny if I do, I hope, Miss Betty?"

Betty raised her eyes to his with a half-inquiry in them, which he did
not understand.

"Of course not," she said, the little flush in her cheeks which came
with the words rendering her very charming at that moment.  "Of course
not; we should be only too pleased to think that you like the place,
though it is so dull and out-of-the-way.  Your all being here this
winter will have quite spoilt us, I'm afraid," with a little sigh.  "It
has been--it is--so--delightful."

"You delight me by saying so," was the quick answer, heard by no one but
Betty herself, for somehow or other by this time she found that he and
she had drifted a little apart from the others.

"If only I were Eira," thought Betty, "what a good opportunity I could
make of this for finding out a little more! but I get so shy and silly
immediately," and when she spoke again it was with a little effort.

"It is very pretty about here in the summer," she said.  "Up at
Craig-Morion--I mean down here the seasons don't make so much difference
in the look of things.  I'm glad," she continued, "that we don't live
nearer the sea; it frightens me."

"You have never been a voyage, I suppose?" said her companion.  "You
would soon get used to it, I dare say.  Now-a-days, with the splendid
boats there are, many people go backwards and forwards from India for
the mere pleasure of the thing, you know."

"Thank you," said Betty, laughingly.  "I've no ambition of the kind!
Dull as it is here, I should rather stay safe on dry land.  _Frances_
longs to travel, and I wish she had more chance of it!  She is so
clever, you know, she would find--"

"But you yourself," persisted Horace, "you don't intend surely to spend
all your life in this little nest of a place?  The Eyrie, as Madeleine
calls it."

"Oh, I don't know," said Betty.  "If I must, I must!  Don't make me
discontented.  I am afraid I am rather so already," with a touch of
penitence.

"And why shouldn't you be?" he responded eagerly.  "Think how young you
are, and how--" here he checked himself--"how much there is to see in
the world," he added, rather lamely.

"But, you see," said Betty, "I should scarcely be fit for it!--for
making my way in society, or anything of that kind.  I get frightened
and stupid about nothing at all."

She felt that he was looking at her with kindly sympathy, and,
impressionable as she was, it encouraged her.  Almost before she knew
what she was about, she found herself giving him her innocent
confidences to an extent which she had rarely, if ever, done to any one,
certainly not to any man.  And the way home seemed marvellously short
that winter afternoon.

Long, it must be owned, it was not found by any of the little party.
Gertrude and Eira were enjoying themselves under the escort of Horace's
friend, young French, who could make himself very entertaining; Mr
Charlemont and Mr Darnley, on each side of Madeleine, were interesting
her by a discussion on one of her pet hobbies in a philanthropic
direction; and Frances, bringing up the rear with Mr Morion, found
herself more nearly on common ground with him--thanks in part, no doubt,
to the unexpected side-light Horace had thrown on his character--than a
few hours previously she could have believed possible.  And it was
pleasant to her to feel that the young man's influence bid fair to
dissipate the prejudices she had half-unconsciously harboured.  Once or
twice even she glanced round with a half-formed wish that Horace should
notice how well she and her far-off cousin were getting on.  But he was
some way ahead with Betty.

"I can tell him about it afterwards," she thought, with a curious little
thrill at the realisation of the confidence already existing between
them.  Though even without this new prepossession in his favour, Ryder
Morion would probably have won his way towards her esteem and liking by
the quiet, unassuming manner in which he told her of his increasing
interest in, and sense of responsibility for, the till now almost _terra
incognita_ of his northern possessions.  It would have been affectation
for him to avoid the subject after what the curate-in-charge had said,
and the meeting himself on the very spot where help was most needed.
And despite her own preoccupation of mind, Frances was too well trained
in habitual unselfishness not to feel warmly delighted, almost indeed
breathlessly so, at the projects as to which he consulted her, and the
means which he proposed to lay at the disposal of herself and Mr
Darnley.

Altogether the expedition seemed to have been eminently successful, and
no one felt this more heartily than Eira, whose spirits were always
ready to rise, and not easily depressed, save perhaps by chilblains, or
the apprehension of them!

"Betty," she said, when they were dressing rather hurriedly for dinner,
"isn't it all going on too beautifully?"

Betty was seated on the end of her bed looking somewhat fagged.

"Yes," she agreed, "we have had a very nice day; but I must be quick!"
starting up as she spoke.

"I thought it so considerate of him," continued Eira, "to walk home with
_you_, not to make Frances, you see, too conspicuous, as it were.  Was
he talking of her all the way?"

"No--no, not all the way, I don't think," said Betty, in the intervals
of coiling up her long black hair.  "I--I don't quite remember."

"How tiresome you are!" said Eira; "you can't have forgotten so quickly.
I thought you'd have such a lot to tell me, and that you'd be in such
high spirits."

"I never feel in high spirits when I'm tired," said Betty, "though no
doubt it isn't right.--I don't know," she added to herself, "why I don't
feel as happy about it as Eira does.  He couldn't have been nicer, but
can it be that he's only friendly about us _all_?"

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

THE LAUREL WALK AGAIN.

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.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

"ELISE."

That evening, that still chilly evening, was always in Frances' mind,
when she recalled the winter of the Littlewoods' sojourn at
Craig-Morion, associated with the eve of the real spring.  For the next
morning came one of those bursts of warmth and sunshine which go far to
make amends for the trying side of our capricious climate.

And this year there was no harking back upon the winter.  It said
"good-bye" and went, closing the door behind it like a well-trained
servant.  The month of March for once was true to its proverbial
character, while its often coquettish successor, April, proved, even up
in the north, so altogether charming that the visitors to the big house
were constantly tempted into expressions of regret that its close must
see their departure for the south.

"I had no idea," said Madeleine one day, when she and her Fir Cottage
friends were primrose and cowslip gathering as busily as if they were
still children, "that I should have been so sorry to leave this place,
though I think I had premonitions of great enjoyment here."

"I am so glad," was the reply from Frances, "so very glad that you liked
being here."

"It has been more than half," Madeleine rejoined--"three-quarters,
seven-eighths, if you like--owing to all of you, as you must know."

"Well, only think, then," said Eira, "what your being here has been to
us!  But don't talk as if it was all at an end already!  We have three
weeks at least of this lovely weather, for I am determined to believe in
its lasting till you go."

"I hope it will," said Madeleine, "for more reasons than one.  I waited
to tell you and Betty about some news we have had."

Betty, who was near her, glanced up quickly.  Betty was looking tired
and pale, notwithstanding the sunshine and the warmth.  "Perhaps,
indeed, because of them," said her mother; "early springs are often
trying to sensitive people."

"Oh!  I hope it is not that your brother is going away," said Eira.
"He's so nice about planning expeditions!  And now that the spring is
here, there really are some you should make in the neighbourhood.  There
are ruins and things we have scarcely even seen ourselves.  It would be
nice to have a brother," with a little sigh.

"If we had had one," said Betty, "he could not have stayed at home.  He
would have most probably been away in India or the colonies, or some
terrible place!  A brother's no good if you are poor."

"And as for having one always with you," said Madeleine, "_that_ is not
to be counted on, whatever other circumstances are.  I am not speaking
about Horace's present plans, though, for I hope when he comes back,"--
he had not yet returned from a short absence in town, whither he had
accompanied Mr Ryder Morion--"that it will be to stay nearly as long as
we do.  No, my news is not about him, and perhaps it is rather horrid of
me not to feel more pleased about it.  It is only that the Conrads are
coming down upon us," with a half-rueful smile.  "Next week they come,
for ten days or so; it is sure to get into a fortnight, and I feel as if
it would be a finish up of this comfortable, self-arranging life that I
have so enjoyed!"

"Will your sister-in-law expect you to be so much with her then?" asked
Frances.

"N-no," said Madeleine, "not exactly that.  Mamma and she suit each
other perfectly, and require no third person--are much better without
one, indeed.  But--oh, really," with a change of tone, "I cannot explain
it without seeming a little unkind, so, if I do seem so, promise to
forget that part of it, for I do want you to understand about my
sister-in-law.  She is, so to say, a typical person, one of the best of
her class, quite good and high principled, and with a strong sense of
her responsibilities, and all that side of things.  But yet she and I
are not and never could be great friends, though, on the other hand, I
am equally sure that we should never quarrel.  Now with her brother,
Ryder, I very often--no, I can't say _quarrel_, it's too strong an
expression--but we very often openly disagree and argue it out, and yet
I feel that we have more in common than Elise and I _ever_ could have."

Her three companions listened with great interest, Frances and Betty
especially.

"I think I do understand," said the former, "and I am sure I shall do so
still better when I have seen her.  But you know, Madeleine, you don't
perhaps take sufficiently into account that you yourself are not a
typical person, by any means!"

"Am I not?" said Madeleine, laughing.  "In what way?"

"There are very few," said Frances gravely, "who would have remained so
unspoilt, _un_self-engrossed as you, in the same circumstances."

This was strong commendation, above all from such a person as Frances,
whom no one could have suspected for an instant of flattery, and who yet
loved to be able to admire.  And whenever she had a fit occasion to
express her admiration and appreciation, few things pleased her more
than doing so, and few people could have done so more gratifyingly.

For such power of expression is not a common gift.  Nothing is easier
than to criticise with even a certain cleverness, on which its
possessors will always be found to pride themselves most unduly; but to
"admire," to discern "the admirable," of which few human beings are
entirely devoid, one must indeed have risen to a far higher plane, both
morally and intellectually.  Nay, indeed, might not one almost add
"spiritually?"  And a curious anomaly is to be observed as regards this
subject.  One often hears the excuse--"I am not effusive--it does not
come naturally to me to praise people.  I have a horror of flattery"--
yet this same reticence, this same powerlessness of expression
disappears in a really remarkable and all but magical way when a
_dis_agreeable or hurting remark, personal or otherwise, suggests
itself.

Madeleine's pleasant brown eyes sparkled with gratification.

"I do like you to say so," she said, "for I know you mean it, little as
I feel I deserve it.  Don't you think," she continued, "that real praise
always makes one feel very humble?"

