A clear, mild, late-autumn morning in the country--clear, though the
sunshine, what there is of it, is thin and pallid; mild, yet with a
certain slow chill in the air which is not inspiriting; over and through
and behind all, the indescribable autumn feeling, the subdued
consciousness of warmth and brightness passed, as distinct as is age
from youth, from the equally indescribable hopefulness of even the least
genial spring-time.
Yet there is no need to remind any one of the charm of such a day at
such a season. Perhaps there is none, amidst the many fascinations of
our ever-the-same yet ever-varying journey through space, more powerful,
more irresistible, than the fascination of the fall of the year. As a
rule, it is the young who love autumn best: they can afford to enjoy its
subdued vitality as a contrast to their own overflowing life. The old,
or the growing old, on the contrary, forget sometimes their own failing
powers in the delightful exhilaration of reviving nature around them, in
the songs of the birds and the blossoming of the buds, in the new life
which, to many, one would hope, tells of deeper truths than lie on the
surface.
A girl was standing by a window--an open window, so mild was the
morning--overlooking a gravelled terrace walk. She was fairly tall,
brown haired, and gentle eyed. Not as lovely as her sister Celia;
scarcely, perhaps, as handsome, strictly speaking, as Winifred, the
eldest of the three, yet with an undeniable charm of her own--a very
gracious presence. For this was Louise, the second of the Maryon
daughters.
And all about her seemed harmonious. The simple yet stately room, with
the ancient white wainscoting, so rare in an English country-house, the
perfect, though old-fashioned, appointments of the breakfast-table
behind her: above all, perhaps, the scene from the window--the broad
terrace, with the miniature ramparts, and the stiff, quaint, flower-beds
beneath; and the park beyond, fading into dark masses of trees in the
distance.
But Louise Maryon was not looking out; her eyes were fixed on a letter
in her hand. And as the door opened quietly she looked up with
eagerness.
"They are coming, mamma!" she exclaimed joyfully. "They are really
coming to-night. Winifred's mysterious business is settled at last,
Celia says. Isn't it delightful that we shall have them really back
to-day? But,"--as a glance showed her that her mother, too, held a
letter in her hand, and that her face scarcely reflected the pleasure
Louise herself was feeling--"have you heard, too? Is your letter from
Winifred?"
"Yes, dear," Mrs Maryon replied, with a little sigh. "It is from
Winifred. Your father was awake early, so the bag was brought
up-stairs--you found yours on the table? I sent it down. Yes, mine is
from Winifred. Of course I am delighted they are really coming, but,
Louise, I am afraid the experiment of this visit to London has done no
good. Your sister is evidently as determined as ever."
Louise's face fell a little, more, perhaps, out of sympathy with her
mother's disappointment than from any keen sense of it herself. She had
not expected otherwise.
"_Celia_ seems to me to be in a most reasonable frame of mind," she
said. "Nothing could be sweeter and nicer than all she says."
"Celia is different," said the mother. "There is sense and reason in
her wish to cultivate the talent she believes she has, or at least to
find out how much she has. She would never have been unreasonable if
Winifred had not put it into her head;" and Mrs Maryon sighed again.
She was more like her eldest daughter in appearance--the slight, tall
figures and fairer complexions of the younger girls were from their
father's side. Yet, in character, Winifred more resembled Mr Maryon,
though the long chastening of delicate health--since a terrible accident
some years before--had so mellowed and refined an originally self-willed
and almost despotic nature, that papa's "gentleness" and well-nigh
womanly consideration for others were household words in the family.
The mother, full of intelligence and good sense, was nevertheless
constitutionally timid and even shy. So, between Mr Maryon's fear of
his own natural imperiousness, and his wife's almost morbid want of
self-assertion, the clever, precocious child had developed into the
self-willed, self-opinionated, though always candid and high-principled
girl.
In the case of the other sisters, no bad results appeared to have
followed their rather exceptional up-bringing. Louise was essentially
well balanced and unselfish; Celia too talented to be self-engrossed.
She lived in a world where self is quickly lost sight of, though her
great capacity for affection kept her from losing touch with the real
people and the real life around her.
Louise, as she took her place at the breakfast-table, tried to think of
what she could say to cheer her mother.
