The Laurel Walk

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 détours– 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.