"Yes," said Frances, with a smile, "your thinking so much of _mine_ has
that effect on me at this moment."

"Please leave off paying each other compliments," said Eira, "I want to
hear some more about Mrs Conrad Littlewood.  Is she always called
`Elise?' her real name is Elizabeth, I know.  I don't think Elise suits
a very stately, `grande dame' sort of person!"

"She isn't that," said Madeleine, "she is really very nice--what a
stupid expression!--it is just, I suppose, that she has always lived in
a certain way, and not come really into contact with the other half of
the world, though she believes herself to be very wide-minded, and _is_
benevolent.  I often think if she hadn't married my brother, though he
is a good fellow too, she would have been different--really wider in her
outlook."

She smiled to herself as she spoke.

"What are you thinking about?" asked Frances.

"I was only picturing to myself," was the reply, "how differently you
and she would go about the same sort of thing, even with equally good
intentions.  I was thinking, down at the harbour, how you forget
yourself and your own standpoint almost, for the time, in your sympathy
with the people!  That is how you gain their confidence.  Whereas Elise,
with the best will in the world, however kindly she spoke, would remain
an outsider.  She would come away saying one must never expect
gratitude, and be very good to them all the same, and very pleased with
herself for not being repelled by their peculiar offhand manners and
want of deference."

"Well," said Betty, speaking for the first time.  "I must say I should
have some fellow-feeling with my namesake as regards your pet
fisher-folk.  They are unusually queer, you must allow; in fact, they
seem to me half-savages, wherever they came from."

"Your bark is worse than your bite, Betty," said Eira.  "I saw you
hugging, yes, really _hugging_, one of those little black-eyed imps down
there one day, one of the rare days we persuaded you to go with us.  And
he clung on to you like a limpet!"

"Oh," said Betty coolly, "that was because he was like a little Murillo!
and his mother looked quite fierce."

"Nonsense," said Frances.  "She was intensely gratified and horribly
shy.  If our poor friends can be so misunderstood, Madeleine, I think on
the whole we had better not suggest Mrs Conrad Littlewood's visiting
them.  Is it next week she and your brother are coming?"

"Yes," Madeleine replied.  "We must make the best of our time till
then."

And she and Frances went on talking together on the subject which their
conversation had drifted into--"that everlasting Scaling Harbour," as
naughty Betty called it.

"I hope," said Eira, when Madeleine had left them and they were turning
in at their own gate, "I hope Horace Littlewood will come back a few
days before those other people come up--just for us to have a sort of
Saint Martin's Summer of what this winter has been.  For I feel
convinced that once they are here it will be the real good-bye to it
all."

"Or," thought Frances in her secret heart, "the real beginning;" but
aloud she said nothing, though she endorsed Eira's hopes as regarded
Horace's return.  Somehow--how was it, she asked herself, that she felt
more drawn to him, more nearly sure of her own capacity for responding
to the devotion which, from her first suspicion of its existence, had
profoundly touched and gratified her, in his absence than when actually
with him?  Was it always so, she wondered, or was she in any way, thanks
to her delayed experience in such things, exceptional?  If only there
were any one, any woman, she could quite entirely confide in!  If her
mother had been what--in fiction at least--some mothers are to their
daughters--closer, in fuller sympathy, more able, as it were, to recall
her own youth and the perplexities, hopes, and fears which doubtless had
their place in it--how gladly would Frances have confided in her!  But
as things were, this would have been useless, nay, more than useless,
impossible.

"I know," she thought, "how good and unselfish mamma is.  Never was
there a better wife, but I have read somewhere that every woman is more
wife than mother, or _vice versa_.  I think the former must be the case
with mamma, and in one way I should be glad of it, for I think it has
given more object and motive to my own life, in the trying to be a real
elder sister to the others."

Eira's hopes as to what she had spoken of as a "Saint Martin's Summer,"
in connection with the pleasant experiences of the last two or three
months, were not destined to be fulfilled.

For the expected guests at Craig-Morion arrived there some days before
Horace Littlewood's own return.

A day or two afterwards Lady Emma called, but found no one at home,
somewhat to the disappointment of her daughters, whose curiosity
concerning Mrs Littlewood the younger had been naturally aroused by
Madeleine's description of her.  All the more welcome, therefore, was
Madeleine's own appearance at Fir Cottage about five o'clock the
following afternoon.

"I thought I was never going to get here again, and that the end of
everything had come," she exclaimed, as she threw herself into the most
luxurious of the wicker chairs, the pride of the sisters' little
sitting-room, which Eira drew forward for her eagerly, as soon as her
bright face was perceived at the door.

By good luck, as some special formalities in the shape of curtains
changing or something of the kind were taking place in the drawing-room,
a pleasant fire was burning in the little grate, for however bright and
sunny spring days may be, it is rarely the case that their close is not
chilly.  And Lady Emma was herself spending the afternoon with her
husband in the study.

"How cosy it is in here!"  Madeleine went on.  "I just managed to escape
before I was caught for tea.  When Elise is there I really don't see
that it does her any harm for her to act daughter of the house--every
one knows that mamma and she are devoted to each other."

"Then you have not had tea?" said Frances quickly, "nor, for a wonder,
have we.  Eira--" but Eira had already disappeared, returning in an
incredibly short time, followed by the parlour-maid and a welcome little
clatter of tea-cups, for Madeleine's attractiveness had not stopped
short at winning the younger members of the household--Mr Morion
appreciating her quick intelligence, and Lady Emma often declaring that
Miss Littlewood's manners reminded her of the days of her own
maidenhood, when the young knew what it was to pay some deference and
attention to their elders--thanks to which fortunate circumstances, "tea
in our own room" had been more readily conceded than would otherwise
have been the case.

Frances glanced at their guest with a little smile, though she waited to
speak till the servant had closed the door behind her.

"You are not quite," she said, "in your usual spirits, Madeleine."

"No," was the honest reply.  "Somehow Elise seems to rub me the wrong
way this time more than usual, and it makes me blame myself, for I know
she means to be nice, and she is really interested in the old place and
all about it, as she should be, of course."

She did not allude to, or even hint at, her sister-in-law's "tone," when
"those other Morions," as she called them, had been spoken of, though
this had, in point of fact, been the chief cause in her own mind of the
annoyance she had experienced--annoyance the more difficult to pass over
philosophically as it had to be borne in silence, past experience having
well taught her that any expressed disagreement with Elise, on her part,
was sure to do more harm than good.

"And for Horace's sake," she said to herself, "I must be as wise as
possible.  Perhaps when she sees them for herself, if I don't set up her
opposition, she will be won over, to some extent at least."

"Poor Madeleine!" said Frances sympathisingly, "yes, I agree with you.
I think that sort of thing is more trying than--almost than a quarrel,
an honest quarrel, between friends even, which often puts things right
again."

"Oh, far, far more," said Madeleine, yet in spite of the emphasis she
spoke absently.  "I must not forget," she began again after a little
pause, "that I have a message from mamma.  If I don't see Lady Emma,
will some of you undertake to deliver it conscientiously?  It is to ask
you all to tea to-morrow, to meet Elise of course.  I _think_ that your
father and mother are going to be asked more formally to dine next week,
but of course I had no message about that."

"I doubt if they will be able to go," said Frances, "for papa is
anticipating a touch of bronchitis, having already got a cold," and she
could not repress a tiny smile.

"I doubt," said Eira, "very seriously indeed, my dear Madeleine, if the
youngest Miss Morion will be able to join you to-morrow afternoon!"

"Why not?" exclaimed Frances; "oh, you must come, Eira," for Eira's
comfortable absence of self-consciousness had often been a relief in the
somewhat strained position brought about greatly by Mrs Littlewood's
undoubted prejudice against Frances, of late even more marked than
heretofore.

"Oh," replied Eira airily, "because I should be terrified out of my wits
by your respected sister-in-law.  And as I've two elder sisters, I don't
see that I need sacrifice myself."

"Don't talk nonsense," said Madeleine.  "You know you are never really
shy or frightened.  You are quite different from little Betty here."

Eira reared her head.

"Perhaps that is true," she said, "but I have _feelings_, all the same,
Madeleine.  If there is one thing in the world that I hate, it is being
criticised."

"You don't suppose anyone likes it," said Betty, "and I don't quite see
why you, the youngest of us all, should imagine that you will come in
for much of it.  It's rather conceited of you!"

Eira's colour rose.

"You might credit me with disliking the idea of it for us all," she
said.  "You really are getting into the way of saying such disagreeable
things, Betty."

Before Betty had time to reply, perhaps fortunately so, Frances
interrupted the discussion.

"My dear Eira," she said, "it is all very well to treat Madeleine to the
privileges of intimate friend in the shape of small family jars, but I
really think you are overdoing it a little."

"Yes," agreed Madeleine, though the kindly laugh which accompanied her
words took from them any possible sting.  "You will end by making _me_
the self-conscious one if you don't take care.  I shall feel as if I had
been dreadfully disloyal to poor Elise if I have made you feel so about
her!  She is not unkind, and she does not mean to be censorious.  It is
only--I wish I could make you understand--that she has got an orthodox
little conventional standard of her own that she tries to fit every one
into, and if they won't go in, why then--"

"A kind of bed of oh! what was the man's name?  It begins with P--Pro--"
said Eira.

"Procrustes," said Frances, with a smile; and Madeleine laughed.  Only
Betty remained grave.

"The results are not quite so terrible in Elise's case," said her
sister-in-law.  "You really need not be afraid of her.  But _I_ am
rather afraid of my own sensations to-morrow!  If the poor thing looks
at you, or makes the mildest remark, you will suspect something
personal!  You, at least, Eira, will do so, and then you will get onto
your high horse at once!"

"No, no," said Frances, "she will not be so foolish.  Mounting one's
high horse is a very lowering proceeding."

