THE WILTONS OF WOODRUFFE
Woodruffe was an old-fashioned country house, standing in a little
valley of its own formation, and thus protected from the high winds
which came from the sea. It affected the Gothic style of architecture,
with long windows which opened outwards, and a porch like that of a
church. From the front an extensive view of cliffs and ocean was
obtained, while from the back one could gaze on miles of verdant
meadowland.
When Celia pulled up her blind the first morning after her arrival, it
seemed as though she were miles away from civilization. There was not a
vestige of anything human to be seen, yet she knew that less than an
hour’s walk would take her into busy Brighton. With a sigh of enjoyment
she threw open the window, and inhaled the fresh morning air: the
fragrance of flowers, the faint scent of hay, the strong salt breeze:
how different from the stifling heat of crowded London.
She had been thoroughly satiated with society during the waning days of
the “season,” tired of being dressed up like a doll to attend Lady
Somebody’s “crush:” of talking inanities to society worldlings, and of
being patronized by great ladies on account of her voice.
Lady Marjorie, noticing her pale cheeks and weary languor, had been very
wishful to take her with her to the Highlands, where she might breathe
the mountain air; but Celia would not be prevailed upon to postpone her
visit to Woodruffe, even though she would miss seeing her brother, who
was also due at Lord Bexley’s shooting-box before the important twelfth.
She had a vague feeling, almost a presentiment, that her visit to
Woodruffe would be fraught with importance; that it was one of those
opportunities which, if once missed, can never be recalled. She had been
invited by Enid on several occasions, but something had always occurred
to prevent her from accepting the invitation, so she was quite
determined that nothing should stand in the way this time. She never had
reason to regret her decision, for in after years she regarded that
month at Woodruffe as the turning-point of her life.
The Wiltons were a large family, with fresh complexions, high spirits,
and healthy appetites. It took Celia some little time to distinguish one
from the other, for there was a strong family likeness between them,
especially amongst the elder ones. She had scarcely recognized Ralph
when he met her at the station, for instead of being attired, as she had
always seen him, in the garb of a London curate, he wore a straw hat and
flannels, and his face and hands were almost as brown as a gipsy’s.
Ralph was the “big brother” of the family, and Celia soon discovered
that he was prime favourite at Woodruffe. The girls danced attendance
on him, and vied with each other in anticipating his wishes; the boys
envied his splendid physique, and made him director of their sports. He
was what they called “game for anything,” so full of activity, so
humorous in his ways; yet, knowing what he had so nobly endured in that
poverty-stricken East End parish, Celia could discern the deep
earnestness which lay behind the apparently gay exterior.
At breakfast the first morning he introduced her to all the members of
the family, for she had arrived late the previous evening, and had only
seen Enid and himself. There were his parents, who gave her a kindly
welcome; Cynthia, the eldest girl, who was engaged to be married; Claude
the dandy, who was at a susceptible age, and fell in love with her at
first sight; Jack, full of bluster and bounce, with a sharp tongue and
tender heart; Eric, who was the leading treble in their church choir;
and the two little girls, Irene and Doris, who were twins.
“What a crew!” exclaimed Claude, when Celia had shaken hands with them
all. “But it is holiday-time; we are not always at home, you know.
Parson Ralph lives away, Jack goes to Harrow--which is a mercy, for he
is a noisy little beggar,--and I go to dad’s London office from Monday
till Friday. You are not used to the ways of a large family, are you,
Miss Franks?”
“Oh yes,” Enid answered for her. “Celia has stayed with the people next
door to Uncle Brooke’s--the Friedbergs; and I think that their boys,
Montie and Victor, are even worse than ours.”
“Which is saying a good deal,” put in Cynthia, with a smile. “Still I
hope they will not annoy our guest in any way. Eric is as good as gold
when Jack is away at school.”
The two boys stared at Celia somewhat awkwardly at first, and the little
girls were very shy, but before the day was out she had made friends
with them all. They admired her beauty; and she had such an ingratiating
manner that each one of them fell captive to her charms. Even Jack, who
possessed an avowed aversion to the generality of girls, pronounced her
“ripping.”
She fell into their ways as easily as if she had been accustomed to them
for years. A greater difference to her life in town could not be
imagined; but she thoroughly enjoyed the change, and the colour returned
to her cheeks. Up at seven every morning for an early bathe with Cynthia
and Enid, she spent the rest of the day driving, boating, or engaging in
field-sports with the boys. An enjoyable musical evening, to which all
the elder members of the family contributed, usually terminated the day.
Celia sang her prettiest songs; it was quite a pleasure to sing to such
an appreciative little audience.
