The Laurel Walk. Molesworth Mrs.

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.