"Yes," said Eira, "I think I agree with you--on consideration.  And if I
come, Madeleine, please forget all the silly things I have said.
Candidly speaking, I think my chief feeling about your sister-in-law is
curiosity.  I liked Mr Ryder Morion, and it is interesting to fit in
what you have said of her with a certain amount of resemblance to him--
her brother."

But Eira's curiosity was not destined to be directly gratified as soon
as she expected.  For Lady Emma, on receiving the invitation, decided
that it was far better not to accept it too literally as regarded the
"all of you," and it was accompanied by her two elder daughters only
that she set forth, the following afternoon, on the visit to the
Craig-Morion of much more formality than the recent almost familiar
intercourse which even the elders of the two households had
half-unconsciously drifted into.

Nor was this feeling modified by the reception which awaited them.
Conrad Littlewood's wife was nothing if not ceremonious.  She prided
herself, and that somewhat unduly--for she was a less clever woman
intellectually than she believed--on her infallible discrimination as to
shades of position, and still more of character as affecting such
position.  There were people decidedly beneath her to whom she
considered it quite "safe" and even expedient to unbend to the point of
making herself charming, in the superficial sense of the word.  There
were others, again, whom even she recognised as superiors in every sense
of the word, whom she would on no account have condescended to appear to
court.  To-day she was in a not unpleasing state of expectancy as
regarded these hitherto unknown relations.  Kinship to a certain point
she recognised as establishing its own distinct claims; beyond this, "I
must wait till I see them," she said to herself, for she did not pin her
faith by any means to her mother-in-law's _dicta_ on such points, and in
the present instance still less than usual.

"For, after all, they are my own blood-relations," she thought, "and it
is only through us that they are anything to Mrs Littlewood, or that
she has had anything to do with them.  And she does take up prejudices.
I can see that she dislikes the eldest daughter."  And in this, as we
know, Elise was not mistaken, for as regarded Frances the dowager lady
had allowed her own keen and true perceptions to be unfairly clouded.

The visitors were ushered into the large drawing-room, hitherto but
rarely occupied during the daytime.  There was also an atmosphere of
things being to a greater extent _en grand tenue_ than had been usual;
and the very look of Mrs Conrad's tall figure, robed in
unexceptionable, somewhat severe attire, as she rose and stood aside for
a moment till the first greetings had been exchanged, effectually
destroyed the old association of pleasurable intimacy.

Lady Emma, as was always the case when she chose to give herself a
little trouble, was fully equal to the occasion.  She held out her hand
with the amiable but slightly indifferent air of an elder to a much
younger woman, in whom nevertheless she feels in duty bound to show some
special interest.

"I am pleased to meet you," she said.  "I hope you are pleasantly
impressed by this place?"

Mrs Conrad was somewhat taken aback.

She covered this at once by turning to the two girls.

"Your daughters, I suppose?" she said, more stiffly than she had
intended to speak, for the first glimpse of Frances' graceful and yet
dignified person also tended to bewilder her, and her eyes rested with
greater satisfaction on Betty's less imposing figure and dainty face,
out of which two grave dark eyes were looking up, with the unconscious
expression of childlike appeal habitual to her when she was feeling shy.
And the touch of Elise's fingers as they met those of the younger girl
had a kindly pressure entirely wanting in that which she bestowed upon
Frances.

"I feel, after all, that I shall agree with mother," was the thought
that flashed across her mind: "the little one is infinitely the nicer.
The elder girl is handsome, but evidently too pleased with herself.
Independently of outside circumstances, not at all what we should choose
for--" But the consciousness of some pause in the conversation that had
followed the Morions' entrance aroused her to her duties to the
visitors, and prevented her from pursuing her private reflections
further.

She turned to Frances, who was sitting near her, as she was not sorry to
see.  For the unfavourable prepossession had by no means diminished her
curiosity as to this certainly not "commonplace-looking" girl.

And Elise Littlewood was fond of thinking of herself as a student of
character.

"I suppose you are devoted to the country, Miss Morion?" she said.
"Naturally so.  It must be in many ways delightful," with the smallest
of sighs, "to be able to enjoy it in the spring and early summer."

"Of course," said Frances, "those seasons are the loveliest everywhere.
But I don't quite agree with you that one naturally likes what one has
the most of.  On the contrary, many people long for the things that
don't come in their way," and as she spoke a slight twinkle of amusement
might have been discerned in her usually quiet eyes.

"Perhaps so," was the rejoinder, "though it is perfectly impossible for
any one to judge fairly of a kind of life they have never experienced."

The touch of acerbity in the speaker's tone roused Frances to a very
rare impulse of self-assertion, and she was on the point of a reply
which, however courteous, would not have tended to smooth matters, when
there came an unexpected distraction in the sound of wheels driving up
rapidly to the hall door, for the windows of the large drawing-room
looked on to the front entrance.

"Who can that be?" said the elder Mrs Littlewood.

"It is too early for Conrad," said his wife, "and yet," for by this time
she was glancing out of the window--"yes, it is a dog-cart; why, I
declare, it is Horace!"

"Horace!" exclaimed his mother, "impossible!  He was not to return till
next week, and then only to--say good-bye."

But all the same she rose to her feet, and turned towards the door with
a word of apology to Lady Emma.

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

UNSATISFACTORY.

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_.

CHAPTER TWENTY.

AN AFTERNOON LETTER.

Ten days, a fortnight passed, a few hurried words from Madeleine
reporting the re-installation of her mother and herself in their London
house for the season, full of affectionate assurances of her constant
thought of them, Frances especially, and regret that they were now so
separated, seemed the only break in the old monotony settling down again
over the sisters.

Eira frankly owned herself to be feeling "terribly dull."  Betty said
nothing, though she looked not only depressed but really ill.  Frances,
on the contrary, was cheerful, by fits and starts that is to say, though
her old equability had strangely deserted her.  She was restless and
preoccupied.  The reasons for this change were suspected by those about
her more than she knew or ever did know, though, in time to come, her
sisters and even her mother became convinced that they had been entirely
mistaken.

There came a crisis.

One afternoon, chance--a most fortunate chance, she afterwards saw that
it had been--led to her going alone to the village on some little
errand, and on her way back she called at the post-office for the
letters which otherwise, if there were any, would not have reached the
cottage till the following morning.

It was a lovely day.  A typical spring day, showing to the greatest
advantage the peculiar beauties, greatly enhanced by clear light and
shade, of that part of the country.  On her way to the village Frances
could not help stopping now and then, arrested by sheer admiration of
the loveliness around her.  Her spirits rose high, as in those days they
were more apt to do; misgivings, half-acknowledged apprehensions,
disappeared.  She felt as if on the eve of some great happiness such as
life had not yet brought her.

And when, in reply to her inquiry, "Any afternoon letters?" the smiling
postmistress handed to her three or four, some for her father, but one,
yes one, in recognised, though scarcely familiar handwriting, her heart
gave a great throb of anticipation.

"It has come," she thought to herself, as she turned to make her way
homewards by the least frequented route.  "Now I must pull myself
together, and think it well--_well_ over!"

Yet now that it had come, she almost shrank from facing the "it."  Now
that she believed the matter to be in her own hands, she wished she
could put it from her.  But soon her natural womanly feeling reasserted
itself, and she realised--whatever her own decision might be--the
gratification, the satisfaction to her self-respect of the definiteness,
the actual expression in plain terms of Horace's regard for her, which,
as she believed, the letter in her hand contained.

And, as soon as she found herself in a part of the road where
interruption was improbable, she broke the seal--for sealed the letter
was, which in itself marked it as something out of the common--and drew
forth the sheet it contained.

It was dated from his club, and had been written only the day before.

"My dear Miss Morion," it began--why did these four words, correct and
natural enough under the circumstances, cause to pass through her a
little thrill of--she scarcely knew what?  Misgiving?  Apprehension?
Neither word expressed it clearly.  It was more a sort of intuitive
anticipation of some great impending change in the aspect of things,
something which would cause her bewilderment as well as pain, which
would, as it were, necessitate a reconstruction of all the theories as
to herself and her own life, in which of late she had been living.

She read on.

"My dear Miss Morion,--First of all, I feel that I must thank you, and
that most heartily, for your goodness to me of late.  You have cheered
and encouraged me more than you know; in no way resenting the, in one
sense, unsatisfactory degree of confidence which was all I felt free to
give you hitherto.  No one could have been wiser than you have been, no
one, I am well assured, could have been more entirely trustworthy.
Sometimes, I may confess, I could scarcely have borne it all but for
feeling and knowing that I had your sympathy and good wishes, and pity,
even, for the miserable uncertainty in which I was forced to leave
things; the uncertainty, I mean, as to _her_ feeling towards me, as to
the possibility, which now and then seems to me a wild dream, of her in
any way responding to what I feel for her.  But now I have come to a
certain decision.  I must know the best or the worst, by which of course
you will understand that I mean my chances at head-quarters--with your
sister herself.  I have sounded my mother so far as I felt it expedient
to do so, for I am most anxious to keep Betty's name out of the way of
all remark till I know how I stand with her.  I am delighted to find
that my mother has a strong personal liking for her--though how could it
be otherwise?  But I will not trust to this in any practical way.  I
have decided not to give up my profession, which, with the small private
means I am sure of, makes marriage _possible_ without any wild
imprudence.  Scores of men, especially in India, get on all right with
less, and without things being too hard upon their wives.  That I could
not bear.  And even as it is, I dread the thought of the climate for one
so tender and fragile.  Still, all things considered, I think the time
has come for laying it before her, not hiding from her the sacrifices it
might have to entail upon her, though these, I need not say, so far as
it lies within the power of man to do so, should be counterbalanced by
the entire and absolute devotion of my whole life.  I intend coming down
to Craig-Morion in the course of a few weeks, nominally to settle up
some things there for my mother and myself, in reality to learn my fate.
I may perhaps write a word or two to your father, just to allude to my
coming, in a commonplace way, which may come round to _her_.  You will,
I know, do whatever is judicious as to this, although you will see that
it is best for her never to suspect that you have been my confidante.
And now you must forgive this long letter; selfish, I should feel it,
were it not that I well know the depth of your sisterly devotion, and
that nothing concerning _her_ can fail to ensure your heartiest
interest.  So I will not inflict more apologies upon you.  I will only
thank you again and again.

