The Laurel Walk

It was Frances who came in. For the first moment Betty felt disappointed that it was not Eira, but when the kind elder sister came forward and threw her arms round her, saying tenderly and yet with a little smile:

"My poor, silly little Betty, this is what I was afraid of. You really _mustn't_ take it to heart in this way. You poor little things making yourselves look so nice, and for it to end like this, though after all it is more to be laughed at than cried over."

"No, no, it isn't, Francie," sobbed Betty, hiding her face on her sister's shoulder. "I've disgraced myself and all of us, and it's no good your trying to say I haven't. I don't know what came over me to say what I did."

"I think it was not unnatural," said Frances; "even mamma was slightly ruffled by Mr Littlewood's tone, and yet--I'm _quite_ sure he didn't in the least mean to hurt us. How could he? We are complete strangers to him, and we were doing our best to be hospitable and--and nice. And--he has a good sort of face, and kind, straightforward eyes, in spite of his--I scarcely know what to call it--ultra-fashionableness, which seems to us like affectation."

Betty was interested, in spite of herself, by her sister's comments.

"All _I_ feel," she said, "is the most earnest hope that we may never see him again, and that his people will not take Craig-Morion."

"Come now, Betty, don't be exaggerated," said Frances. "By the way, he left a message with me for you: it was to say that he was _very_ sorry if he had annoyed you, and he said it so simply that it made me like him better than I had done before; and he took care that no one else should hear it, which was thoughtful too."

"I don't see that it much matters," answered Betty, too proud to show that she was a little mollified, in spite of herself. "Heaven knows _what_ I'm not going to have to bear from papa."

"Well, dear," said Frances, "you must just bear it as philosophically as you can. It may be a good lesson in self-restraint. And after all there is _no_ lesson of more importance. I don't agree with you in hoping that we may never see this Mr Littlewood again; on the contrary, far the best thing would be to get to know him a little better, so that any sore feeling you have--"

"Any sore feeling indeed!" interrupted Betty, with a groan, "I'm sore feeling from top to toe. It seems as if I should scarcely mind what papa says in comparison with this wretched hateful disgust at having lowered myself so."

Frances smiled.

"That _will_ all soften down," she said, "see if it doesn't; and perhaps papa won't be so down upon you as you expect."

Nor was this encouragement without grounds, for in the interval between his first burst of irritation and Frances' seeking her sister, Lady Emma had exerted herself with some success to smoothing down Mr Morion's displeasure, reminding him that Betty's family feeling could scarcely be called ill-bred, and that it had evidently had no ill effect upon their guest, whose tone had struck herself at first as deficient in deference. For Betty, as has been said, was her mother's favourite.

On the whole, Frances' words had a soothing effect on her sister.

"Oh well, I must just bear it, I suppose, even if he is very down upon me, for this time I can't say that I was blameless, and, compared to the terrible feeling as to what that man must think of me, it doesn't seem to matter. Oh, Frances, how I do hope and pray those people won't come down here! And only a few hours ago I should have been so disappointed at the idea of the whole thing falling through. Frances," she went on again after a moment or two's silence, "do you know I don't believe they _would_ come if they knew everything."

Frances looked slightly annoyed.

"I wish, dear," she said, "that you and Eira wouldn't let your minds run so constantly on that old grievance. We are not in Italy, where vendettas go on from generation to generation; and what _would_ the Littlewoods care as to whom the place should rightly belong?"

"I don't mean that," said Betty. "Of course, how could that matter to them? I was thinking of," and here involuntarily she dropped her voice and gave a half-timorous glance over her shoulder, "what they say about here of the big house--about, you know, Frances, great-grand-aunt Elizabeth's `walking,' as the country people call it."

The cloud on her sister's brow deepened. "Betty, you promised me, you know you did," she said, "both you and Eira promised me, that you would leave off thinking of that silly nonsense."

"I know we did," said Betty meekly. "I'm sure I don't want to talk about it; the very mention of her name frightens me. I do so wish it wasn't mine! For it gives me a feeling as if she had something special to do with me. All the same, I shouldn't be a bit sorry if that Mr Littlewood got a good fright," and her eyes twinkled, in spite of their swollen lids. "If it's true that she repents of her negligence, if negligence it was, she certainly can't feel pleased at being disturbed by any one connected with the elder branch of the family!"