"I suppose Winifred must judge for herself, mamma," she said. "You have
always said so, and, after all, even if she is away from home for a few
months, she may settle down all the better afterwards."
"I doubt it," said Mrs Maryon. "Once she has tasted the sweets of
independence, and a more exciting life, I doubt if she will ever `settle
down,' as you say, unless she married, and of that--at least of _the_
marriage we hoped for--I suppose there is no chance now."
"I am very sorry for Lennox," said Louise, simply. "But for his sake,
her being away for a while may be better. I think he is accepting the
thing--but still her being away _would_ make it easier. And then he
need not leave off coming about us as usual. We should miss him, and it
would be hard upon him, for he is rather lonely."
"It has been hard upon him already. Yes, if I could think Winifred
would have enough of it in a while, as you say, Louise! But she seems
already to have got one foot into that half-Bohemian society she has
always been longing for. I cannot think how she has managed it from so
solid a house as the Baldersons'! Her letter is full of some singer--a
Miss Norreys--whom she has taken a perfect `furore' for, and who, she
says, has been most kind in helping her. Really, as if the child were a
poor little governess! And to think of all the responsibilities
awaiting her here--of all that must be hers some day! No, I cannot see
how Winifred can blind herself to the duties so distinctly hers. And
she will fall more and more out of it all. She will know nothing about
the property or its management."
"But, mamma dear, we may hope that papa will live a great many years.
He is no worse than ten years ago. And Winifred may fall in love and
marry some day. It would do her all the good in the world," said
Louise.
"Some actor or singer, perhaps," said her mother. "I should be thankful
she has no taste for the stage, and no special musical talent, for there
is no knowing what she might not have wished to do in such a case."
"The Baldersons are very musical. I suppose that is how Winifred has
met Miss Norreys. Celia speaks of her too. She says she is really
quite charming, and that Winifred can get nothing but good from her.
But what it is that she is `helping' Winifred about, Celia does not
say."
"I wish we could see her--this Miss Norreys, I mean," said Mrs Maryon.
"She seems to be acquiring so much influence over Winifred."
"I have heard her name, I am sure," said Louise. "Well, anyway, mother
dear, we shall know all about it in a few hours. So try not to worry in
the meantime. Shall I go up to papa now? Will he be ready for me?"
For to a great extent Louise acted as her father's secretary, and the
post was no sinecure.
"Mr Peckerton is coming this afternoon," said Mrs Maryon, "and that
always tires your father. Make him do as little as possible beforehand.
Perhaps you had better run up to him now, and talk the day over. I
shall be busy too--the vicar is coming about the new schoolmistress."
"And there are all the Christmas presents for the children to go over,"
said Louise. "I am thankful Celia is coming back."
The journey from London was not a very long one. Late in the season as
it was, the sun had not yet set when Winifred and Celia found themselves
steaming into their own station, where a carriage and a pencilled note
from Louise awaited them.
"I have been longing to go to meet you, but find I cannot manage it, as
Mr Peckerton is here and papa needs me. So delightful to know you are
coming home."
"Dear me!" said Winifred, when she and Celia were comfortably settled in
the carriage, and bowling away quickly on the smooth high-road to White
Turrets--"dear me, what a `Little Peddlington' life it will seem after
London! Poor Louise, as full of her accounts and village matters and
old women's flannel petticoats as ever, I suppose!"
Celia did not reply. Winifred's tone jarred upon her. She was gazing
out of the window at the reddening sky, just where the sun was setting.
It was a lovely evening, and her whole feelings were touched and
quickened by the returning home. A moment or two later they drove in at
their own lodge, and then a turn in the avenue--a grand old avenue,
bordered by trees which had lived through more than one or two human
generations--brought them, while still at some distance, within view of
the house itself.
It could scarcely have been seen to greater advantage than standing out
as it did against the autumn sky, with the sunset glow illuminating the
clouds, banked up, blue-grey and cold looking near the horizon; though
overhead the pearly, neutral-tinted expanse, already shadowing into
darker tones, still told of the mildness and calm of the fast-waning
day.
"Look, Winifred, look," cried the younger girl, "did you ever see the
house more picturesque? It has that wonderful old-world look--the
`fairy-story look,' I used to call it when I was little. It is as pure
white as if it had just sprung up by magic, and yet it seems as if it
might have been standing there for thousands of years--as if the White
Cat had just ridden off from the door on a hunting-party."
