Hertha Norreys stood staring at a letter--or letters rather--which she
held in her hand, with an air of perplexity and surprise.
"I can't make it out," she said to herself. "It seems so odd and
inconsistent. And--I have not done so very much for her after all.
They write as if I were her dearest friend, and in a sense responsible
for her! I like her. There is a great deal of good in her, but the
only real service I have done her since she came to London was getting
Mr Montague to beg her in again, that time she was given notice of
dismissal for defiance of the society's rules."
A smile came over Miss Norreys's face at the recollection of the
circumstances, and with the letters still in her hand, she sat down at
her neat breakfast-table. And when she had poured out her coffee and
begun to eat, she glanced through them again. They had both come
together, one from Winifred enclosing the other, which was from Mrs
Maryon, simply inscribed to Miss Norreys, but without any address.
This was Winifred's:
"Dearest friend," and the words again drew forth a smile from the
reader--
"I have just received the enclosed from my mother. It was left open
for me to read the contents. I hope you will not mind their asking
you in this unceremonious way, though I confess I think they should
have left the invitation to _me_. I am afraid you would find it
dreadfully dull down there. I am not at all sure if I shall get down
myself for Easter, as I scarcely see how I am to be spared here. If I
go, it will be principally for poor little Celia's sake; though _now_
it would, of course, be for yours too, should you possibly care to go.
It certainly is very pretty in our part of the country in the spring.
You will let me know what you decide!--Ever yours devotedly,--
"Winifred R.V. Maryon."
The enclosure was a slightly stiff and yet cordial invitation--an
invitation which gave one the feeling that the writer had not the
slightest doubt of its being at once and eagerly accepted--to Miss
Norreys, to spend Easter week at White Turrets.
"You would give us pleasure by doing so," wrote Mrs Maryon, "and we
should be glad to have an opportunity of thanking you for your kindness
to my daughter, and of making the acquaintance of one to whom in her
present life she looks for advice and direction. And there are several
things I should be glad to talk over with you. We expect Winifred at
the time I name, and you and she could travel together. I think there
are special return tickets issued about Easter, and I hope a little
country air would do you good."
Hertha read and re-read. Was there, or was there not, a slight touch of
"patronisingness" in the letter? The idea rather amused her.
"It is almost impossible," she said to herself. "`Poor and proud'
explains it, I suppose. Winifred was delighted to get the fifty pounds
salary. I wish they had not asked me, for _any_ visitor causes expense
when people are so poor, and unaccustomed to that sort of thing. No
doubt they think me very poor too--poorer than I am now, I am glad to
say; the railway fare information is evidently given with that idea."
Then she poured out a second cup of coffee, and proceeded with her
cogitations.
"I have several invitations for Easter, but with out being cynical or
suspicious I know that some, at least, of them are more for my voice
than me. And my voice had much better stay at home or go to sleep. And
it would be a rest of its kind to be with a simple country family like
that--no dressing to speak of--I need not take a maid. It must be a
pretty quaint place, too, I fancy. I wonder if `White Turrets' is the
name of a village, or what? It doesn't seem likely that their house
would have so important a name, though there are old farmhouses in some
countries, scarcely more than cottages, with very grand names. I
remember,"--she glanced at the letter again. "It must be their house or
the village, for I see the railway station and post-town are both
different. Dear me--the Maryons are rather extravagant as to
note-paper! If one didn't know it was impossible, this might have come
from some big place!"
Then her thoughts reverted to her own plans.
"I should like to see that pretty younger sister again," she thought.
"And, after all, it will not increase any real or imaginary
responsibility about Winifred if I come to a clear understanding with
her mother. Not that I would shirk responsibility if it were a duty,
but in this case it would be a mockery. She is not a girl to be either
led or advised, and the reason that I am still her dearest friend is
that I have--except on that one occasion--left her to buy her own
experience. She needs to do so."
The "one occasion" to which Hertha's thoughts referred had been that of
a crisis in Winifred's relations with the society for which she worked--
a crisis which, at the cost of considerable mortification, had left her
a wiser woman. For it was only the finish up of a series of annoyances
which had begun almost from the first day of her engagement, the cause
of which may be summed up very shortly--Miss Maryon's absolute ignorance
of the meaning of the word obedience.
