Not too “Smooth.”
The storm had burst. Poor little Betty’s half-superstitious misgivings, that in their case “the course of true love” was “running too smooth” to last, for her and Horace, seemed to have been prophetic. For, as Frances, with her experience of her father’s peculiarities, had feared, once the idea had entered Mr Morion’s mind (suggested in the first place negatively by Horace’s non-allusion in his letter to his mother or his family) that but scanty welcome was to be accorded to his daughter, he mounted a very high horse indeed. He refused to entertain for an instant the idea of India for her; he went back upon the Littlewoods’ shorter pedigree and deficient quarterings; he worked himself up to refuse his sanction to any engagement of any kind!
Horace, as his letter showed, was in despair. Betty was palely miserable, though between the two themselves the opposition but strengthened their trust and devotion. Frances suffered for both to an extent which really blotted out the sting of her own disillusionment more completely than she as yet realised.
Things were in this position when one afternoon, about a week after the receipt of Horace’s letter by Mr Morion, Frances, feeling self-reproachful for having omitted her usual visits to Scaling Harbour during the last few days, made her way thither, feeling, sadly depressed and almost hopeless. The sight of Betty’s white face was beyond the reach of her philosophy.
“I cannot bear to see her,” she thought to herself, “just when I thought her happiness, at least, was secured;” and it took considerable self-control to listen with her usual sympathy and attention to all the confidences, requests for advice, hopes and troubles, which were poured out upon her by her now familiar friends among the fisher-folk. And of all these there was to-day a more than usual amount, partly owing to her own temporary absence, partly owing to an unfortunate coincidence, which she now learnt for the first time, that during the last fortnight Mr Darnley had been forced to go away for change and rest.
Everything down here, too, seemed to have been going crookedly, and her face, as she turned the corner of the main street on her way home again, looked very unlike its serene self.
So absent-minded was she that she almost ran against a man walking rapidly in the opposite direction; it was not till his murmured “I beg your pardon” made her glance up quickly that she saw, to her amazement, that the newcomer was no other than Mr Ryder Morion. She gave a little exclamation of surprise, and somehow, almost in the same instant, the expression of his eyes, kind and somewhat concerned, sent through her a curious little instinct of hopefulness.
“Can he have heard about it?” she thought, and his next words did not dispel the idea, though they scarcely confirmed it. He turned at once as if to accompany her.
“You are not looking well, Miss Morion,” he said. “I am afraid you have been overworking yourself down here, with Darnley’s absence. I only heard of it on my arrival at Craig-Morion last night. There are several things that need seeing to at once, so I am doubly glad I came, even though I may miss him. But you mustn’t burden yourself too much.”
“On the contrary,” said Frances, her colour deepening, “I am reproaching myself with having done nothing here lately. I—we have been a good deal absorbed at home by other things. And I, too, did not know Mr Darnley had been ill. It does seem unfortunate—before his helper, the new curate, has come, too. Things always seem so contrary,” with a little attempt at a smile.