"I had no idea you were so vindictive, Betty," said Frances; "but I'm afraid it's not likely that our poor old great-grand-aunt would have power to oust either him or his people from her old home."

CHAPTER FIVE.

AUTUMN LEAVES.

The next day passed so uneventfully that Betty began to think that for once the Fates had taken her at her word, and that the episode of Mr Littlewood's visit might be forgotten without fear of their meeting him again, to revive its annoying associations.

"He must have left with Mr Milne after all, I hope," she said on the following afternoon, alluding to something he had said to Frances about staying a day or two longer to see if the head-keeper's roseate account of shooting was to be depended upon. "Oh, I do hope he has!"

"_I_ hope he hasn't," said Eira. "I dare say we should like him very much if we knew him better. I think you were absurdly exaggerated about what he said. And even if we didn't like him, I'd be glad of anything for a change."

"You don't mean to say," said Betty, reproachfully, "that you still hope these people will come here?"

"Yes, of course I do," said Eira. "But there's Frances waiting for us, as usual. Oh! how glad I am that my chilblains are better."

For once the three sisters were setting off for a walk unburdened by commissions of any kind, but as the route through the park was the starting-point for rambles in almost every direction, they, by common accord, turned that way and were soon at the end of the side-path which led to the main entrance.

Somewhat to their surprise, the lodge gates were open, though neither Mrs Webb nor her husband was to be seen, as usual, peering out like spiders in hopes of alluring some human fly to provide them with a dish of gossip. Eira stood still and looked about her.

"Betty," she said, after some little scrutiny, "I don't believe your arch-enemy _has_ left, after all."

"If so," said Frances, "I wish we hadn't come through the park. I certainly don't want the Morions or their friends to think we claim right of way across it." And she hastened her steps to regain the road as quickly as possible.

Once on it she turned in the opposite direction from Craig Bay.

"Where are you steering for, Frances?" asked Betty.

"I don't think I quite know," her sister replied, "except that I do not want to go to the village."

"No wonder," said Eira, "I am _so_ tired of the sight of those dreary little shops. In the spring there's a certain interest in them--the looking out for the `novelties' they try to attract the visitors with."

"Yes," said Betty, "and even at Christmas they get up a little show-- good enough to tempt _me_," she went on, in her plaintive way. "I see lots of things I'd like to buy if only I had some money. I know I could trim hats lovelily for us all, if only I'd some decent materials. Oh, Frances, if you don't mind, do let us go through the copse: it'll be quite nice and dry to-day, and we might get some more of those beautiful leaves. They're even prettier there than in the park, and as `silence means consent,' I suppose we may take for granted that mamma has given us negative permission to `litter the drawing-room with withered branches!'"

"I believe," said Eira, "that at the bottom of their hearts both papa and mamma were very glad that we had made it look so nice the day before yesterday when those men called."

Betty groaned.

"Oh, Eira!" she ejaculated, "for mercy's sake let that wretched subject drop. Let's get over this stile," she added: "I've a sort of remembrance of some lovely berries a little farther on. There they are!" with a joyous exclamation; "_could_ anything be prettier? I wonder if there is any possible way of drying them and pressing some of the leaves without their losing colour? I feel as if I could make our hats look quite nice with them."

"They would last a few days, anyway, as they are," said Frances. "But, Betty, if you begin loading yourself already, I don't see how we can go much of a walk."

"I know what I'm about," said Betty, as she drew out of her pocket a sturdy pair of unpointed scissors. "I shall cut a lot of things now and put them ready to pick up on our way back. One must have clear light to choose the prettiest shades."

Some minutes passed in this occupation. Then when her spoils were carefully tied together, Betty having also provided herself with string, they set off at a good pace, soon leaving the little copse behind them, and crossing the high-road in the direction of a long hilly path ending in a stretch of table-land which was a favourite resort of the sisters. The grass was so short and thymy that it was rarely even damp, and on one side the view was certainly attractive.