"Yours most sincerely,--

"Horace Bertram Littlewood."

Did she read it once or twice or twenty times? or had she not read it at
all?  Was it all a dream, a miserable dream of shameful self-disgust and
mortification?  For some minutes, I doubt if Frances knew, or that she
could have replied with any accuracy to any of these questions.

She was utterly, completely stupefied, and when at last her ideas began
to take coherent form again it was only in the shape of increasingly
definite pain and self-abasement.  Unselfish, radically unselfish as she
was, it became for some little time impossible for her to think of, to
care for any one but herself, in the shock of revolted, almost outraged,
feeling that overwhelmed her.  For she was of a nature to be terribly
sensitive to mortification, and with such natures, proud, dignified,
mentally and morally on a high plane, recognising high ideals as the
goal of all endeavour, mortification, paradoxical though it may sound,
can be almost a passion.

Not that she dreaded or even thought as yet for a moment of others--
outsiders--in this terrible mistake.  It was herself as judging herself
that she cowered before.

"I who thought myself the soul of modesty and delicacy, as I see now
that I did--_I_, to have imagined such a thing!  At my age, older than
he--oh, it is dreadful to realise," and she sat down on some rising
ground by the side of the road and covered her burning face with her
hands, while slow hot tears forced themselves through her fingers.  In
these few minutes--a quarter of an hour at most--Frances Morion seemed
to herself to have lived years.

"`No fool like an old fool!' it is like having the measles in middle
age--always worse than at the normal time, they say."

These and other bitter, absurdly exaggerated cynical remarks passed
through her mind, not to be harboured there, however, for her real
character, her habitual attitude of mind, could not for long be untrue
to themselves.

And "Oh, what a selfish, shamefully selfish, woman I am--I must be!" was
the next phase.  "I needed this lesson to open my eyes.  Yes, indeed, I
needed it," and already, though the pain was still so stinging, the
wound so raw, curious suggestions began to insinuate themselves.  If it
_had_ been "the real thing," would not its overthrow have affected her
somewhat differently--would not the true malady have developed other
symptoms?

For the moment she put these vague hints aside, to be taken out and
examined into more at leisure, with possibly some salutary,
health-restoring result, and with new resolution tried to concentrate
her mind on what now lay before her--on the thorny, self-effacing path
which duty, affection, all the associations and motives of her life
pointed out as the only one she could tread.

There were alleviations--alleviations and mitigations--of her present
suffering, and by degrees the first, perhaps the greatest, of these
gradually crept into her thoughts.  No one need ever know; more than
this, it would be wrong, disloyal to others, to allow her secret to
escape.  This was so clearly binding upon her that it reconciled her to
the necessity, already making itself felt, of to some extent acting a
part.  And the very relief of knowing that she must thus shield herself
brought with it another, as yet faint, but yet suggestive, source of
support.

"If it were really that I had got to care for him--thoroughly, genuinely
in _that_ way," she asked herself, "would I so soon be ready to accept
_any_ sort of comfort?"  But again for the present she put these ideas
aside, concentrating all her powers in the direction of the immediate
action required of her.  "All I can do to help him, I must do," she
thought; "as to that there can be no sort of question.  I must as far as
I possibly can tacitly familiarise Betty with the idea of what is
coming, for he is good and true, I feel convinced, and worthy of her.
Oh if I had but known it sooner!  It would have been nothing but
happiness."

And this was true.  Six months ago, if Frances had been asked what was
the darling wish of her heart, her reply would have been to see one of
her sisters, Betty especially, well and safely married.

But, as things were, _would_ Betty respond to him?  It almost seemed
impossible.  Or perhaps the entire dislocation of the positions of all
involved made it as yet seem so to her.

"I am to exert myself doubly," she went on thinking.  "It is a case in
which non-interference on my part would be a crime.  I have so much to
make amends for in this horrible, miserable mistake of mine.  I must not
allow the slightest trace of depression or agitation to appear.  And,
oh! how unutterably grateful I should be and am that the blow has fallen
in this way, by a letter instead of--in any other way; all my thought,
all my care now must be for my dear little Betty."

She rose to her feet, composed and even strengthened, and as her
thoughts concentrated themselves more and more on her sister, new and
strange suggestions took shape respecting her.

Had Betty been quite like herself of late?  Was she not looking less
well, less restful than was usual with her?  She had been, for her,
abnormally energetic, it was true, but all the same, on looking back,
Frances began to see that there had been a curious self-repression about
the girl.  She had certainly avoided any talk about herself; the old,
almost childish habit with which she had often been laughingly charged,
of "saying out whatever came into her head," had deserted her.  Yes, she
had grown strangely reticent.

Was it possible, Frances asked herself, that in her own self-absorption
she had been blinded to the true state of affairs with Betty?  Was it
possible that the child had already learnt to care for Horace?  That,
anxious as he had been to do nothing to gain her affections till he was
justified in doing so, he had unconsciously betrayed himself?

"If it is so," thought Frances, "I should have still more to be thankful
for.  For in my determination to forget myself there might be a real
danger of my influencing her too much in his favour.  And yet the
suggestion _must_ in some way be made; perhaps--we shall see--Eira may
be brought to help in it.  I must at least find this out, for I very
much fear that poor Eira, as well as dear Betty herself, has been
deceived by her affection for me into imagining what--oh! how could I
ever have thought it?"

And again there came the sharp stab of mortification, which indeed it
would take time and resolution entirely to overcome.

The consciousness, however, of how much she might have to undo as well
as to do brought vigour with it.  She walked on with a firm step, a step
that had something of hardness in it, hardness directed solely against
herself and the weakness which she was so resolutely determined to
overcome.

It was, as has been said, a lovely day, an exquisite spring day, and for
this, too, Frances felt a strange new sense of gratitude.  A lark rose
over her head with its never-to-be-mistaken song of jubilance, all but
disappearing, as she gazed after it, into a scarcely discernible speck
in the blue.

"So fade our hopes," thought Frances, "many of them at least.  But yet,"
for in another moment the happy bird was back again within hearing,
"perhaps it only seems so to us.  There must always be _real_ sources of
joy and thankfulness, even if they are sometimes beyond our perception."

Yet she did not deceive herself.  This sensation of almost exhilarating
resolve and self-sacrifice would not, she knew, be lasting.  There were
hard struggles before her still, for the mere habit of thought into
which she had almost insensibly glided during the last few weeks as to
her own life and future was not to be shaken off all at once.

"The best I can do," she went on, "is to fill my mind, to the exclusion
as far as possible of everything else, with Betty.  Time enough, when I
can feel at rest about her, for me to unlock it all again and decide to
what extent I have been to blame."

A few yards before their own gate she caught sight of her sisters coming
to meet her, and, as she watched them approaching, the listlessness and
languor of Betty's movements struck her forcibly.

"How I wish I had gone with you, Francie," said Eira.  "Betty is so
tiresome!  She wouldn't go for a walk, she wouldn't even sit out in the
garden comfortably, and I only stayed at home to keep her company,
because she seemed dull!"

"Are you dull, dear?" said Frances, turning to Betty.  Her tone was very
kind, indeed tender, and Betty, glancing up at her, read a confirmation
of this in her sister's eyes.

Betty's cheeks grew pink, though the colour left them again as quickly
as it had come.

"Spring often makes people feel rather tired," she said.  "There is
nothing the matter with me except that."

"But you mustn't be tired," said Frances.  "It is so lovely now, so very
lovely.  We must be all quite well--and happy, so as to enjoy it.  We
can stay out a little longer.  Let us sit down, and I am rather tired
myself."

Betty's face expressed some self-reproach.  "Eira," she said.  "We
should not have let her go alone to the village.  She always does the
disagreeable things."

Frances' hand was lying on her knee.  Betty took it in hers as she spoke
and stroked it.  To the elder sister the little action said much.  It
seemed as if in some intuitive way the coldness or constraint which had
been creeping in between them for the first time in their lives was
melting away, though by no visible agency.  Tears crept up very near to
Frances' own eyes, but she resolutely kept them back, though a feeling
of gratitude for this scarcely looked-for prompt encouragement on the
path she saw before her warmed her heart.

"What a pity," exclaimed Eira, "that Madeleine couldn't have stayed two
or three weeks longer, just to see how pretty this place can be.  I
don't think, however rich I were, that I could ever make up my mind to
spend this part of the year in London."

"It is very pretty there, too, just now though," said Frances absently.
"If it were a little nearer I dare say Madeleine would come down again
for a few days--with her brother, perhaps," she went on more brightly.
"I am sure Mr Morion would always be glad for them to use the big
house."

Eira, who had been leaning back on the rustic bench in rather a
depressed attitude, pricked up her ears at this.

"Oh, how nice that would be!" she said.  "Better than my poor Indian
summer which never came to pass.  What made you think of it, Francie?"
And as the only reply was a smile, "I do believe that you've heard
something!  Have you had a letter from Madeleine that you have not told
us about?"

Frances shook her head.

"No, truly I have not," she said.  "But Horace Littlewood did--does mean
to come down again.  He said so, definitely, and it just struck me how
nice it would be if Madeleine could come with him."

Eira's face by this time was gleaming with excitement.

"Francie!" she exclaimed, "you never told us before!  Betty, do you
hear?"

But for all reply, Betty seemed to creep back further into her corner.
Frances turned to her.  "You don't dislike him?" she said.  "We got to
know him so well!"

"I never said I disliked him," said Betty.  "But you know him far better
than I do, and if--of course you know, Francie, if--if anybody liked
you, or--or you liked anybody in a special sort of way, of _course_ I
should like such a person too!"

Frances drew a deep breath, and gathered herself together.  It had
come--the supreme moment, sooner than she had expected, and she must
meet it bravely.  It had come--to Betty too, and the little creature had
risen, in her own way, with heroism.  But this state of things as yet
Frances scarcely realised.