"Or as if the Sleeping Beauty were sleeping there still, waiting for the
perfect prince, who never comes except in your fairy tales, Celia," said
Winifred, with a touch of contempt in her tone. But the fancy did not
displease her sister. She only laughed softly.
"Well, _we_ don't waste much thought on him," she said. "Dear old White
Turrets! I do love it. It doesn't need a prince, Winifred. You know
it has always prospered best in the hands of a woman."
Winifred's face clouded.
"I wish you would forget that old nonsense," she said. "There are women
and women--no one will understand that. It may suit some women to drone
along and never leave their own village, but it wouldn't suit _me_, and
that is all that I am concerned about."
Celia sighed, but her sigh was not a very profound one. She was feeling
too happy for that.
"If I could only get up and down to London for painting lessons every
day by magic," she said, "I should never want to leave home at all--
never."
"Nonsense, Celia," said Winifred. "You would never do anything worth
doing if you tied yourself to the out-of-the-world sort of life we have
here. You need to imbibe the spirit of the day. You need friction, a
hundred inspiring and inspiriting influences, even if you _are_ a
genius."
"Winifred," said the younger girl reproachfully, "how can you speak so?
Heaven knows I have never thought myself a genius. Still--I daresay
there is something in what you say. Certainly I need to test myself
with others, if that is what you mean by friction. But oh! here we
are--and there is dear old Louise, looking just as she did the day we
left, only a good deal happier."
"Poor dear Louise," repeated Winifred. "Yes, she is the modern
incarnation of one of Miss Austen's heroines. But it _is_ nice to see
her again."
And the greetings between the three sisters could not have been more
affectionate and loving than they were.
It was not till much later that evening that Louise got Celia to herself
for a good talk. At dinner, with both the father and mother present,
the conversation had been bright and full of interest, Winifred
describing, with her ready flow of language, what she and her sister had
seen and done and been struck by in London, and Celia contributing her
quota. Questions about the Baldersons, too, were asked and answered,
and a casual observer would have imagined the family "understanding" to
have been perfect.
But below it all, the five themselves were conscious of a certain
constraint: something was smouldering beneath the surface, and Mrs
Maryon's face, when in repose, showed lines of fresh anxiety and
troubled anticipation.
"I won't keep you up to-night, my dear mother," said Winifred, as
bed-time approached--Mr Maryon, feeling the effects of the afternoon's
business with Mr Peckerton, having already been wheeled away in his
invalid-chair. "You look tired, and I want to write a letter in my own
room for the first post in the morning. But to-morrow we must have a
regular good talk, and you shall hear everything there is to tell."
"Celia," said Louise, when the two younger sisters were by themselves in
Celia's room, "I mustn't keep you up long, for you look rather tired
too. But do tell me--what has Winifred to say? What has she been
doing, or what is she going to do? Of course you could not tell much in
your letters--we settled that before you left--and when Lennox saw you,
you had only just arrived there. But I am so anxious to know
everything, for several reasons."
"Was Lennox in very low spirits when he came back?" asked Celia in the
first place, instead of answering Louise. "That's _one_ thing settled.
It's as certain as anything can be that he need never _dream_ of
Winifred. I have come not to wish it. She is too prejudiced to do him
justice."
"I think so too," said Louise. "It is only for papa's and mamma's sake
I regret it now. No, he was not low-spirited. He has made up his mind
to it, I think. And,"--she hesitated--"he even laughs a little at
Winifred sometimes."
Celia's colour rose.
"That is very presumptuous of him," she said, but she checked herself.
"Of course he can't understand her, so perhaps it is a good thing if he
takes that line. She has quite decided, Louise. It is all settled.
She is going to London in January, for good."
Louise drew a deep breath.
"I cannot believe it," she said. "Leaving all she might do here, when
every day I see more and more how valuable her strong brain and clear
judgment would be. For papa, though not worse, is not _better_, Celia.
He is so quickly exhausted. I do my best, but I am _not_ the clever one
of the family. I can't understand it. Going out to seek for work when
it is at her very feet, crying to be done."
"It is not work Winifred wants; it is a career," said Celia,
laconically.
