Chapter Seventeen.
The Laurel Walk Again.
The Littlewoods’ guests left the next day, all, that is to say, except the owner of Craig-Morion himself, who, finding more to interest and occupy him than he had anticipated, was glad to avail himself of his hostess’ sincerely meant invitation to remain as long as it suited him to do so. For one reason or another he had called two or three times at Fir Cottage, and each time he had gained ground with his kinsman, more than once, indeed, inveigling the valetudinarian into a walk all over the property, such as for many years past he would have thought himself incapable of.
And the effect of this humanising influence on the elder man was of the happiest, not only as regarded himself, but for his family also. Yet in those days something at Fir Cottage felt out of gear; now and then it almost seemed as if Frances and her next sister had to some extent exchanged natures, Frances’ spirits were fitful and uncertain, at times verging on excitement, then again lapsing into unusual dreaminess and absent-mindedness, while Betty was quiet, self-possessed, and, to all outward appearance at least, calm and equable. She had, too, a fit of extreme industry: from morning till night she was busy about something or other, so that Eira found it difficult ever to buttonhole her for one of their “good long talks.”
“I don’t understand you, Betty,” she said one day. “Just now, when we have something more interesting to discuss than ever in our lives before, there is no getting a word out of you. What are you always fussing about? could almost fancy—”
“What?” asked Betty.
Eira laughed.
“Don’t be vexed,” she said: “you make me feel as if you were preparing in good time to take Frances’ place, but you know you couldn’t possibly do so without my help.”