"Betty, my dear child," she began, "don't get any mistaken ideas into
your head about me--your second mother, as I always feel myself.  I
won't pretend to misunderstand you, and I am glad you have spoken about
it.  No, no, don't dream of anything of that sort about _me_, the time
for it has passed.  Why, I must be a year or two older than Horace!  He
and I are excellent friends, and I do believe he looks upon me almost as
an elder sister.  I should be glad," here she spoke with hesitation that
she did not attempt to conceal, "I should be glad to feel sure that as
regards you yourself no shadow of the old prejudice about him remains.
He deserves to be thoroughly liked and trusted."

There was no answer from either of the other two, though Frances felt
Eira's eyes fixed on her in half-dazed amazement.  She felt, too, that
at Betty it was better not to glance!  And after a moment or two she got
up slowly, saying it must be near tea-time and that she would like to
take off her outdoor things, and steadily, though with inward
tremulousness, little suspected by the two others, she made her way to
the house.

"Betty," said Eira, when sure that Frances was beyond earshot.  "Betty,
do you hear me, what does she mean?"

But for all answer Betty turned her head away, so that her face was
quite hidden from her sister, and only by the convulsive movement of her
shoulders did Eira know that she had burst into uncontrollable tears.

"Never again," thought Eira to herself, "will I meddle with or even
think of other people's affairs of this kind!  There have I been for
months past wearing myself out with hopes and anxieties about Frances
and Horace Littlewood.  And for all I know now, torturing Betty!  Who
would have dreamt of such a thing?  It is rather too bad of Frances not
to have given me _some_ idea of how the land lay, for from her very
superior well-informed manner, it is evidently not new to her.  As to
Betty, I don't know what I feel.  She might have--no, I don't see that
she could have acted differently, but I won't call her cross or
depressed any more.  Poor little Betty!  Still, on the whole, for the
present, I think I had better leave her alone."

And Eira, feeling considerably discomposed and "out of it," not yet able
to realise that this new turn of affairs might bring as much cause for
congratulation as the fulfilment of the hopes on which she told herself
she had wasted so much care and thought--Eira, swinging her garden-hat
on her arm with a great air of "nonchalance," followed her elder sister
into the house, though not upstairs.  But a moment or two after she
entered the drawing-room the door reopened to admit Frances.  Gladly
would the elder sister have remained upstairs in the quiet of her own
room if but for half an hour, but this she felt she must not do.  For
the moment the privilege of solitude and reflection must be renounced.

"It is only a bit, a very little bit, of the whole," she thought to
herself.  "Just at first, of all times, it is most important that I
should seem quite like myself, and not give the very slightest opening
for suspicion that things are turning out differently from what I
expected.  And it will not be difficult to do so, if I keep my thoughts
centred at this crisis on my poor little Betty."

And her mother's first words as she caught sight of her brought a little
glow of gratitude to her heart--not so much of gratitude to Lady Emma
herself, but of thankfulness in the abstract for this first little touch
of encouragement in the road she had marked out for herself.

"You look as if you had enjoyed your walk, Frances," was her mother's
remark.  "You have got such a nice colour," mentally adding to herself,
"really Frances grows handsomer and handsomer as she gets older.  Her
eyes have such a bright expression,"--little suspecting the tears those
eyes had so recently shed, still less those which had been repressed
with so much resolution.  "I have never thought them as fine as Betty's,
but somehow Betty doesn't look like herself now-a-days," and she gave a
little sigh.  "Where is Betty?" she asked aloud.

Frances glanced at Lady Emma quickly.  Now and then there seemed a
curious tacit sympathy between the mother and daughter, just now this
struck the latter, for she herself was feeling anxious about her younger
sister.

"She is coming in a moment," said Eira, with a slight nervousness
unusual to her.  "Shall I run and tell her that tea is ready?"

There was no need for a reply.  Betty herself came in.  She was looking
pale, but to a superficial observer the traces of tears had already
disappeared.  Her dark eyes with their even darker fringes were not
easily disfigured.  Tea-time passed quietly and more quickly than when
Mr Morion was present.  For this Frances was grateful, as it left her
the sooner at liberty.

"I am going up to the vicarage," she said, as she left the room.  "I had
a little commission for Mrs Ferraby in the village."

Ten minutes later she rang at the vicarage bell, and handed in the small
parcel she had brought.  When she got back to the gate again, she stood
still for a moment in hesitation.

"I wonder if by chance the church is open," she thought.  "I should like
to go in there for a few minutes.  I don't think I have ever been there
alone since the afternoon Eira was so startled;" and with a rather sad
smile, "I don't think anything would startle me to-day."

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

HORACE.

Yes, the church door was unlocked, as happened not unfrequently, though
not of intention on the worthy vicar's part, or on that of his
subordinates.

Inside, though of course the sunny daylight out-of-doors was still at
its full, thanks to the high pews, and narrow windows deep set in the
massive walls, all was dusk and gloom.  The more so at first from the
sudden contrast.

But to Frances just now this was congenial.  Half mechanically she made
her way up to her usual place, for one act of courtesy on the part of
the temporary occupants of the big house had been to beg that the Fir
Cottage family would not think of vacating the spacious old pew, where
indeed there was room enough and to spare for the united households.

With a sense of weariness, to which for the first time she ventured to
yield, Frances leaned back in her old corner.  Venerable as it was, the
church was not one, under present conditions, which lent itself readily
to devotion.  And it was scarcely with any feeling in this direction
that the girl had sought its shelter--only a vague yearning for quiet
and solitude had brought her thither.  But gradually as she sat alone
thinking, though but dreamily, more than what she had sought seemed to
creep into her spirit.  A sense of world-wide sympathy, sympathy
extending indeed into time as well as space, came to soften and yet
strengthen her.

How much sorrow there was in the world!  Sorrow and disappointment and
perplexity, bravely borne in so many cases, unsuspected even.  How much
sorrow there _had_ been, how much was yet to come!  How many fatal
mistakes, inexplicable shortcomings, whose results stretched far!

For it was almost impossible to sit there alone in the quiet dusk,
without her thoughts reverting to the strange old story of her own
ancestress' lack of good faith, from which indirectly she and those
dearest to her were even now suffering.

"Our lives would have been _so_ different!" thought Frances, "our lives
and characters and everything about us.  So much more consistent if we
had been less isolated, and in a sense less ignorant.  At least it
appears as if it would have been better for us, but it is not for us to
judge.  I really do not think that the best side of me is inclined to
murmur for myself if things go right for the others."

The last word at the present juncture being synonymous with "Betty."

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."

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

PROVERBS AND PARENTS.

The luncheon bell rang at that moment.  Eira, on the tiptoe of
expectation, took her place quietly at table, and no one would have
suspected the spirit of mischief which was largely mingled with her
happy excitement.  She spoke little, and only in her dancing eyes could
anything unusual have been discerned.

Betty, on the contrary, was more talkative than her wont, and now and
then Frances glanced at her in some perplexity, for Eira's suspicion
that a hint as to Betty's probable whereabouts that morning had been
given by the elder sister to Horace, when she met him for an instant,
was well founded.

_Had_ they come across each other?  Frances asked herself.  She could
scarcely think so, and yet Betty was not quite like herself.

"Surely she would have told me first," thought Frances, though as
quickly as the thought came she put it from her as savouring of
self-seeking.  Why should she expect it?  Betty had no idea on what
foundation was built the fabric of her own happiness, and nothing was
more earnestly desired by Frances than that her sister should never, in
the very slightest degree, suspect the real state of the case.

She was recalled from her own abstraction by her father's voice,
replying to an inquiry from her mother as to whether Mr Littlewood had
made his appearance.

"Oh dear, yes," was the reply.  "We've had a long talk this morning.  I
was, of course, able to give him the information he wanted.  But he is
coming again this afternoon."

"Oh, indeed," said Lady Emma, with more interest; "then I hope we may
see something of him."

"I doubt it," Mr Morion replied.  "His time is limited, and we have a
good deal to go over yet.  Really," with a little self-conscious smile,
"if I don't take care I shall be getting myself into the position of
doing agent's work for no pay," and he leaned back in his chair
complacently.

"I am sure Mr Ryder Morion should be very much obliged to you," said
Lady Emma, "and, indeed, to Mr Littlewood too.  It isn't every young
man, with plenty of affairs of his own, no doubt, who would give himself
so much trouble for a friend."

"Humph! he is an intelligent young fellow," said Mr Morion; "seems glad
to gain experience.  I don't know what his prospects are, but he may
have property of his own some day, though a younger son.  The mother is
wealthy.  I have promised to look up some things for him this afternoon,
so see that tea is brought into my study."

"Won't it do in the drawing-room?" said Eira, who could keep silence no
longer.  "Mr Littlewood surely won't leave without seeing us at all!
We should like to know how Madeleine is, and all sorts of things."

"Nonsense," said her father.  "He has come down for other purposes than
idle chatter with you girls.  If his sister sends any message, I can
give it you."

He rose from the table as he spoke, Eira receiving her snub with the
keenest sense of enjoyment.

"You don't mind asking him to give our love to Madeleine, all the same,
do you, papa?" she said meekly.

"I will do so if I remember," Mr Morion replied, as he left the room,
followed, as usual, by his wife.

"Francie," said Betty, in a low voice, for Eira had had the discretion
to leave her sisters alone together.  "Francie, come out into the garden
with me for a moment or two; I want to speak to you," and Frances
understood.

Tea was served in Mr Morion's room, as he had ordered.  But a long time
passed after the ladies had finished theirs in the drawing-room, without
any sign of the visitor's departure.  At last even Lady Emma began to
fidget.

"I am afraid poor papa will be quite tired out," she said.  "I wish I
had insisted on their coming in here to tea.  Frances, Eira--no, it
would scarcely do to send one of you--I think I must go myself.  It is
really inconsiderate of the young man."

