The Laurel Walk. Molesworth Mrs.

Frances half agreed, “but it’s a connection. Let me see, your brother married his sister?”

      “Yes, that’s it,” he answered. “Ryder Morion’s sister is my sister-in-law. There, now, that puts it neatly. Then, this capricious spinster broke her word to your grandfather, did she?”

      “Well, yes, we must suppose so, unless – there has always been the alternative possibility that she did make the right will, and that it got lost or mislaid.”

      “H-m-m!” murmured Mr Littlewood thoughtfully. “I suppose that does happen sometimes, but rarely, I should think. I don’t know if I have peculiarly little faith in human nature, but in a general way there’s been something worse than accident at work in such cases. Was the old lady on good terms with both nephews?”

      “I believe so,” Frances replied. “Though she was much more in awe of the elder. He had made an extremely good marriage, and, besides coming into the more important Morion place, his wife had heaps of money. I have always thought,” she went on, “that great-grand-aunt Elizabeth was a little afraid of telling him that she had left this property, small as it is, away from him. For, you see, it has the family name; yet, elder branch though they are, its owners have never cared for it. So,” with a slightly rising colour which it was too dark for him to see, and a half-deprecating tone in her voice which he was quick to hear, “there is some excuse for the way we feel about it, though certainly Betty need not have blurted it out as she did the other day for your benefit!”

      “On the contrary,” exclaimed her companion, “I enter most thoroughly into her feelings. And it is delightful to come across some one that isn’t afraid to speak out her mind. But – now, do scold me if I am indiscreet – considering these very natural feelings, which your father must realise to the full, is it not rather a pity to have settled down here, in constant, hourly view of what should have been your home?”

      “Well, yes,” said Frances, “on the face of it I can understand it striking you so, but circumstances often lead up to the very things one would originally have avoided. So it has been with us. My grandfather bought our present little house, which did not belong to the Morions though surrounded by the property, for a very small sum: he kept a sort of foothold in the place I fancy, in case – just in case– of the will, in whose existence he never lost faith, turning up; and also perhaps out of a sort of not unnatural self-assertion. And when papa retired – he was many years in India, you know, and married rather late – it seemed the best place for us to come to. We three were tiny children, and Anglo-Indians of all people believe in country air for their children, and here we have been ever since, our income, unfortunately, having creased as time went on, instead of improving.”

      For a moment or two Mr Littlewood walked on in silence. He was really of an impressionable nature, despite appearances, and the girl’s simple words told him even more than she was conscious of.

      “Dull little lives,” he thought to himself. “Poor children! If my people come down here they must try to do something for them, though I see it must be done with tact. Dear me! what a clumsy fool I must have seemed to that sweet little Betty.”

      Then turning to Frances:

      “Thank you,” he said gently, “thank you so much for telling me about it. I quite see the whole thing. I wonder,” he went on, with a slight laugh, “I wonder if anything will turn up some day?”

      “Oh, no,” said Frances, “it’s far too long ago now. We amuse ourselves sometimes by building castles in the air about it, but I am not sure that it is a very wholesome occupation.”

      “It would be very good fun,” said the young man, “if our living in the house somehow led to any discovery! By-the-by,” he added suddenly, “it would make a splendid groundwork for a ghost story. If the old lady is repentant for breaking her word, she shouldn’t be having a peaceful time of it; or even if she were not to blame, and the will were in existence, that’s the sort of thing ghosts should come back to set right, isn’t it?”

      “Well, yes,” said Frances, “I suppose so, but the queer thing about ghosts is that they so much more often appear for no reason than for a sensible one.” But there was a certain repression in her tone which returned to his mind afterwards.

      They had crossed the park by this time, and were close to the door into the road, where a little way farther on stood Fir Cottage. The voices of the two girls in front sounded softly now, and here in this more sheltered spot the evening breeze had grown gentle and caressing in its dainty touch. The moon, too, had come out, and the whole feeling of the evening breathed peace and restfulness.

      “It scarcely seems like late autumn now, does it?” said Frances. “And, oh!” she went on, “isn’t the glimpse of the old church pretty, Mr Littlewood?”

      From where they stood, the windows at one side and the ivy-covered tower of the venerable building, more picturesque than beautiful in the full daylight, had caught the silvery gleam.

      “Yes,” he agreed, “it looks at its best, doesn’t it? If Ryder was more here, he’d have gone in for restoring it by now; and, inside, I must say, it would be an improvement, though it would almost seem a pity to tear down that ivy. I looked over it this morning.”

      “Oh, did you?” said Frances. “It is getting to be almost a survival. The day must come, I suppose, for overhauling it, if it is to hold its own much longer. Papa says the masonry is becoming very bad. I should like to see it really well done, though I am heathen enough to have a queer affection for it as it stands.”

      “Do the visitors from Craig Bay come up here?” Mr Littlewood inquired.

      “Not regularly,” Frances replied. “There is a very modern, tidy little church near the station. Were you thinking of funds for restoring this one when you spoke of the visitors? Our old vicar is too old, I suppose, to take any interest in doing it up, otherwise something might be done.”

      “Oh, funds can’t be the difficulty,” said Mr Littlewood quickly. “Ryder Morion has far more money than he knows what to do with. I dare say he has restored other people’s churches more than once; that sort of thing is rather in his line.”

      “Then, why doesn’t he begin at home?” asked a clear voice, startling them a little. It was Eira’s. Frances and Mr Littlewood, gazing at the church, which stood just outside the park wall in the opposite direction from Fir Cottage, had not observed that the two younger girls had retraced their steps some little way, and now were standing close behind them.

      Again Frances felt annoyed, though she could not help being glad that this time the offender was not Betty. But her companion was on his guard: he answered gently, in a matter-of-fact tone, of itself conciliatory, “You may well ask. I shall tell Ryder what I think about it when I see him,” he said. “Why, he has never been here that any of you can remember, has he?” There was no immediate reply. It was, naturally enough, a trifle mortifying that on the few occasions – rare enough, it must be allowed – on which the owner of Craig-Morion had visited the place, he had taken no notice, direct or indirect, of his kindred at Fir Cottage. But the three sisters were nothing if not candid – candid and ingenuous in a very unconventional degree – and the silence was almost immediately broken by Frances’ clear, quiet voice.

      “Oh, yes,” she said, “he has been here several times for a few days together, but we don’t know him at all, not even by sight.” Again Mr Littlewood anathematised his bad luck.

      “Really?” he said, with apparent carelessness.

      “I can’t call him exactly a genial person,” he went on, “and you know, I suppose, that his wife died a few years ago, which has not made him less of a recluse. All the same,” – for the young man was on common ground with his new friends so far as a constitutional love of candour goes – “all the same, I’m very much attached to him. He’s been a good friend to me in more ways than one.”

      “I’m glad to hear it,” said Frances. “One can never be without interest in the head of one’s family, it seems to me.”

      They had been strolling on during the last few