She was quite sure she knew the best way to manage the work better than
those who had been at it for years; she was brimful of eagerness to
distinguish herself, and of a _kind_ of enthusiasm; she was energetic
and hard-working, but she was entirely without deference. And
underlying all her talk about the dignity of labour, the
contemptibleness of an ordinary woman's home-life, was a strong, though,
unexpressed belief that she was doing the society no small honour in
working for it, and that, by some instinct which she did not seek to
define, the society should be aware of the fact.
The result of all this can be easily imagined. Though valuable as a
steady and zealous worker, she was entirely inexperienced, and want of
compliance with the rules was not to be endured.
"We can get scores of girls better fitted for the post at any moment,"
said the much-worried secretary in reply to Mr Montague's entreaties
that they would give his protegee another trial. And in reality it was
far more owing to the skilful pleadings, made in all good faith, of
Hertha's friend, as to the importance of the salary to a girl so placed,
the disappointment her dismissal would cause to her friends as well as
to herself, than from any conviction of Miss Maryon's special abilities,
that the secretary at last gave in.
He knew Mr Montague well, and his post had given him exceptional
opportunities for the cultivation of discernment.
"Are you _sure_," he said towards the close of the interview, looking up
with a keen glance from under his bushy eyebrows, "are you _sure_ this
girl is really so dependent on her work? There is no story about her
that we have not been told, is there? It's no case of a self-willed
young woman running away from home--an uncongenial stepmother, or any
nonsense exaggerated into importance? She is not a girl to give in,
even if in the wrong."
Mr Montague started.
"What makes you fancy such a thing?" he asked.
The secretary considered.
"I can scarcely say--an impression, perhaps. Still there are trifling
circumstances--she is very careless about money, thinks nothing of
hansoms, for instance. And you know one of her great offences has been
giving charity without permission, and, naturally, most injudiciously--"
He gave an impatient exclamation. "Enough to bring our whole society
into disrepute," he said, "contravening its very _raison-d'etre_."
Mr Montague felt uncomfortable, and yet he had no real grounds for
misgiving.
"I can only repeat the reason of any interest I feel in her," he said,
"and that is that she is a friend of Miss Norreys--the last woman in the
world to aid or abet any silly girl in the sort of conduct you suggest."
The secretary's brow cleared.
"True," he said, "I had forgotten."
Mr Montague called that very day to relate his success to Miss Norreys,
but she was not at home. Then he contented himself with a note, merely
stating that Winifred was to have another chance, feeling that any
further discussion about her would be more satisfactory in speaking than
in writing. He tried to see Hertha again, but again failed, and then a
summons to an invalid sister at Cairo took him out of England for
several weeks, without his meeting Miss Norreys at all.
Mrs Maryon's invitation was accepted, simply, and with no effusive
expressions of gratitude, though with all the kindly acknowledgment that
it seemed to Hertha to call for.
"I have been undecided where to go at Easter," wrote Miss Norreys, "but,
among several invitations, none seems to promise me the quiet I really
feel I need so surely as your very thoughtful one. It will be pleasant,
too, to travel down with your daughter, for I have not seen her for some
time, she, as well as I, being so busy. Indeed, I feel that you greatly
overrate any little service I may have had it in my power to render her.
My _sympathy_, as I think she knows, she can always count upon."
Mrs Maryon read this with a feeling of some perplexity. She could not
make up her mind what she _should_ feel about and towards this Miss
Hertha Norreys. She handed the letter to Louise.
"I cannot quite decide if we shall like her or not," she said. "What is
there in her way of writing that is not quite--I don't know what to call
it--not `deferential,' that is too strong, for I suppose she is really a
perfect gentlewoman; but almost as if she thought we were `out of
everything,' as if rest and quiet were all she could possibly expect
here?"
