When Frances had reached this point she was no farther on her way home than the little gate leading into the Laurel Walk. Her glance fell on it.
“I know what I can do,” she thought. “I will go up to the house at once. The Webbs are sure to be there, as Mr Morion is expected back again, and I can hear from them how soon he is returning. If there is to be any delay about it, I may have to write and hint at a new development which makes me more anxious to see him again.”
And, acting on this determination, she lifted the latch and made her way towards the side-entrance of the big house.
Was it her fancy, or was it owing to some peculiar effect of the time of day, that the Laurel Walk looked less gloomy than she had ever before seen it? Streaks of sunshine crept through unexpected places, falling athwart the old gravel path, usually so grey and colourless. The cheerful, chirped “good-night” of the little birds sounded full of hope and happy summer anticipation of another blissful day. It really seemed to Frances as if some spell of gloom and sad regret had been dispersed.
When she reached the house the door at the top of the short flight of steps stood slightly ajar. She was scarcely surprised, as she knew Mrs Webb’s uncomfortable love of “spring cleanings” at every season, orthodox or unorthodox, of the year.
“She is probably having a turn-out of the library because poor Mr Morion has used it lately,” she thought; and, instead of making her way round to the back premises by the narrow path skirting the house, she ran up the steps, calling out as she pushed open the glass door, “Are you there, Mrs Webb?”
Some one was there, some one who came forward at her words from the other side of the dimly lighted room, some one whose voice made her start and stop short in her surprise. It was the very person she had been wishing to see, and now that he was there it was all she could do to reply with any composure to his own somewhat astonished exclamation of “Miss Morion! You cannot have got my letter already?”
“Your letter?” she repeated, shaking her head; “no, I have had no letter except the one saying you had to go. I had not the least idea you were here. I was—looking for Mrs Webb.”
“Shall I find her for you?” he asked, turning towards the inner door.
“N-no,” said Frances; “no, thank you.” Then, summoning her courage: “The truth is, I only wanted to hear from her if she knew when you would be coming back again. I—I wanted to see you very, very much! Something quite extraordinary, something you can hardly believe, has happened. The old will—the missing will—has been found.”