The Laurel Walk

“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 médaille, 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 rôle 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 châtelaine could have been selected to do honour to the glories of Witham-Meldon, and to dispense its generous bounties in all right directions.

And “great-grand-aunt” Elizabeth slept henceforth in peace.

The End.