She was preparing to do as she said, when the door opened, and the two
men came in; Horace, slightly flushed, eager, and a little embarrassed
as he made his way up to Lady Emma, and shook hands with her heartily.
But she scarcely noticed him, so struck and startled was she by Mr
Morion's almost indescribably strange, half-dazed manner and expression.
He seemed like a man walking in a dream.

"My dear!" exclaimed his wife, "I am quite sure you are dreadfully
tired.  Mr Littlewood will excuse you, I have no doubt, if you go and
lie down till dinner-time."

Mr Morion started.

"Tired!  I?  Oh, no," he said, "nothing of the kind!  Don't be so
fanciful, Emma."

"And I mustn't stay," said Horace--"not for more than a few minutes, at
most.  There are letters I must write for the night mail.  I'm afraid I
have tired you, Mr Morion," and indeed the poor man did look, for once,
in danger of a thorough collapse.

Lady Emma glanced at him again with increasing anxiety, while Horace,
looking and feeling very guilty, still stood irresolutely, making no
attempt to sit down.

Frances came to the rescue, as usual.  Doing so, indeed, seemed to be
her mission in life.  She turned to Horace with a smile.

"Supposing we go out into the garden for a minute or two," she said, "or
at least we can go as far as the gate with you, Mr Littlewood, and
leave papa to rest.  We want to hear about Madeleine, too."

Lady Emma looked relieved.

"Frances really has a good deal of tact," she thought, "but it is very
stupid of Mr Littlewood to have tired George so, by staying so long."

Once outside the house Horace turned eagerly to Frances.

"I hadn't the least idea," he began, "that your father was really so
nervous.  I'm afraid I must have been far too abrupt."

He glanced round for Betty as he spoke.  She had moved towards him, her
face full of anxiety.

"But it is all right, surely?" she whispered.  "Papa wasn't angry, was
he?"

"I don't think so," answered Horace, "he only seemed extremely
surprised.  What do you think, Miss Morion?" turning to Frances.  "You
don't anticipate any real difficulty, I trust?"

"No," said Frances, with a smile.  "I think it will be all right.  But
we must have a little time to get used to the idea.  I suppose fathers
always feel a certain shock when they have to face the thought of
parting with a daughter."  Her words dispelled the slight misgiving, and
Horace's spirits rose again, and so, as a matter of course, did Betty's.
Eira's were already bubbling over, and soon, very soon, the merriest of
laughter might have been heard through the open windows of the
drawing-room, had Lady Emma and her husband not been too preoccupied to
notice it.

To say that the mother was less astonished than had been Betty's father
would still leave a wide margin for surprise on her part.  For Mr
Morion's state of mind far exceeded that of even extreme astonishment.
He was amazed, unable even now to take in as a fact that _Betty_,
insignificant little Betty, as he had been rather in the habit of
considering her, could have become a person of sufficient consequence to
attract the notice--nay, more than notice, the admiration--of an
intelligent man, whom he had honoured with his own friendly regard, and
he blurted out the news with an abruptness and almost incoherence enough
to have startled any one less calm and in some ways phlegmatic than his
wife.

"Mr Littlewood," she repeated, "Mr Littlewood has proposed for Betty?
_Betty_! you are sure it is she--not, not Fr--?"  Here some unexplained
instinct made her stop short.

"Betty, of course it is Betty," was the reply.  "Though I confess I am
not a little astonished.  A child--an undeveloped child--and he, a man
of the world and of very fair average intellect.  What is he thinking
of?"

"You didn't speak in that way to _him_, I hope," said Lady Emma.  "It
seems to me natural enough--he has fallen in love with her--and to _my_
mind has shown his good taste in doing so.  She is not a showy girl, I
allow, but eminently refined and sweet-looking.  And you forget that she
is twenty-four.  A very suitable age.  And except that she has no money,
I, her _mother_, consider her a prize worth winning."

"Ah, well," said Mr Morion, in a more conciliatory tone, for the rarity
of the occasions on which his wife "spoke out" to him made them the more
impressive.  "Ah, well, I was taken aback, I suppose.  You forget the
wretched state of my nerves.  And--my being utterly unprepared for
anything of the kind.  But you needn't be uneasy.  I shall doubtless get
over it in a day or two."

For once the mother in Lady Emma asserted itself more strongly than the
wife.

"I have no doubt you will," she said, with a touch of irony which, even
if her husband had perceived, he could not have believed in.  "But I am,
if not uneasy, at least anxious to learn more.  Naturally so--for
Betty's sake.  Is all satisfactory?  His position and prospects?  And
his mother's approval?"

At this Mr Morion began to feel and look rather small.

"I--I really can scarcely say," he replied.  "He said a good deal--
something about India in the first place."

"Ah, yes," said Lady Emma, "he may have to go out for a few months,
perhaps, before he can arrange things for settling down."

"And as to his mother's approval," continued Mr Morion, not sorry to
turn the tables, "I scarcely understand you.  How could there be any
possible question of her disapproval?  One of _my_ daughters?  And a
Morion?  Where were the Littlewoods, I should like to know, in the days
when the Morions owned half a county and more in these parts?  Besides,
it is not the first alliance between the two houses."

"True," said Lady Emma dryly.  "But not only was Conrad Littlewood the
elder son--practically free to please himself--but _his_ Miss Morion, as
is often the case with the choice of a rich man, had a large private
fortune of her own."

To this Mr Morion found no reply.  He was not going to allow that there
could be any possible question as to one of _his_ daughter's
eligibility.

And if Lady Emma's misgivings were not dispersed, there was too much
latent womanly sympathy about her for her to express them so as to cloud
the sunshine of Betty's first happiness.  The sight of her radiant face,
half-an-hour or so later, when Horace had at last torn himself away, and
she crept into the drawing-room, her sisters having had the discretion
to betake themselves to their own quarters, appealed to the deepest of
her maternal feelings.

"My darling child," she said.  "I am so happy for you, and I think I
have good reason to be so.  I feel sure we may trust him."

"Dearest mamma," was all Betty's reply.  Later in the evening she
confided to Frances that it all seemed _too_ happy.

"In story-books," she said, "and it is only from them that I know about
anything like this, things never go so well, there are always lots of
troubles, and uncertainties, and difficulties."

"But there is no rule without exception, you know," said Frances,
smiling at the sweet little face.  "Let us hope that your case is in
this way to prove the rule."

In her own heart, nevertheless, Frances was by no means free from
misgiving, though in these first happy days she would not for worlds
have suggested anything to mar the fresh brightness.

And they _were_ happy days, even to Frances herself.  There came to her
almost at once the reward of her self-effacement, aided no doubt by her
resolutely refraining as yet from dwelling on the mortification which at
first had seemed to her so well-nigh unendurably bitter.  Horace had but
a short time to spare, two or three days at most, and then came the
good-bye, not a very melancholy one, as he was only rejoining as yet the
depot of his regiment.  He was to pass through London on his way
thither, for Frances, the only one whom he thought it well to consult on
the point, agreed with him that it was better that his news should be
communicated to his mother by word of mouth than by letter.  Mr Morion
entered into no practical details, the state of his own nerves occupying
him sufficiently for the present--a circumstance which, considering his
own uncertainty as to his plans, Horace could scarcely regret.

"I am very sanguine about it all," he said to Frances the evening before
he left.  "There is no doubt as to my mother's great liking for Betty."

Frances smiled.

"Yes," she said demurely, "she likes her much the best of us, I know; it
is not Betty personally that she will object to, of course."

"As soon as I get on to definite ground with her," Horace continued, "I
will try to come down here again, and go into things with your father,
who will have got accustomed to the idea by then, I hope.  You don't
think I have any reason to feel uneasy on that score, do you?  Mr
Morion has not even spoken against India, so far."

Frances hesitated in her reply.

"I don't think he has taken in the possibility of _Betty's_ going to
India," she said.  "Indeed, I don't think his mind has gone into any
details, though I fancy both he and mamma have some vague idea that
_you_ may have to go out for a time in the first place."

Horace's face fell.

"That would never do," he exclaimed.  "I should not have a moment's
peace of mind if I went back there alone.  And I don't see that that
need be anticipated.  Heaven knows I don't _want_ to take her out there,
but plenty of girls, even delicate girls, do go and are none the worse
for it, for a short time, and my mother would not like me to be so far
away indefinitely.  It might be the best thing--to bring her to her
senses," he was going to have added, but the expression jarred on him.
"I cannot think that your father would really object to it."

"Not on ordinary grounds," Frances replied.  "But--papa is peculiar.  If
he thought that Mrs Littlewood opposed your marriage on _any_ grounds,
he, on his side, would not give in in the least.  On the contrary, he
would seek for all sorts of objections.  He would be too indignant at
the idea of a child of his being unwelcome to any family to be even
reasonable."

Horace sighed.

"Well," he said, "we must hope for the best, and thank you very much,
Frances, for putting things so clearly.  I know my ground better now.
If," he went on--"forgive me if you don't like the suggestion--if Ryder
Morion had been a nearer relation of yours, or on more intimate terms,
_he_ might have seemed the natural person to influence my mother, should
need arise."

"Yes," said Frances, thoughtfully, "but, you see, he is not in that
position towards us, and it would have had to be done very, very
carefully, so that my father should never have suspected any
intervention on his part.  There is still the old sore, though I am very
glad that we now know him better."

The next few days were passed in keener anxiety on Frances' part than on
Betty's.  Nor, if she had been gifted with clairvoyant powers, would her
misgivings have been decreased, but very much the reverse, by a
conversation which took place between the Littlewoods, mother and son,
the day following that of the latter's arrival in London.

Mrs Littlewood's tone and manner at the opening of this _tete-a-tete_
were strangely disconcerting, and the cause of this ever remained a
mystery to Horace, completely unsuspicious, as he was, of his mother's
fears lying in the direction of Frances instead of Betty.  And as the
conversation proceeded, and light broke in upon her, he naturally
attributed the unmistakable softening of her tone to his own good
management, and his hopes rose accordingly; only, however, to be dashed
to the ground again, for while Mrs Littlewood's relief was great at the
substitution of the one sister for the other--towards whom she had
allowed herself to indulge in really unjustifiable prejudice--this happy
effect was greatly marred by her personal feeling of annoyance that she
herself should have been so mistaken.  Her pride rose in arms, for she
would not allow, even to herself, that she was actuated by anything but
purely disinterested regard for Horace's welfare.

