The Laurel Walk

Mr Morion accompanied his guests to the hall door, leaving, by his studied urbanity, the impression in Mr Littlewood’s mind that the master of Fir Cottage was far less of a bear than the lawyer had depicted him.

This opinion would probably have been modified had he been present at the scene which ensued in the drawing-room when the head of the house rejoined his wife and daughters, who listened in silence to his not altogether unjustifiable irritation against Betty, for as he went on he worked himself up, as was his way, to exaggerated anger, concluding with a comprehensive command that, till she could learn to behave properly to her father’s guests, he must insist on Lady Emma’s banishing the culprit to her own quarters when any visitors were present. Not that this command was in reality as severe as it sounded, judging at least by past experiences at Fir Cottage, where visitors were scarcely if ever to be found, and the deprivation of seeing such as on rare occasions were admitted was certainly not what Betty would have considered a punishment.

Poor Betty! punishment indeed was little needed by her at the present time. Up in the room which she shared with Eira, she was lying prostrate on her little bed, sobbing as if her heart would break, with a rush of mingled feelings such as she had never before experienced to the same extent.

There was reaction from the pleasurable excitement of a break in their monotonous life, indignation at the manner and bearing of “that detestable man;” worst of all, mortification, deep and stinging, at having behaved, so she phrased it to herself, like “an underbred fool.” Altogether more than the poor child’s nerves could stand. And added to everything else was the fear of what lay before her in the shape of reproof, cutting and satirical, from her father. She would have given worlds to undress and go to bed, and thus avoid facing her family with swollen eyes, from which she felt as if she could never again drive back the tears.

“How I wish I could leave home for good!” she said to herself. “I don’t believe Frances and Eira would miss me much, and papa would have one less to scold. At least I wish I could go away just now rather than risk meeting that man again, and if his people do come here it will be unendurable. Even if they condescend to be civil to us, there would be the terrible feeling of being patronised and probably made fun of behind our backs. It is too late for us to improve now, we are not fit for decent society; at least Eira and I are not, and poor Frances would suffer tortures if – ”

A knock at the door interrupted the depressing soliloquy.

“Come in,” said Betty, hoping that in the gloom her disfigured face might escape notice, and jumping up as she spoke, she hurried across to the dressing-table, where she pretended to be busying herself in rearranging her hair.

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.