“Of course I know she is rich,” said Eira in a lower voice; “but then she does and helps such heaps of things already. It isn’t as if this were her home. I don’t know,” she went on reflectively, “if she will be able to continue things here when she leaves. It doesn’t do to look forward—we had never hoped to manage half we have already got done this winter.”
“But doesn’t the village belong to Mr Morion, Mr Ryder Morion I mean?” asked Gertrude, a practical little person in her way.
“Only part of it,” was the reply; “and he has never,”—she stopped abruptly. “Oh, Gertrude,” she exclaimed—for the two young things had already arrived at the Christian-name stage of intimacy—“oh, Gertrude, speak of—” and again she stopped, for at that moment down a steep, rocky path, leading on to the main street from some cottages perched above, appeared two figures, those of the part-proprietor of the village and of Mr Darnley, the Craig Bay curate-in-charge, the eager aspirant to the same post at Scaling Harbour.
He was talking eagerly, with some explanatory gesticulation, to his companion as they came along. Mr Morion, on the contrary, looked cooler, almost colder, than his wont. It was he who first caught sight of the little procession of visitors. A shade, though but a slight one, of annoyance crossed his face: he had heard something of the projected expedition, but had hoped and intended to get his own business there completed in time to leave before coming across any of the others. But his investigations, even under Mr Darnley’s experienced guidance, had taken longer than he anticipated; taken longer and impressed him more deeply and more painfully than he had been in any way prepared for. But he was not the man to show this; on the contrary, he hastened forward with more than usual alacrity to meet the party.
“So there you are,” he said, in a pleasant but somewhat nonchalant manner. “I have had the start of you, however; indeed, I scarcely expected to see you down here.”
“But you will wait, now we have met, and walk back with us, won’t you?” said Madeleine. “You don’t know the treat that is in store for us all,” she went on, turning with her hearty smile to Frances and the others. “Tea and buns! half-past three, at Mrs Silver’s! I sent down about it this morning.”
“What a good idea!” “How nice!” were the exclamations that greeted this announcement. For the walk in the keen air and the very early luncheon had naturally an invigorating effect on everybody’s appetite.
“I am specially glad to hear of it,” said Mr Darnley, “on Mr Morion’s account. I’m afraid I have used you very badly,” he went on, turning to the person in question. “We have been at it since ten this morning, and you have had no luncheon at all. Though,” with a touch of admiration and pleasure that he was too young and enthusiastic to suppress, “I must say it wasn’t all my fault, you have gone into things so very thoroughly!”
A look of real annoyance flashed into Mr Morion’s eyes at these words, to be, however, as instantaneously expelled, for he caught sight of the flush of gratification on his companion’s eager, still boyish face, and he had not the heart to snub him. One person only, of those about him, saw and understood this little by-play, and that was Frances. And often in days to come she was glad that she had done so. For the memory of it helped to obviate, or at least modify, misconstruction of a character none too easy to interpret.
“And how about your own luncheon, my good fellow?” were the words genially substituted for the cold rejoinder which had been on the speaker’s lips. “You deserve at least three buns and two cups of tea.—Yes, Madeleine,” he went on, “yours was a capital thought, and if some one will lead the way to Mrs Silver’s we shall all gladly follow.”