The Laurel Walk

“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 tête-à-tête 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.