“What was that?” were the words which had escaped her in a low tone, with an involuntary appeal to him; and his reply, “Some curious reflection of the light in here, I suppose,” though intended as reassuring, had not achieved its object, not even so far as to make her feel that he was expressing his own conviction.
For what they had both perceived was no stationary gleam such as is often thrown on glass with a dark background in such circumstances: it was a faintly luminous something, slowly moving down the path towards the church, gradually fading into nothingness as it neared the little gate.
“What can it have been?” Frances now asked herself, with a shiver of sympathy for Eira, as she recalled the girl’s impressive words about the effect of “really having heard something.”
“I do feel,” thought the elder sister, though with a little smile at her own weakness, “as if I had really seen something! It looked about the height of a small woman moving slowly. Can such things be? Shall I speak of it again to Mr Morion? I have such a shrinking from any allusion to him, to that old story. No, I would rather leave it. Possibly he may tell Mr Littlewood about it, and in that way I may hear if it made any impression on him.” And with the reference to Horace, her thought grew again absorbed by the still vague surmises which his manner, even more than his words, had given rise to.
“To-morrow will give me more grounds for real consideration,” she thought. “It isn’t as if I were a mere girl who could be excused for beginning fancying things which after all may have no existence. It isn’t even as if I were one of the younger ones. I am rather ashamed of myself. After all, I doubt if I am not older than he, and in any case I probably seem so to him,” with a little sigh. “It all comes, I suppose, from this strangely isolated life of ours—things of no importance in the eyes of others seem to us so wonderful.”
Yet in spite of herself the impression was made, and deepened undoubtedly—much as this would have been regretted by the lady herself—through the unmistakable change to increasing coldness and formality in Mrs Littlewood’s bearing to her that evening.
Considerably to Frances’ relief, somewhat too to her surprise, though the former feeling prevented her dwelling on the latter, she was not subjected the next morning to any cross-examination on the part of her sisters as to her experiences the night before, previous to their own appearance on the scene. On the contrary, Betty and Eira seemed fully absorbed by the plans for that day. They had arranged more definitely than Frances knew with Madeleine and her young guest for the expedition to the fishing village which Horace had alluded to.
“They are to call for us,” said Betty, “or we for them. That is to say, we are both to start from our own doors at half-past one; most likely we shall meet in the park. You must manage, Francie, to get us some sort of luncheon before we go. We’ve asked mamma, and she doesn’t mind, if you can arrange it with the cook.”
Betty’s prevision came true. The sisters had just entered the Craig-Morion grounds when they caught sight of a little group coming to meet them.
“Dear me! what a lot of people they seem,” said Eira. “Whom has Madeleine brought? Oh, I see,” she went on, “it is only Miss Charlemont and her father and one of those other men: do you know his name, Frances?”