"Well, to a certain extent they are," said Louise with a smile. "Very
likely Winifred has impressed upon her the extreme monotony and dullness
of our life. But I suppose what you feel is the tone of the emancipated
young woman of the day, mother--though from Celia's description of her I
fancied Miss Norreys _above_ that. However, we shall soon see her for
ourselves, and I do agree with you that it is a very good thing she is
coming. You will be able to judge for yourself about her--especially on
Celia's account."
"Of course, I hope she will enjoy it," said Mrs Maryon. "I don't like
the idea of bringing her down here merely as a satisfaction to myself.
Lennox has promised to spend Easter with us, hasn't he; and that friend
of his, Captain Hillyer?"
"Yes," said Louise, "I'm sure we can count upon them. I wish Eric
Balderson could have come, but he is going abroad for three weeks with
his mother. It would have been a little return for their great kindness
to Winifred and Celia."
"He knows he can come whenever he likes," replied her mother. "Yes,
they were very kind; but sometimes, Louise, I wonder if that visit to
London was not a mistake. It only seemed to clench matters."
"No," said Louise, "nothing would have kept back Winifred, mother. Do
try to believe that."
Easter, though it fell early that year, was wonderfully bright and mild.
The morning which saw Miss Norreys and Winifred off to the country was,
as to weather, a real red-letter day, and Hertha's spirits, as she drove
to the station where she and her "devoted friend" were to meet, rose
higher and higher.
Not that she was anticipating any special enjoyments in her visit. More
than once she had asked herself if she were not acting foolishly in
bestowing a whole week of her rare holidays upon perfect strangers--and
strangers whom she had no particularly strong reasons for expecting to
find sympathetic and congenial.
"I really don't know why I accepted," she thought.
But this morning she felt a sort of reward--if reward she deserved, as
she said to herself--in the beautiful promises of spring delights that
met her even in the dingy streets through which a hansom rapidly carried
her.
"What will it not be in the country?" was almost her first greeting to
Winifred, when that young lady appeared, more punctually than was her
habit, in honour of her expected guest. "If this weather lasts it will
be perfectly--_heavenly_. Primroses and gorse always picture to me the
streets of gold far more exquisitely than the thought of the hard, cold
metal."
And her eyes sparkled, and her beautiful expressive face flushed with
the quick instinctive response to nature which was one of her
characteristics.
Winifred looked at her in some surprise. This phase of Miss Norreys's
character was new to her, but as it _was_ Miss Norreys and no one else,
the girl's instinct was to admire and not criticise.
"You make me afraid to say what I have been wishing all the morning,"
she said with a little smile.
"Indeed, and what is that?" inquired Hertha.
"Oh," said Winifred, "it just struck me, seeing this nice weather, how
delightful, how much more delightful, it would have been to have a
week's holiday in London with you. How many places we could have gone
to see; what long charming mornings we could have spent, reading and
talking, at the British Museum, for instance! Whereas--oh dear, I can
scarcely hope to have you much to myself down at White Turrets."
"But it is the _country_ that makes all the difference in the world,"
said Hertha. "Even if I had not fixed to go, I don't think anything
would have kept me in London to-day. Everything, every leaf, every
bird's twitter, every breath of air, seems to be calling us out of the
dust and glare of the weary streets."
"I suppose it's all a question of novelty," said Winifred. "You see
spring in the country is such an old experience to me. There's nothing
new in it."
"Nothing new!" repeated Hertha, with a touch of scorn. "You don't
suppose _I_ have always lived in a town, do you? But as for `nothing
new' in the spring--why it is _always_ new. Ever-returning youth is its
very essence. You cannot know anything of the true feeling of spring to
speak so."
"Perhaps not," said Winifred, and for her the tone was very humble. "I
am not at all poetical: I have told you so."
This softened Hertha, to whose nature the position of antagonism was
never congenial.
"And I, perhaps, am foolishly enthusiastic in some ways," she said. "I
feel so exuberant this morning."
"I am so glad," said Winifred fervently.
Then it proved to be time to take their tickets.
"You travel th--," Miss Norreys was beginning, when Winifred interrupted
her.