"I have always liked this place," said Betty, "ever since I was quite tiny. Do you remember, Eira, the dreams we had of catching a lamb and taking it home for a pet? We were to hide it somewhere or other."

"Yes," replied Eira, "in the china closet out of the nursery, and get up in the night to play with it, and then put it to sleep in each of our beds in turn. It was never to grow any bigger, it was always to be a lambkin."

"And so it has remained," said Frances, smiling, "and always will! That is one of the comforts of dream-life: nobody gets older, or uglier, or anything they shouldn't. And real life would be very dull without it."

"It's dull enough _with_ it," said Betty, "or perhaps the truth is that we're growing incapable of it for want of material to build with."

"No," said Frances; "I don't agree with that. `Necessity is the mother of invention,' and when one has a real fit of castle-building one creates the stones."

"I wish one of us were poetical," said Eira. "I've a vague feeling that something might be made of those ideas of yours and Betty's, Frances, if either of you had the least knack of versification. And then perhaps we might send your poem to some magazine and get a guinea or half a guinea for it. Fancy how nice that would be!"

Betty gave a deep sigh.

"What is the matter?" said Frances.

"Oh, it's only a bit of the whole," said Betty. "Why wasn't one of us a genius, to give some point to life? Just because it is so monotonous, we are monotonous too--not the least tiny atom of a bit of anything uncommon about us." Frances laughed.

"I don't know about being uncommon," she said; "but assuredly, Betty, nobody could accuse you of being monotonous! Why, you are never in the same mood for three minutes together!"

"But her moods are monotonous," said Eira. "She's either up in the skies about nothing at all, or down in the depths about--no, I can't say that there's often nothing at all as an excuse for descending in that direction."

Thus chattering, with the pleasant certainty of mutual understanding, they had walked on for some distance, when a glance at the red autumn sun already nearing the horizon made Frances decide that it was time to turn.

"It's always extra dull to go back the way we came," said Betty, "and to-day it's my fault, for I do want to pick up my beautiful leaves and berries."

"We must walk quickly, then," said Frances; "or you'll scarcely be able to distinguish your nosegay. Dear me! the days are getting depressingly short already."

"And then they will begin to get long again, and you will be saying how cheering it is," said Betty. "You are so terribly good, Francie. I quite enjoy when I catch you in the least little ghost of a grumble. It really exhilarates me." A few minutes' rapid walking brought them to the steep path again. Then they crossed the road and were soon over a stile and in the copse. None too soon--here under the shade of the trees it was almost dark already, and Betty's soft plaintive voice was heard in lamentation.

"I don't believe we shall ever find the bundle," she said. "Francie, Eira, do help me--can you remember if it was as far on as this, or--"

"Oh, farther, some way farther," interrupted Eira. "Much nearer the other stile. Don't you see--"

She started and did not finish her sentence, for at that moment a figure suddenly made its appearance on a side-path joining the rather wider one where the sisters were. And, though it was almost too dark to distinguish the action, a hand was instinctively raised to remove the wearer's cap, and a voice, recognisable though not familiar, was heard in greeting.

"Good-evening," it said. "Can I be of any use?" for its owner had heard enough to guess that the sisters had met with some small mishap.

"Oh," replied Betty, who was the first to identify the newcomer, "no, thank you. It's only Frances," with a significant change of tone, "it's Mr Littlewood."

Frances, self-possessed as usual, came forward quietly and held out her hand.

"We are hunting for some lost treasures," she said, "which it is too dark to distinguish."

"Anything of value?" he said quickly, glancing about him.

His tone of concern was too much for Eira's gravity. A smothered laugh added to Mr Littlewood's perplexity, for Eira's person had till now been hidden behind some bushes where she was groping to help her sister in her search. Frances turned upon her rather sharply, for, despite her comforting tone to Betty two evenings before, she had no wish for any further gaucherie on the part of her sisters.

"What are you laughing at, Eira?" she said, and then, without waiting for an answer, she went on in explanation to Mr Littlewood: "Oh, no, thank you; nothing of value in one sense. It's only a large bunch of shaded leaves and berries that we gathered on our way out: they were too heavy to carry, so we hid them somewhere about here, and now we can't find them--it has got so dark."

