The Laurel Walk

Mrs Littlewood was still very pretty, though she by no means obtruded this fact, for her taste was good, and her tact excellent. As a rule, she was a very gentle woman, but a strong will underlay the gentleness, genuine though it was. She liked to be liked, and disliked making herself disagreeable, in consequence of which perhaps, when her disapproval or opposition was once aroused, it was not easily resisted.

“We have, of course, been talking about Craig-Morion,” said Madeleine, when she had provided her mother with tea. “But I can’t get much information about it.”

“I really know it so little,” repeated Mr Morion. “My chief feeling about it now is the hope that you will like it, and not be disappointed.”

“That is not likely,” said his hostess. “To begin with, I am one of those philosophical people who never expect perfection, and what we do want I think we are sure to find there: fresh, bracing air, quiet, and some amount of amusement for Horace.”

“I hope it won’t be too bracing for him,” said Mr Morion, “or too cold rather, though they do say that the first winter home from India one never feels the cold so much – still, there was his illness.”

For Horace Littlewood had but recently returned home from his regiment in the East, in consequence of an accident at polo, complicated by a sharp attack of fever, and at present his future career was, to some extent, in abeyance. His mother, whose favourite son he was, was most anxious for him to settle down in England, to which, however, the very fact of his dependence upon her – for Mrs Littlewood had been more or less of an heiress – caused him to hesitate in his consent. He hated the thought of an idle life, and was not, moreover, without experience of the love of power, but little suspected by many who imagined that they knew her well, latent in Mrs Littlewood.

“I think he will be all right,” Horace’s mother replied, “with us – Madeleine and me – to look after him, and he is very pleased with the shooting. Oh, yes, Mr Morion, I am sure we shall be quite satisfied, and, if you won’t take it on hearsay, the only thing to do will be for you to come down and judge for yourself.”

“Thank you very much,” he replied, adding, somewhat to Madeleine’s surprise, if not to that of her mother, “Yes, I think I should like to come down for a little while you are there.” For, as a rule, any invitation to Mr Morion was either politely put aside or accepted on such general terms as to leave but vague probability of his ever availing himself of it.

Mrs Littlewood glanced at him as she responded cordially that she was delighted to hear it. And across her own mind there flashed again a reviving hope – a hope which she had once cherished eagerly, though for some time past it had all but faded.

“Can it be,” she thought, “that, after all, he does care for Madeleine? They say that such things often begin by a kind of antagonism. And in many ways, au fond, they would be so well suited.”

Madeleine’s unspoken reflections ran in a very different direction.

“I wonder,” she said to herself, “if it has possibly struck him that he should know something of those poor relations of his. He is not the sort of man to shirk a duty, or even a piece of kindness, once he recognises it; but he has got into a curiously indifferent sort of way of looking at things. Lives and circumstances are oddly arranged. He is just the type of man who would have been quite happy and content, and probably more useful in his generation, had he had moderate means and been able to devote himself to study – as, indeed, I suppose he does; but then comes the question, Has he a right to do so, considering that he is a large landed proprietor, with so many, in a sense, dependent upon him?”

She looked at him, as the thoughts, as they had often done before, passed through her mind. He felt conscious of her involuntary scrutinising expression, and again he grew slightly irritated.

“That girl lives upon criticising other people,” he said to himself. “I wonder what she is inwardly arraigning me for now.”

To some extent he did her injustice; to a greater extent she was guilty of the same offence towards him. But there are people who, in obeying the command of concealing from the one hand the good deeds of the other, lose sight of the equally authoritative warning against hiding our light, humble as we may and should esteem it, “under a bushel.” And such people must often be misjudged.

“When do you think of going down?” Mr Morion went on. “I believe Horace mentioned a date, but I have forgotten it.”

“The end of next week probably,” replied Mrs Littlewood promptly, for she still kept the reins of family plans and arrangements well in her own grasp, her daughter being often in ignorance of them till the eve of their accomplishment. “Horace does not come south again – or at least only part of the way. He has an invitation to the Scoresbys for the next few days; then he will return to Craig-Morion and be there to welcome us – some of the servants go on Monday.”

“And how do you propose to employ – nowadays one is frightened to say ‘amuse’ to young women – yourself in my eyrie (I rather like the name), as you call it, Madeleine?” inquired their visitor. “Horace has his shooting, and a little hunting for a change if he thinks it worth a short journey for, and your mother quiet, and, I trust, the consciousness of invigoration. But what are you going to do?”