And her ultimatum, when she delivered it, was in accordance with this
position.

"My dear Horace," she said, "the whole thing could scarcely be more
unfortunate.  She is a dear, sweet child, I own, but about as little
fitted to be your wife as Conrad's Lilian.  So delicate, too, you could
never dream of taking her out to India."

A pang of cruel disappointment shot through the young man's heart at
these words.

"I have certainly not the slightest wish to do so," he replied, "though
she is not as delicate as she looks.  I agree with you, however, as to
the inadvisability of such a step.  That, indeed, is my reason for
putting it all before you in this way."

Mrs Littlewood raised her eyebrows.

"But what is the alternative?" she said.  "If you exchange, you lose all
your steps, as you have constantly impressed upon me, not to speak of
the diminished pay in England.  Of course the only thing to be done is
for you to go out alone again till you get your troop.  And in every way
this is the wisest course.  It gives time for consideration of the whole
affair.  I need not remind you of the old proverb, `Marry in haste--'"

"But, mother," said poor Horace, almost stunned by her words.  "You have
over and over again begged me to retire altogether, and--and promised to
make my doing so possible, though you know I would never have led an
idle life at home or anywhere."

"I have never promised, nor dreamt of promising, material help towards
your making an undesirable marriage," was the cold reply.  "If you can
get employment in England which would justify you in marrying a
penniless, inexperienced, fragile girl like Betty Morion, do so.  There
shall be no scandal about it in the family, but I entirely wash my hands
of any and all responsibility in the matter."

There was no more to be said.  Half brokenhearted, for Frances' warnings
as to the probable effect on her father of such opposition naturally
came to add their force to his distress, Horace left his mother and
spent the rest of the morning in writing a very long letter to Frances
explaining the whole state of the case, and, by the same post, a much
more carefully worded one to his father-in-law elect, setting forth the
advantages to his future of his not leaving the service at present, and
expressing his hopes that, as the regiment was at a healthy station, the
marriage might take place within the next few months, so that Betty
might accompany him on his return to India.  He did not name his mother.

Frances' heart sank when her father summoned her into his study the
morning of the receipt of these letters.

"What is the meaning of all this?" he demanded.  "Littlewood says you
understand his position!  Not very complimentary to Betty--baby though
she is.  Does he think I am going to allow a daughter of mine to marry
into a marching regiment and go to the ends of the earth?  What is his
mother thinking of?"

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

NOT TOO "SMOOTH."

The storm had burst.  Poor little Betty's half-superstitious misgivings,
that in their case "the course of true love" was "running too smooth" to
last, for her and Horace, seemed to have been prophetic.  For, as
Frances, with her experience of her father's peculiarities, had feared,
once the idea had entered Mr Morion's mind (suggested in the first
place negatively by Horace's non-allusion in his letter to his mother or
his family) that but scanty welcome was to be accorded to his daughter,
he mounted a very high horse indeed.  He refused to entertain for an
instant the idea of India for her; he went back upon the Littlewoods'
shorter pedigree and deficient quarterings; he worked himself up to
refuse his sanction to any engagement of any kind!

Horace, as his letter showed, was in despair.  Betty was palely
miserable, though between the two themselves the opposition but
strengthened their trust and devotion.  Frances suffered for both to an
extent which really blotted out the sting of her own disillusionment
more completely than she as yet realised.

Things were in this position when one afternoon, about a week after the
receipt of Horace's letter by Mr Morion, Frances, feeling
self-reproachful for having omitted her usual visits to Scaling Harbour
during the last few days, made her way thither, feeling, sadly depressed
and almost hopeless.  The sight of Betty's white face was beyond the
reach of her philosophy.

"I cannot bear to see her," she thought to herself, "just when I thought
_her_ happiness, at least, was secured;" and it took considerable
self-control to listen with her usual sympathy and attention to all the
confidences, requests for advice, hopes and troubles, which were poured
out upon her by her now familiar friends among the fisher-folk.  And of
all these there was to-day a more than usual amount, partly owing to her
own temporary absence, partly owing to an unfortunate coincidence, which
she now learnt for the first time, that during the last fortnight Mr
Darnley had been forced to go away for change and rest.

Everything down here, too, seemed to have been going crookedly, and her
face, as she turned the corner of the main street on her way home again,
looked very unlike its serene self.

So absent-minded was she that she almost ran against a man walking
rapidly in the opposite direction; it was not till his murmured "I beg
your pardon" made her glance up quickly that she saw, to her amazement,
that the newcomer was no other than Mr Ryder Morion.  She gave a little
exclamation of surprise, and somehow, almost in the same instant, the
expression of his eyes, kind and somewhat concerned, sent through her a
curious little instinct of hopefulness.

"Can he have heard about it?" she thought, and his next words did not
dispel the idea, though they scarcely confirmed it.  He turned at once
as if to accompany her.

"You are not looking well, Miss Morion," he said.  "I am afraid you have
been overworking yourself down here, with Darnley's absence.  I only
heard of it on my arrival at Craig-Morion last night.  There are several
things that need seeing to at once, so I am doubly glad I came, even
though I may miss him.  But you mustn't burden yourself too much."

"On the contrary," said Frances, her colour deepening, "I am reproaching
myself with having done nothing here lately.  I--we have been a good
deal absorbed at home by other things.  And I, too, did not know Mr
Darnley had been ill.  It does seem unfortunate--before his helper, the
new curate, has come, too.  Things always seem so contrary," with a
little attempt at a smile.

"That is not your usual way of looking at the world," said her
companion.  "I hope--I am afraid--do not think me impertinent--I hope
your home absorptions have not been painful ones."

Frances' lips opened and closed again.  "I--I wonder if you know
anything?" she said, with a kind of abrupt frankness; "but I must not
take you out of your course--you were going in the opposite direction."

"I had only one more thing to do," he said, "and then I am going home.
It was, in fact, a second thought--may I overtake you?  I shall not be
more than five minutes, and I want to talk to you about some of the
people down here.  I am sorry about the Silvers.  I want to see Mrs
Silver again for half a moment."

Frances looked up.

"I was afraid there was something the matter there," she said.  "Though
Jenny did not say much."

"I will tell you about it," he replied, as he hurried off.

As soon as he had turned the corner, Frances--who was feeling very
tired, and yet, inconsistently enough, far less depressed than five
minutes ago--sat down on one of the rocky boulders strewn capriciously
about this part of the coast, even some little way inland.  Down below,
the little waves were rippling in gently, gleaming softly in the
sunshine; the day was balmy rather than brilliant--there was a sense of
afternoon restfulness over the whole, very soothing and congenial.  She
felt as if she could trust Ryder Morion, and the impulse grew stronger
upon her to tell him everything, whether or not he was already prepared
for it.  But before she had time to come to any decision he was back
again.  She started to her feet at the sound of his approaching steps.

"What is it about the Silvers?" she said.

"Nothing very grave, I hope; it is only that Jack came home--well, not
sober--the other night.  It is only the second time it has happened, but
I don't wonder at the poor little woman being uneasy.  She was ashamed
to tell you, but--I am sure you will not mind--she has promised me to
let you know if it seems well to do anything in the way of giving him `a
talking-to.'  It appears that Mr Ferraby knows them both well--he
married them--and in Darnley's absence his influence might be of use."

For a minute or two they went on talking about the Harbour and its
inhabitants.  Then there came a little pause.  Without appearing to do
so, Mr Morion had by this time made his own observations, and drawn his
own conclusions therefrom.

"She is very troubled," he thought.  "I feel sure that it is about this
affair of Horace's.  I wish I understood better.  Why could he not have
told me the whole?"

Frances walked on, her eyes bent on the ground, thinking deeply.  Once
or twice her companion hazarded some remark in hopes of drawing her into
speech again.  But she scarcely seemed to hear him.  Then, suddenly, she
looked up as if she had come to a decision.

"Mr Morion," she began, "I am anxious and unhappy, as you have seen.
Worst of all, I am utterly at a loss how to act, or rather how to advise
others to act who look to me for advice.  I had not, of course, the
slightest idea that you were here, but yet you were one of the very few
whom I wished I could tell about this trouble.  You--and Madeleine--the
only two, perhaps.  Shall I tell you the whole?--regardless of the
rather peculiar position you are in to both sides, as it were."

"Perhaps I know more already than you suspect," he said gently.  "That
may make it easier for you.  It is about Horace Littlewood, is it not?
and--your sister.  Please do tell me exactly how things stand.  I gather
that you are free to do so.  And please forget that I am myself--except
in so far as my position towards all concerned might give me more power
of judgment.  You see, I know all the Littlewoods well.  Horace's mother
is a good woman and means to be a just one.  Don't exaggerate about her.
I fancy she is not at present being true to her best self."

"I hope so," said Frances.  "I hope so indeed.  I will tell you all,"
and so she did.

It was not difficult, once she had begun.  He drew from her with
infinite tact, the tact born of true interest, the conflicting shades of
feeling which were complicating the whole.  For she was too essentially
dutiful a daughter to throw any avoidable blame upon her father, yet too
fair-minded not to allow that his extreme attitude--his mixing up of
personal feeling and family prejudice where there was no need to have
brought them in--was every day making conciliation more and more
difficult.

"He will not hear of Betty's going to India," she said, "and has now
reached the length of saying that under no circumstances would he
sanction the engagement.  And surely that is not fair or right?  Eira
declares," she went on in a lighter tone, "that it is a case which would
justify the two principals in running away."

"I almost sympathise with her," said Mr Morion, "still--that _would_ be
an extreme measure!  If Horace were independent, I mean practically so--
so placed that he could marry without imprudence, I should say, do so!
and trust to time and her real good feeling to conquer his mother's
unreasonableness."