Mr Littlewood smiled.

Perhaps it was fortunate that only Frances was near enough to him to perceive it. He was turning towards the hedges where the two younger girls were still poking about, when a joyful cry from Betty broke the momentary silence.

"Here they are!" she exclaimed. "Help me to get them out, Eira;" which Eira did so effectually that there was no occasion for the young man's offered help.

And once laden with her booty, a share of which she bestowed on her sister, Betty hurried onward, Eira accompanying her, leaving Frances to dispose of Mr Littlewood as she thought well.

He did not intend to be disposed of just at once. As Frances walked on slowly towards home in her sisters' rear, he suited his step to hers with an evident intention of beguiling the way with a little conversation.

"I'm afraid," he began, with a touch of hesitation which scarcely seemed consistent with his ordinary tone and bearing, "I am afraid that your-- your sister--I do not know if she is the youngest?--has not quite forgiven me for my stupid speech the other day."

Frances tried to answer lightly, but in her heart she felt annoyed with Betty.

"I hope she is not so silly," she replied. "More probably she is still vexed with herself for having taken offence at--at really nothing."

"Nothing in intention, most assuredly," he replied, with a touch of relief in his tone. "But still, she _was_ annoyed. And--if I am not making bad worse--would you mind giving me some idea, Miss Morion, what it was that she referred to? In case, you see, of my people coming down here, as seems very probable, it would be just as well--it might avoid friction if I understood just a little how the land lies." Frances hesitated.

"It is such an old story," she said, "and rather an involved one, and really not of any interest except to ourselves!"

"I don't know that," he replied quickly. "To tell you the truth--_you_ mustn't be vexed with me--I asked Milne about it, but he was rather muddled, I think. Possibly he scarcely felt free to explain it, so he ended up by saying he was too busy to go into it then, all of which, of course, whetted my curiosity."

There was something _naif_, almost boyish, in his manner, which Frances had not before been conscious of, and it gave her a feeling of greater sympathy with him.

"There is really no secret or mystery of any kind," she said. "I mean nothing that I could have the least hesitation in telling you, or any one who cared to hear. Though a mystery there is, a commonplace enough one too, I suppose: a lost or hidden will! It was long ago--" but by this time they were at the stile, over which the two younger girls had already clambered, and now stood waiting on the road, evidently expecting that at this juncture their companion would take himself off.

"It's getting so chilly, Frances," said Betty, "I think we had better walk quicker." With which faint approach to apology for her abruptness, she was starting off, when Mr Littlewood interposed.

"Why don't you go through the park?" he said. "I thought you always did. It must make quite half a mile's difference."

"Yes," said Frances, "it does. Come back to the lodge, Betty and Eira!" for she felt it would look too ridiculous to depart from their usual habit merely because this young man happened to be staying a night or two at the big house. Furthermore, she was conscious that her companion was really anxious to hear what she had to tell, and if she and the others went home by the road, he would scarcely have a pretext for accompanying them.

"Oh, Frances," said Betty, "I think at this time of day the road is much the best. It's so gloomy in the park."

"Only the last little bit," replied her sister, with a certain intonation which the younger ones understood, "and it is considerably shorter."

"And," interposed Mr Littlewood, so quickly as to seem almost eager, "you will of course allow me to see you through the gloomy part."

"Thank you," said Frances courteously, "it is not that we are the least afraid. We are far too well accustomed to looking after ourselves, and this is not a part of the country much frequented by tramps, I am glad to say."

She had turned already, however, in the direction of the big gates, so there was no occasion for further discussion, and the old programme was soon resumed, Betty and Eira hurrying on well in front, though not so far in advance but that a faint sound of laughter--laughter with a touch of mischief or mockery in it which made their elder sister's cheeks burn with annoyance--from time to time was carried back by the breeze to the ears of the two following more slowly. This made Frances the more anxious to divert her companion's attention from her sisters.

"I really must pull them up when we get home," she thought to herself. "They will have no one but themselves to thank for it if Mr Littlewood puts them down as a couple of silly school-girls."

She was turning over in her mind how best to revert to the subject of their conversation before Betty's interruption, when, to her relief, her companion himself led the way to it.