“Oh,” said she, “I have given no very special thought to it as yet. Of course we shall have books, as usual – by-the-by, have you a library there? And driving – we are taking down a little cart on purpose for me, and Horace is looking out for a stout pony, not afraid of hills. And – walking – I have a great idea that exploring a new country is better done on foot than any other way, and I love exploring. I expect I shall be able to make a guide-book for you of your unknown part of the country before we leave it.”

“But you cannot explore all by yourself,” said Mr Morion, “and I don’t suppose Horace will be always at your command.”

A very slight twinkle of amusement might have been discerned in Madeleine’s eyes by a close observer. She guessed that almost in spite of himself Mr Morion was leading back again to the rather delicate subject of his ignored relations, which seemed to have a kind of fascination for him. And she was not unwilling to play into his hands.

“Perhaps,” she replied, “once I have made acquaintance with them, your cousins may be good enough to accompany me in my rambles. Doubtless they know their own neighbourhood well.”

“Mr Morion’s cousins?” said her mother, before he had time to say anything. “Whom are you talking about, Madeleine? Oh, yes, I remember; Horace said something about a family of your own name, I think,” turning to her visitor, “who are living up near there. But they are scarcely within countable relationship, are they?”

“I’m afraid I have got into the way of thinking of them as not so, or rather of not thinking of them at all,” he replied. “But Madeleine has been obliging enough to remind me, at least tacitly so, that blood is thicker than water. Horace, too, has discovered that these cousins of mine, many times removed, are very poor, so on the whole I am beginning to feel rather guilty.”

Mrs Littlewood turned to her daughter with something in her manner which to Madeleine revealed a sense of annoyance, though her tone and words were gentle.

“My dear child,” she said, ignoring the latter part of Mr Morion’s speech, “you should be getting old enough by this time to realise that few of us have a mission for correcting other people. In very early youth such ideas are more excusable.”

Madeleine’s rather pale face flushed all over. She looked reproachfully at their guest.

“Mr Morion,” she exclaimed, “I really don’t think you are – ” and then she stopped.

“Mamma,” with considerable appeal in her tone, “truly I don’t think that I was so impertinent as – as it sounds.”

Mr Morion felt sorry for her, and again vexed with himself.

“I was more than half joking,” he said apologetically. “Forgive me. I must be becoming more bearish than I realise. You will have to take me in hand, Mrs Littlewood.”

The elder woman smiled pleasantly.

“On my side,” she replied, “I fear I am growing very matter-of-fact in my old age. But no harm is done. Of course you have only to tell us if you wish us to make friends with the family in question. Did not, by-the-by, one of the Avone family marry a Mr Morion? The Avones, as every one knows, are terribly poor for their position, so it sounds as if it might be the same.”

“It is the same family,” answered Mr Morion. “The mother was Lady Emma Marne.”

Then the subject of the Fir Cottage people dropped, and was not again reverted to. Still the illusion to them had left its mark, in a decided amount of curiosity as regarded them, in Madeleine’s mind; some self-reproach and a touch of interest in Mr Morion’s; and a quick questioning, which darted across Mrs Littlewood’s, in connection with Horace’s name.

“I do hope,” she was already saying to herself, “that there are no pretty daughters among them. It would never do for Horace to entangle himself in any stupid way, when even Conrad, who had so much less reason to consider ways and means, made such a wise choice. But I need not be afraid. Horace is far too difficult to please to be attracted by any girl who has laboured under the enormous disadvantages of these poor Miss Morions.”

And she dismissed the unknown sisters from her mind, nor was the Fir Cottage family again alluded to, even between Madeleine and herself, when Mr Morion had taken his leave.

Madeleine thought about them, nevertheless, a good deal. She had extracted a certain amount of information from her brother – more than she had mentioned to the owner of Craig-Morion, more than she thought it expedient to retail to Mrs Littlewood. For while she thoroughly, and with reason, trusted her mother and greatly admired her, she had learnt by long experience that even with those nearest and dearest “least said is” not unfrequently “soonest mended.” There were directions of thought in which she felt intuitively that their two minds would not run together. For Madeleine, beneath her calm, occasionally, in appearance, almost too composed and self-contained manner, was at heart enthusiastic, eager, and impetuous. She knew this well, however; she was on her guard, and thus the very fact of her impressionable nature made her appear cold and even “stand-off,” while Mrs Littlewood’s though not unreal or insincere of its kind, often misled others into stigmatising the daughter as hard and dictatorial – “laying down the law” to the mother, with whom, in point of fact, she very rarely ventured to disagree, whose slightest wish or opinion was weighted for her with authority, but rarely, nowadays, existent in such a relationship.