"Ah, yes," said Frances, "but you are forgetting papa: we could not risk
it with him, and Betty would be miserable through her whole life if
there were any coldness with her own people.  You see, papa is so
_sore_.  It is not that he is ungenerous: he wouldn't mind if Horace had
nothing, if _he_ could give her enough.  But he has been brought up to
feel sore about things, and he cannot throw it off."  For the moment she
had really forgotten to whom she was speaking.

In one direction her companion was glad of this; it was what he had
asked her to do.  On the other hand--"Am I growing very selfish and
grasping?" was the thought that went through his mind.  "I should like
to say, or at least to feel, that all this has come from the old
disappointment--our great-grand-aunt's failing to keep her promise, and
to regret it as heartily as George Morion himself could do.  But I
cannot.  There is a strange survival in me of the old family feeling as
to this queer place.  I would sacrifice a good deal rather than let it
go from the old name."

"Some way must be found out of the difficulty," he said at last, aloud.
"We cannot stand by and see these two young lives clouded and perhaps
spoilt, and Betty looks a fragile, sensitive little creature."

"She is stronger than you would think; strong enough and deep enough to
suffer a good deal," answered Frances; but, as Mr Morion glanced at the
grave young face beside him, it struck him that Betty would be by no
means the only one on whom all this trouble would leave its mark.

"I shall be here for a few days," he said.  "Will you trust me to think
it well out, and see where or how I can be of use?  I would go to see
Mrs Littlewood if that could help matters."

Frances looked at him with thankful eyes, and again there came over her,
still more strongly, the sense of strength and protection she had
already been instinctively conscious of.  To her it was a strange and
novel but none the less grateful sensation.  Even with Horace she had
never experienced it in the same way.

"I suppose it is that he is so much older," she thought, "and that it
has never come in my way before--for with poor papa it has always been
us trying to shelter _him_!"

Their talk had carried them far on their road.  Half-unconsciously
Frances had passed through the lodge gates which Mr Morion opened for
her, thus making her way home across the park, till they reached the
usual short cut to Fir Cottage, where he came to a halt.

"I will not attempt to see your father for a day or two," he said.  "I
will write to him asking when I may call."

"Thank you," said Frances, "that will be best.  And in the meantime I
will not mention having seen you.  As things are, I think it will be
better.  But," with a little touch of anxiety and appeal, new in her,
but none the less charming, "you will be sure not to go away without
letting me know?"

"Certainly not," he replied.  "I think very probably my first step will
be to write fully to Horace, which may lead to my going to see his
mother.  If so, I will tell you."

Five minutes later Frances entered her own home with a heart
considerably lightened.  Her burden was at least shared.  She felt too
that she had laid it in willing and helpful hands.

"How little, how very little," she thought to herself, "did we ever
imagine that Ryder Morion was the sort of man--would be the sort of
friend he is!"  And though she did not as yet feel free to tell Betty of
the somewhat clearing horizon, her new hopefulness made itself
instinctively felt.

"Things will come right somehow, I feel convinced!" she did say to her
sisters, for poor Eira stood in need of cheering almost as much as
Horace's _fiancee_ herself.

Frances' sleep that night was disturbed, to an extent which rarely
occurred with her, by strange and fantastic dreams.  Her common-sense
explained them, partially at least, by the unusually anxious and almost
overstrained condition of her mind and nerves.  Yet, as she lay awake
the next morning in the early summer daylight, she could not altogether
account for them in this way.

"I wonder if there really are occult influences of which we are only
conscious when the more material part of us is inactive," she said to
herself.  "It would seem so, though it would be dangerous to give too
much thought to such a possibility.  It would interfere with ordinary
life and duties."

Yet, despite this practical view of the matter, she could not succeed in
throwing off what had been the predominant impression of her visions,
even though these in themselves had grown vague and confused.  She was
haunted by a feeling that there was something for her to do, something
that some one--who or where she knew not--was wishing her to do.  Now
and then in the stillness, broken but by the voices of the little birds
outside, she could almost have believed that whispers, like a far-off
murmur of the sea, were growing all but audible to some interior faculty
of hearing which under normal conditions she was unconscious of
possessing.  The dreams themselves had been a fantastic mingling of fact
and fancy, as indeed dreams commonly are.  It had seemed to her that she
was again on the sea-shore near the Harbour, but late at night instead
of in the balmy sunshine.  Cries of distress reached her, apparently
from a boat some little way out at sea, and her first thought was of
Jack Silver, who, she imagined, must be in danger.  She turned to run
homewards in search of help, when suddenly she found herself in the
Laurel Walk, at the other extremity of which--the farther end from the
house--she saw a light gleaming more distinctly and brightly than the
faint reflection which it had puzzled both herself and Ryder Morion to
account for that night when they were standing at the library window.
She tried to follow the light, but found to her distress that she could
not overtake it, her feet seeming too tired and heavy to move, though
she was conscious that the beacon was intended to direct her towards the
church.  Then came another sudden change of scene and of time.  She was
a little girl again, playing in their own garden with her two still
smaller sisters, Eira rolling on the lawn, Betty clinging to her as if
asking to be carried.  But with the effort to lift the child came again
the painful sensation of powerlessness, till, glancing up, she saw a
white figure standing beside them, whose sweet, pale face bent gently
over the child, while a voice whispered softly: "Forgive me, and let me
lift her!"  At the words a shudder, not so much of fear as of awe, went
through Frances, and the relief was great when, on her endeavouring to
interpose, she saw that where the weird figure had been standing there
was now in its stead that of Ryder Morion with a reassuring smile on his
face.  But before she quite awoke she seemed again to hear the pleading
voice, though from a greater distance, and to feel, rather than hear,
the words "Forgive me, and try--" and with the unfinished sentence the
dream broke off, and she awoke with the sense, as has been said, of some
task having been laid upon her to accomplish.

Nor did this leave her during the next few days, though from time to
time the impression somewhat faded.  Rather to her disappointment and
surprise, she heard nothing of any note or letter to her father from
Ryder Morion.  No one but herself seemed to have known of his being in
the neighbourhood!  She could almost have fancied that her walk and talk
with him had been a curiously rational episode in the strange dream
which had visited her that same night.  But all doubt of the reality of
his material presence was put to flight by a letter which she received
on the fourth morning after having met him.  A letter which fortunately
did not attract her father's attention, as the Fir Cottage bag was
rather unusually full that day, and which she was able to read without
any one noticing it.  It contained but a few lines:

  "Dear Miss Morion,--

  "I am afraid you will scarcely feel inclined to trust me any more,
  when you see that I have left Craig-Morion without seeing you again or
  writing to you,"--for the letter was dated from the writer's club in
  London.  "I was summoned quite unexpectedly up to town.  I think,
  however, the matter which we were talking about will not suffer from
  this; on the contrary, it may turn out for the better.  I will write
  again before long,--

  "Yours very sincerely,--

  "Ryder Morion."

This explained the silence, and Frances was fain to take refuge again in
the patience of not wholly unhopeful waiting.  More than this, she
succeeded in cheering poor Betty, and that not groundlessly, for her
confidence in Ryder Morion suffered no diminution.

Still those were trying days, at best.

Late one afternoon, just as tea was over, Frances was told that a young
woman was asking to speak to her, waiting at the back door.

"Is it any one you know by sight?" she inquired of the parlour-maid.

"I _think_ she has been here before, miss," was the reply.  "She comes
from Scaling Harbour, but"--with a little hesitation--"she seems rather
in trouble.  I don't think she would give me her message," and at these
words there returned to Frances' memory the promise Ryder Morion had
made to Jenny Silver of help and advice, should need arise, from
herself.

She started to her feet with some self-reproach for having forgotten, in
the pressure of other thoughts, the poor girl's anxiety.  And further
back in her mind there lurked another remembrance, which did not till
later on take distinct form.  It was that of the association of some
trouble menacing the young couple of which she had dreamt, though but
for this visit she would probably never have thought of it again.

As she expected, the figure awaiting her was that of Jenny Silver.

"Oh, miss!" she exclaimed.  "I am ashamed to trouble you, but the
gentleman told me I might come to you if things got worse."

"You were quite right to come," said Frances, and as she spoke she
glanced round.  "I will come out with you a little," she said.  She
still wore her out-of-door things.  "We shall be quieter in the garden."
And she took the poor woman to a seat hidden in the shrubberies.

After all, things with the Silvers were not in one direction as bad as
she had feared.  Jenny had come to her partly because her husband's old
father was very ill--dying, in short.  Her Jack, she went on to say, had
not offended again, but he had remained sullen and unlike himself.  This
had troubled the old man, and Jenny had come to ask if Miss Morion
thought it would be possible to get Mr Ferraby to go to see him the
next day.

"Father thinks a deal of the old vicar," said the young woman, "and he
thinks maybe it would be a good chance for Jack to start fresh again.
Father can't be with us long, and the vicar might know how to get hold
of Jack just at this time."

Frances quite agreed with her that the opportunity should not be lost,
and after a little more talk it was settled that she should walk up to
the vicarage with Jenny, and explain things in the first place to Mr
Ferraby, as it was a good while since he had seen any of the Silver
family.  Jenny was full of gratitude for Miss Morion's help, and
fortunately they found the old vicar at home.  A few minutes' talk
between him and Frances while Mrs Silver waited outside put him in
possession of the state of the case, and he expressed himself as eager
and ready to help and sanguine as to the result of a good talk with the
young man.

"He is far from a bad fellow," he said, "though I am not surprised at
Jenny being anxious.  Her own people, the Bretts, have always been so
very respectable and sober that the contrast between them and what she
sees down at the Harbour must be painful.  But put them off your mind,
my dear Frances; Darnley and I will see to it that he is pulled up in
time."

So Frances was able to say a hopeful word to the young wife before she
sent her into the vicarage, promising to look her up at home before
long; and when Jenny disappeared through the glass door of Mr Ferraby's
study, she turned away again with a feeling of relief, so far as her
poor friends were concerned.

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

"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.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

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