"But she has no special gift--no--no `vocation' to anything in
particular," said Louise.
"She thinks it is her vocation to show that women should be as free as
men," said Celia. "She is full of organised benevolent work just now,
and she wants to prove that women can do it as well as--no, far better
than men. But I have tacitly promised her to let her tell all
particulars herself, so I had better not say any more."
"Only one thing--this Miss--Miss something Norreys, that Winifred has
mentioned so enthusiastically in her letters--has she influenced her?"
asked Louise.
"She is the best friend Winifred could have," Celia replied. "She is
both beautiful and talented and good. Yes, and wise too. But--I have
not seen her much. I doubt if she really understands the position."
There was a little silence. Then Louise spoke again.
"Celia," she said, with a touch of hesitation, "_you_ have changed a
little--or a great deal? You don't look at things so entirely from
Winifred's point of view, do you?"
"No," said Celia, frankly, "I don't. I have changed. I hope, perhaps,
I have grown wiser, that I have learned to see things outside ourselves
more than I did. Winifred would tell you it was all the other way," she
added, with a smile. "_She_ thinks I have grown narrow and
conventional."
"But you haven't changed about yourself--about your wish to see what
talent you have--to test yourself, as you say?" asked Louise, eagerly.
"I should not like that."
"No, I feel just the same. I feel that I _must_ try--that is to say,
unless some very clear overmastering question of duty interferes. I
know I have some talent, and, even if it is nothing remarkable, I think
I should cultivate it, and if,"--here the girl's voice trembled a
little--"if it _were_ to be remarkable--well, all the more reason for
developing it."
"Yes. You are right. I know you are," said Louise. "I am so glad.
But then it is about Winifred you have changed?"
"Not exactly--or rather, it is about Winifred, as a type of so many
girls nowadays. I cannot go as far as she does, and yet you see the
position is very invidious. It makes _me_ seem selfish and presumptuous
and--almost conceited," and Celia's face clouded over. "A very little
thing began the change in me," she went on. "An almost chance remark of
Eric Balderson's. Then I tried to think it out, and I wondered at
myself for having agreed with Winifred as I did. For her case is a
peculiarly strong one the _other_ way, I now see. Her life is before
her. It is not like that of some women who have reason to feel
hedged-in and stunted, even though I am beginning to think that very
often it is their own fault. I am afraid a good deal comes from love of
excitement, though, _of course_, there is the other side of it too. But
it would take hours to tell you all I have been thinking."
"And I have kept you up too long already, dear," said Louise. "Only--
Celia, I must tell you one thing--the White Weeper has been seen again."
Celia started, and grew white herself.
"Oh, Louise," she said, "I wish you hadn't told me to-night. You don't
mind, I know, but--"
"Celia, dearest, I'm so sorry," said Louise, penitently. "I never knew
you minded it either. I was, in a way, glad of it. I fancied it might
have some effect on Winifred, even though she only mocks at it. It _is_
curious, for it is a good while since it has been seen. And even if it
is only some peculiar shadow, some atmospheric effect, as people try to
make out, still--its being seen just now might make Winifred think."
Celia shook her head.
"She would not allow it, even if it did," she said. "It's no good
telling her about it. She only gets very cross. When,"--and again she
trembled a little--"when was it seen, and by whom, and where?"
"Twice," said Louise, "just as usual. In the yew-tree avenue. Barbara
saw it the first time, and then one of the gardeners--the new one, quite
a young man. It is always new-comers who see it. And none of the
people about know of it, except Barbara and Horton, and one or two of
the very old ones, who _never_ speak of it. Luckily the young man told
Horton of it first, and Horton bound him over not to speak of it. He
told him he would be laughed at, and so he would."
"How long ago?" asked Celia.
"Last week. She, or it, was crying quietly, Barbara said. Not
violently. So Barbara took it as just a gentle warning--not any very
dreadful thing. She is quite satisfied that it was for Winifred."
"I wish Winifred could see it for herself," said Celia, with a little
not unnatural irritation. She was feeling both tired and frightened.
"Louise, you will leave the door wide open between our rooms. I can't
understand your not being frightened."
"Well, anyway, dear, you know it _never_ comes into the house," said
Louise, reassuringly.
