The Laurel Walk

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 tête-à-tête 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 naïvely, “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.