No steps or precautions were taken by Frances towards securing for Horace any private interviews with Betty.
“It would only annoy her inexpressibly if I did so,” she said to herself, “and he has scarcely empowered me to act for him in any more definite direction than I have done. He is well able to manage matters for himself and will prefer doing it.”
But while cheerful and practical in her ordinary intercourse with her sisters, she was specially tender to Betty, in small, almost indescribable ways, which the younger girl’s quick instincts were at no loss to appreciate. On her side too, and consistently with her own character, Betty comported herself after a manner which won for her not only her elder sister’s admiration but increased respect.
“There is no lack of real strength about her,” thought Frances. “She will enter into nothing rashly or childishly, nor without grave consideration. And—at best it is not likely to be all roses for her: Mrs Littlewood may be attracted by Betty herself, but ‘the connection,’ as people call it, will not, most assuredly, find favour in her eyes. All I can possibly do to help my little sister, I am very distinctly bound to do, and gladly will I lend myself to it.”
“He” did not delay. The very next morning but one after his letter had arrived at Fir Cottage, there came the ring at the front door bell which in their hearts the three sisters had been on the alert to hear. Frances and Eira were together, sorting some of the now rapidly increasing and important Scaling Harbour papers—notices of lectures, evening classes, magazines for distribution, and all the paraphernalia connected with well-organised parish work—in their own little sitting-room, a pleasant enough den in the warm bright weather. Betty was out of doors, “somewhere about,” a frequent resort of the least practical of the three!
Eira stopped short in the midst of making up a packet; she grew a little pale, though her eyes were bright with expectancy.
“Francie,” she exclaimed breathlessly, “there he is, I do believe.”
“Well,” said Frances smiling, “I dare say it is, as we know he is coming. Don’t look so startled, Eira. There is nothing for us to do just now.”
“But I don’t know where Betty is,” said Eira uneasily. “She may be in the garden, and may have gone up to the church or anywhere.”
“We must leave it to chance, and to Horace,” answered Frances. “Remember, he will be going straight into papa’s room, as he has come ostensibly to see him. It would never do for us to look for Betty: it would only annoy her.” So, in deference to her elder sister’s opinion, Eira went on as best she could with her sorting and folding, though little gasps, which from time to time escaped her, betrayed that she was in anything but a philosophical mood. At last Frances could stand it no longer. With a laugh, born, to tell the truth, in great part of the nervousness she herself was so resolutely repressing, she turned to her sister.