“You will tell her how sorry I am,” he said in a low voice, for the vision of Betty’s troubled little face as she passed him in her swift transit across the room was not to be quickly banished from his mind’s eye.
Frances nodded slightly with a smile, Lady Emma’s attention being by this time happily distracted by some tactful observation from Mr Milne, who, to confess the truth, was not a little amused by what had just passed. And a few moments later the two visitors took their leave, the old lawyer shaking hands punctiliously with the four members of the family present; Mr Littlewood contenting himself with a touch of his hostess’ cold fingers, a more cordial clasp of Frances’ hand, and a vague bow in the direction of Eira, still in the sheltered corner so abruptly deserted by Betty.
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