"It never has, that we know of," said Celia, "but still, if it were much
provoked or defied. No, no, Louise, don't tell Winifred about it. I
should be afraid what she might say or do, for she is never frightened
of anything."
Louise looked greatly distressed.
"Dear Celia," she said, "I wish you wouldn't take it that way. _I_ feel
quite differently about it. I look upon the White Weeper as a kind of
protector--a living spirit who wants to keep harm from us."
"Do you?" said Celia, rather grimly. "Well, then, I'm afraid I'm like
the boy who, when he was told he need not mind the dark, as his guardian
angel was always beside him, replied that that was just what he was
`afeared on.' I don't know if I've a bad conscience--compared with
_yours_, I daresay I have--but I know that I devoutly trust I shall
never be favoured with the sight of our family ghost. Do you mean to
say, Louise, that you would have courage to speak to her?"
Louise hesitated.
"I don't know," she said, "I hope I would. Yes, I think I would if it
were to be for good to any of those I love."
"I do believe you would. _You_ are an angel;" and she drew Louise's
wavy brown head down to her, as the elder girl was turning to leave her,
and kissed her tenderly.
The door was left open--wide open--that night between their rooms, but
the sisters' slumbers were undisturbed. Louise was too happy to know
that Celia was beside her again to think of anything else, even if she
had been given to ghostly fears, which she certainly was not.
And Celia was happy too, though tired--happy to be at home again, and to
feel that Louise and she understood each other so thoroughly.
The next morning brought about the "long talk" between Winifred and her
mother. It was not so very long after all, for the same ground had been
gone over so often that there was not much new to say. And when Mrs
Maryon became convinced that the visit to London had only intensified
her daughter's determination--had, indeed, practically resulted in
Winifred's taking upon herself engagements which it would have been
scarcely honourable to break--she had the wisdom to accept the position,
and not to add bitterness to the whole by further and useless
discussion.
But though the daughter went singing up-stairs to her own quarters,
congratulating herself that things had passed off more easily than she
had expected, the mother's face looked sadly pained and anxious when
Louise ventured to join her, after making sure that the interview with
her elder sister was over.
"May I come in, mamma?" she said. "Tell me--Oh dear, you are looking
very troubled!"
"Yes, dear, I am feeling so," Mrs Maryon replied. "Winifred has really
carried out her intentions. She has--fancy, Louise--she has engaged
herself as some sort of sub-secretary or clerk to one of these new
philanthropic societies. The Reasonable Help Society, I think she calls
it. I daresay it is a very good thing--no doubt it is--and besides
helping the poor, I daresay it provides employment for many penniless
girls of a better class. But Winifred! with her position and
responsibilities, and the home duties she _could_ do so well, if she
would--Louise, it is almost incredible."
"It is better than becoming a woman doctor or an hospital nurse,
surely," said Louise.
"I don't know. She has no taste for either. But if she had become an
hospital nurse it might have brought her to her senses, and at least she
would have acquired some useful knowledge."
"So she may, as things are," replied Louise, who, whatever her own
feelings, tried determinedly to look on the bright side of things for
her mother's sake. "And really, vexing as it is, her pertinacity is
rather fine--worthy of a better cause. How clever of her to have got
this thing! for I am sure it is difficult, unless the society is glad to
find a girl who gives her services for nothing."
"Oh dear, no. It is not even that," said Mrs Maryon. "She is to have
fifty pounds a year! She does not approve of the _principle_ of unpaid
labour, she says. She got the offer of this post through this new
friend of hers--Miss Norreys. I think Mrs Balderson should have been
more careful whom she introduced to the girls. Miss Norreys must be a
very advanced `women's rights' sort of a person."
"Celia says not. She says she is perfectly charming and perfectly
womanly," said Louise.
"Then--she cannot have understood all about Winifred. I wish I could
see her. I shall certainly not allow Celia to join Winifred in London
next spring, without knowing more of this young woman, who seems to have
done all the mischief."
"Oh no, mamma. It was done before Winifred ever saw her. You know we
_hoped_--though not very much--that London might have changed Winifred's
ideas. If it has to be, Miss Norreys may be a very good friend."
"I should like to see her," Mrs Maryon repeated. And then she added,
with a sigh: "Winifred has accepted this post for January. She will not
be much longer at home."