“Francie dear,” it was, “we are not to speak about it, not even when you and I are alone. Betty begs us not to, and I have promised. I think—she is perhaps afraid of letting herself get too sure, so many, many things might come in the way.”
“Wise little Betty,” was Frances’ reply, but the smile which accompanied it went far to raise Eira’s spirits, at any rate, whether or no she ventured to insinuate a greater degree of confidence into Betty’s own views.
After this, which occurred within a short time of the receipt of her letter from Horace, Frances felt that she might write to him with less caution. He had not asked her to reply—not directly so, at least; but her own intuition told her that he would be very grateful for even a few words. But, as is sometimes the case where lives or circumstances have droned along with but the minimum of movement, once the turn comes events seem to precipitate themselves far beyond reasonable anticipation.
“We may have to wait some time,” Frances had said to herself, “in spite of Horace’s ‘few weeks.’ He will scarcely dare to take any very decided step till he is a little more settled.” And this not improbable space of waiting was what for herself she had dreaded almost more than anything.
She was not called upon to face it. Before she had written, before she had even framed in her mind an answer to his letter, all doubts were set at rest.
“What’s this?” said her father one morning, as he scrutinised his scanty correspondence. “I should know the handwriting, surely. Oh, yes, of course,” as he opened the envelope, and ran his eyes over its contents. “It’s from Littlewood—Horace Littlewood. He is coming: down again for a day or two. One or two things Ryder wants him to see to.” This to Lady Emma, as if by no possibility the news could in any way interest his daughters. “Matters as to which he would like my advice—naturally. Oh, I remember now, by-the-by, that he said something about it before he left, and hoped I should be at home.”
“When is he likely to come?” asked his wife with mild interest.
“Let me see,” Mr Morion went on, reverting to the letter. “He doesn’t say definitely. In the course of a day or two. Ah, well,” and he pushed his spectacles up on to his forehead, “remember to tell that stupid parlour-maid—Frances, or one of you girls—to let him in whenever he calls, into my study at once. I see he will depend a good deal on my opinion.”
“Will he, indeed?” muttered Eira, making a little face behind the shelter of her breakfast cup.
And two or three times at least in the course of the next twenty-four hours the somewhat querulous voice of the master of the house was heard inquiring if they, or she, or “one of you” had seen to it that Brown understood clearly about “when young Littlewood calls,” though a couple of words to the servant herself might have set his own mind at rest, and saved his family the irritation of having on each occasion meekly to reply, “Yes, papa; she quite understands.”