Horace had not said much, after all. He had not seemed inclined to discuss the family whose acquaintance he had made the first time he went down to Craig Bay with “Old Milne.” And this of itself struck Madeleine as unlike him, and prepared the ground with her for greater curiosity concerning them. She had satisfied herself that one, at least, of the sisters was “pretty” – “very pretty, indeed, if she were decently dressed,” but beyond that, and replying to some of her questions as to the manner of living, etc, of the Fir Cottage Morions, she had found her brother more reticent than usual. Of this, the principal reason had been his own annoyance with himself for his clumsy blunder, as he styled it, to which he could not but attribute the “not at home” with which he had been met the second time he called, and which somehow he had not felt inclined to relate to his sister.

Had it been possible for Madeleine to have seen him this evening, she would have found his mood greatly changed, for, thanks to Betty’s inspiration, and the good tact of Frances and her mother, this third bearding of the lion in his den was crowned with success.

Horace left the cottage after a somewhat prolonged visit in the best of spirits, full of projects for introducing his sister and his new friends to each other – inclined, as he had never before been in his life, to see everything through very rosy-coloured spectacles.

The next few days passed monotonously enough for Madeleine. She missed her brother; the weather was wretchedly dull and gloomy; there was no interest in looking up such friends as were winter residents in London, and likely to be returning there after spending Christmas in the country, seeing that she herself was on the verge of leaving; there was no interesting shopping to do, as Craig-Morion was not likely to make great demands on her wardrobe. In short, everything seemed very flat and unexciting: an impression increased by the more or less dismantled aspect of the house in preparation for a long absence. Nothing seemed worth while, and Madeleine felt half ashamed of herself.

It was with feelings very much the reverse of those of one anticipating an “exile” – as some of their friends had chosen to call their voluntary banishment to an out-of-the-way part of the country – that both Madeleine and her mother found themselves at last fairly started on their journey.

“I don’t know how it is,” said the former, when they were comfortably seated in the railway carriage, “that I have never felt better pleased to leave London than just now; not even after a hot summer. Don’t you feel a little the same, mamma? Somehow I fancy you do.”

“Yes,” Mrs Littlewood replied, “I am glad to get away. I have a sort of longing to feel myself farther north, and, above all, free to do just as we like, and to see no one if we are not inclined for it. I suppose Conrad and Elizabeth will be coming to us, but not just yet, I hope. They are sure to prefer waiting till the days are a little longer,” and she turned to the book with which she was provided, with an evident and wise determination not to tire herself by talking in the train.

Madeleine did not regret this, for she was not inclined to talk either. After a certain point on the journey, the country was new to her, and therefore interesting, and she regretted the early falling darkness which soon hid the outside world from view.

It was quite dark when they reached Craig Bay, quite dark and very cold when they stepped out on to the platform, where her brother had no difficulty in at once distinguishing them, as they were almost the only arrivals.

It was cheering to hear his voice in welcome.

“Come on quickly,” he said, as he gave his arm to his mother, “the carriage is waiting for you, and I have made everything as comfortable as I could. You must expect a tiresome bit of hill, though at first the road is on the level; it takes more than half an hour to get to the house.”

“I am glad of it,” said Madeleine; “I want to forget everything about trains and stations, and everything civilised and modern.”

Horace laughed.

“I don’t think the absence of civilisation will be as pleasant as you think,” he said; “but it isn’t as bad as that; it is really a place where comfort and antiquity might be excellently blended.”

And when at last they turned in at the lodge gates, and a few minutes later found themselves in front of the somewhat rugged granite steps leading up to the door, and then, in another moment, inside the lofty arched hall, of which the walls were hung round with trophies of the chase interspersed with old – and, it must be confessed, rusty – armour, a great wood fire burning in the vast stone hearth, an indescribable feeling of isolation and yet homelikeness pervading all – Madeleine drew a deep breath of satisfaction.

“It is delightful,” she said, turning to her brother. “I am sure we are going to love being here.”