The high spirits and good humour of the Wiltons were contagious; she
found herself becoming quite an adept at witty repartee. One thing she
noticed: there was never a jarring note in their innocent fun. If any
disagreement arose between the boys, it only needed a word from one of
the elders to quell it in an instant. Unlike the Friedbergs, they were
obedient to authority. In spite of their mischievous proclivities, Jack
and Eric could always be prevailed upon to do what was right, not by
threats of punishment or parental wrath--as had been the case with
Montie and Victor--but simply for right’s own sake.
There was something about the whole family--a kind of high moral tone,
as it were--which had been entirely lacking among the Friedbergs. Celia
could not explain it, but she felt its force. There was a reason for it,
however; it was the result of their early training. From their tenderest
years they had all been taught to submit to a very high standard of
right and wrong, in order to bring their lives into harmony with a life
which was, to them, the very acme of perfection--a Divine Life which had
been lived just nineteen hundred years ago. It was this which dispelled
selfishness, and made them amenable to discipline; which gave them noble
ideals, and imbued them with the love of all that was good. Their
evident spirituality made a deep impression on Celia: she wanted to find
out the reason of it; once again she began to think.
One morning, when the girls were promenading on the West pier, they
passed a lady whose face was familiar to Celia, though she could not
remember for the moment where she had seen her before. The lady smiled,
and looked as if she wished to stop and speak; but Celia, not being sure
of her identity, passed on. Presently she recollected that she had met
her at two or three social functions, and had been introduced to her by
Lord Bexley at Richmond.
By the band-stand they met her again, and this time she advanced towards
Celia with outstretched hand.
“You remember me, don’t you, Miss Franks?” she said with a fascinating
smile. “Mrs. Neville Williams, you know. I had the pleasure of hearing
you sing so charmingly at Richmond. It is quite delightful to meet
somebody one knows here. Brighton in August is so full of trippers and
rich Jews---- Oh, I beg your pardon,” as Celia reddened. “I quite
forgot. You are staying with friends?” with a glance at the Wiltons. “Is
your brother here also?”
“No, he is in Scotland,” replied Celia, when she had introduced the
girls. She wondered what made her ask after him, for to her knowledge
the two had never met. “Do you know him?” she added as an afterthought.
“Just slightly. I met him some years ago, before he made his reputation
as an artist. I do not think he would remember me. He is married, I
suppose?”
She asked the question with apparent carelessness, but an eager light
flashed into her eyes; and, on receiving an answer in the negative, an
enigmatical expression, half cynical, half triumphant, passed over her
face.
The band struck up one of Sousa’s most inspiriting marches, and they
listened in silence for a few moments. Then Mrs. Neville Williams held
out her hand.
“Well, I hope you will come and see me at the Metropole before I leave;
I go to Ostend next week. Good-bye; I am so pleased to have met you;”
and with another sweet smile she moved away.
Celia gave a little sigh of relief. “There is something I don’t like
about Mrs. Neville Williams,” she remarked to Enid as they took their
seats. “I fancy that she is too sugary to be sincere. Lady Marjorie
positively detests her, though I haven’t the faintest idea why.”
“She is awfully made-up,” said Cynthia, disapprovingly. “And just look
at the way she sweeps the dust off the pier with those long skirts.”
They passed her yet again on their way home. She was conversing with a
gentleman in French, and affected not to see them this time.
Celia made up her mind not to call at the Metropole, for she was not
desirous of cultivating her acquaintance. It was not often she took a
dislike to any one without adequate cause, but she felt a vague distrust
of Mrs. Neville Williams, especially as Lady Marjorie disliked her too.
There was a letter from Lady Marjorie waiting for her when she got back
to Woodruffe. She was enjoying herself immensely, and Herbert was having
good sport. Celia was surprised at the familiar way in which she wrote
of him. The letter was full of “Herbert;” he was no longer “Mr. Karne.”
Were they going to make a match of it after all, the girl wondered? She,
for one, would be delighted if they did.
There was also a letter from David Salmon, who was spending his holidays
in the Isle of Man. He would probably run down to Brighton before the
end of the month; and he hoped Celia was having a good time.
Celia read the letter twice, and then absent-mindedly tore it up into
little bits. Cynthia Wilton watched her in surprise.
“You naughty girl!” she exclaimed. “Is that what you do with your
love-letters? What would your _fiancé_ say? Look, this is where I keep
my sweetheart’s letters.” She pulled one out from the inside of her
blouse. “Just over my heart, you see.”
“I don’t know that I have a heart,” Celia answered, half playfully, half
in earnest.
Then she sighed.