"I am _quite_ pleased to go second," she said eagerly. "I--I thought
you would like it better, and I arranged for it."
"Poor girl!" thought Hertha. "No doubt she has been saving in something
else, to make up for the extra expense, which, doubtless, is for my
sake. She has some very nice instincts about her, but I wish she could
believe I don't mind going third. Still it might hurt her to urge the
point."
They found a comfortable compartment, not unpleasantly crowded, which at
that season was rather exceptional good luck, and, thanks partly to the
presence of strangers, partly to Winifred's respect for her friend's
remark, that she found few things more tiring than much talking in the
railway, the journey was for the most part performed in silence.
As they approached its end, they found themselves at last alone, and
Hertha, who had been enjoying with quiet though intense appreciation the
varying view from her window of fields and trees in their first
exquisite tenderness of green, of primroses on the banks, and homesteads
in whose nestling orchards the fruit-trees were already in blossom,
turned to Winifred with a smile of glad pleasure.
"_Is_ the country remarkably pretty and picturesque about here?" she
asked, "or is it all the charm of the contrast to my London eyes? It
seems to me I have never loved a spring day really before."
"I am so glad," said Winifred, her own face reflecting the ready
sympathy which, poetical or not, her devotion to Hertha never failed in.
"I am so very glad. It makes me hope that, after all, you will not
find a week at home too dull and dreary. You see, we can be perfectly
independent: you and I can stroll about the woods talking all day long
if we like."
"But you will want to see as much as you can of your mother and sisters,
considering you are only with them for a week," said Hertha. "And I
shall like to get to know your pretty Celia a little better. Don't
trouble about me, Miss Maryon, I beg you. I shall be perfectly content.
I only hope I shall give no trouble, and that none of you will--will
make the very least difference with my being there."
Winifred looked slightly perplexed.
"Any difference!" she repeated, "I don't see what difference your being
with us _could_ make, except the pleasure of having you. You see, in a
country-house there is always a good deal of coming and going--there are
not the `told-off' hours and days as in London. But, by-the-by," she
added suddenly, "I did not see your maid at the station. Have you not
brought her?"
"N-no," said Miss Norreys, "I said to Mrs Maryon, when I wrote, that I
could do without her, I thought."
"Oh, of course it will be all right," said Winifred, quickly, at once
thinking of the expense for her friend. "Nothing will be easier than
for--But here we are," she broke off, as at that moment the train
slackened, and she turned to gather together the odds and ends lying
about the carriage. "Just put them near the door. Dawson will see to
them," she went on. Then she added, with a little rising colour, "Don't
you think--_would_ you mind calling me `Winifred'? before my own people,
you know. I would so like it."
"I will try," said Hertha, smiling. "I may forget sometimes, but as you
wish it, I will try."
"Thank you," replied Winifred. "Oh, there is Louise. Poor dear old
Louise! She loves coming to meet arrivals. She is not very
`interesting,' you know--just a girl of the old type, but as good as
gold. You need not be more with her than you like, if she bores you."
"I am not afraid of that," said Hertha; "very few people bore me. But
you have scarcely ever mentioned her to me. Which is she?" as she ran
her eye along the platform, where they were just drawing up, and seeing
no one quite answering to her mental picture of the probably dowdy,
certainly commonplace, ungifted "home" sister.
"Not that--"
How glad she was afterwards that she had never completed the sentence!
The person she was on the point of pointing out was a remarkably plain,
indeed, shabby, little young woman, barely answering to the word "lady,"
even in its most conventional sense. No, no, that _could_ not be a
sister of Winifred's, still less of beautiful Celia's.
"Oh, what pretty ponies!" she went on, hastily, as she caught sight of a
charming low carriage, just visible through the station gates, "and what
a sweet-looking girl driving them. How her hair glistens in the
sunshine!"
"Yes," said Winifred, calmly, "that's Louise. Oh, Dawson--yes, take all
these little things and bring them up with the luggage. Don't trouble
about anything, dear Miss Norreys--they will be all right," as an
unexceptionably correct young groom proceeded to load himself with their
smaller goods and chattels.