The Laurel Walk

“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 naïve, 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 tête-à-tête 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, unself-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 disagreeable 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?”