Hertha felt stupefied: but she had the presence of mind to say nothing
more, and to wait for the further development of this extraordinary
mystification. Winifred, evidently in happy security that their luggage
was in good hands, led the way to the pony carriage, where a joyful--
"Dear Winifred--Miss Norreys--I am so glad to see you," followed by
excuses at not daring to leave her place, "as the ponies are sometimes
just a _little_ fidgety with the trains, you know," left no shadow of
doubt as to the identity of the girl with the bright brown hair. "There
is comfortable room for three, as Winifred never minds sitting at the
back," Louise went on; and Winifred, after kissing her sister, endorsed
this statement by declaring she would rather sit anywhere than have to
drive.
"Do you not like driving?" said Miss Norreys, feeling that she must say
something, though a curious sensation of indignation against Winifred
for the sort of trick she seemed to have played her was fast taking form
and growing in her heart.
Winifred shook her head. "I am too short-sighted, for one thing," she
said, "and then the only thing that I enjoy in driving is reading, and
of course you can't read if you've got the reins."
"Read!" repeated Miss Norreys, with a slight and not altogether
approving smile. "Certainly not. But reading," and she turned to
Louise.
"Your sister soars above me," she said. "I can imagine no volume ever
printed that one could glance at for an instant with such an open book
of beauty before us as this;" and her eyes sparkled with that look of
exquisite and intense enjoyment which, with some, we feel is almost
"akin to tears." "I don't think I _ever_ felt the marvel and the magic
of spring more than to-day."
Louise glanced at her, and by the sweetness of the glance, and the
kindness of the whole--not remarkably pretty, but thoroughly lovable and
womanly face, Hertha felt that she ran no risk of being misunderstood.
"Yes," the girl replied, "a morning like this makes one echo the `very
good,' with all one's heart, as far as Nature is concerned."
Then a little sigh made itself heard.
"Winifred," she said, "you will be very sorry--papa is not well. He had
one of his bad attacks yesterday. He is better, but of course very
weak, as usual."
"He must have been doing something imprudent," said Winifred, with a
touch of asperity which, with many people, is the expression of real
anxiety. "He has been so well lately."
"It has been leading up to it, I fear," said Louise. "There has been a
great deal of extra work, and I am afraid more of it has fallen on him
than should have been the case, though I have done my best--I am not so
clever or clear-headed as Winifred," she added, with a smile, to Miss
Norreys, "and in a large prop--"
An exclamation from her companion interrupted her.
"What a _beautiful_ old house! A perfect Sleeping Beauty's palace,"
cried Miss Norreys. "Do tell me whose it is. It must be a show place."
It never occurred to her that the great white house, seen to peculiar
advantage from their present point of view, as it rose among the trees,
its many latticed windows glistening in the sunshine--a sort of fairy
dignity brooding over all--could be the Maryons' home. For though she
felt that she had been, it seemed to her, inexcusably misled by Winifred
as to her family's social position and means, she could not all at once
have realised how "very pleasant" were the material places in which
their lines were laid.
Again Louise smiled, but this time with a surprised and almost
reproachful glance of interrogation at her sister.
"Has not Winifred told you about our dear old home?" she said. "We
think there is nothing like it in the world. Winifred, have you never
described it to Miss Norreys?"
"We have always had so many other things to talk of," said Winifred,
indifferently. "Besides, I am not good at description."
Hertha felt too provoked to look at her.
"You are right," she said warmly to Louise, "I am sure there cannot be
another place like it. There is something dreamy about it, too, even in
this brilliant sunshine."
"You feel that?" said the girl eagerly. "I am so glad. Yes, there is a
very peculiar charm about it. I think it must be that it is so little
changed from what it must have been hundreds of years ago. It is so
easy in one's fancy to re-people it with those who used to live in it
and love it as we do now. Celia makes up all sorts of stories, based on
the real history and legends of the place. Sometimes," with a little
laugh, "she really frightens herself, for we _have_ a ghost. We call
her the--"
"Louise," said Winifred, "I just won't have you tell Miss Norreys that
idiotic old story. I wish all ghost stories and nonsense of the kind
were forbidden by Act of Parliament."
"We should be in many ways the losers if it were so," said Hertha,
quietly. She could not understand Winifred, for there was evident
earnestness under her half-laughing tone.
"What a strange, inconsistent girl she is!" thought the elder woman.
"She looks and seems honesty itself, it is _the_ thing that attracted me
to her; and yet _how_ she has deceived, or at least misled me, and
through me, Mr Montague and others. I feel hot when I think of it!
Still she does not feel ashamed, and she must have known I should be
undeceived as soon as I came here. And now this about ghosts? Is it
possible she is really afraid of that sort of thing, and that it makes
her dislike her home? She certainly does not look as if she had ever
had a fright."
Her silence during these cogitations had reacted on her companions, and
for a few minutes neither spoke. Then Winifred turned abruptly to
Louise.
"Who is with you?" she said, "or who is coming? Lennox, of course, and
any friends of his?"
"Yes," Louise replied with the slightest possible increase of colour in
her face. "Lennox and Captain Hillyer. We shall be quite a cheerful
Easter party, if only papa gets better quickly."
"Dear me," thought Miss Norreys, who was not above all feminine
weaknesses, "I do feel _very_ angry with you, Winifred Maryon. I shall
be all wrong about my clothes even: I shall have to telegraph for
evening dresses."
They were entering the drive by now. It was in keeping with all the
rest. Long and straight, with thickly growing trees at each side, which
gave an additional touch of mystery to the approach to the house. And
though straight--so that the building standing somewhat high on its
terraced summit, was conspicuous, the white flights of steps, gleaming
like the walls themselves in the sunshine--the road dipped considerably,
though gradually, here and there, causing all but the turrets, from
which the house evidently took its name, momentarily to disappear.
Hertha, for the time, forgot all else in her true sense of pleasure and
interest. And no words she could have chosen, had she been the most
calculating of mortals, would have made such a pleasing impression in
the still dubious Mrs Maryon as those with which her new guest replied
to her words of cordial but slightly constrained greeting.
"I have never been so enchanted by anything as by the first sight of
your exquisite old house. I feel for once in real fairy-land."
And graceful Celia, in her pale-grey dress, with a flush on her cheeks
and shy welcome in her lovely eyes, might, indeed, have been the
Sleeping Beauty just awakened.
That "first impression" grew instead of fading, for it was well rooted.
Both Mrs Maryon and her guest, so different in all else, so entirely
unlike each other in the circumstances of their lives--the one so
sheltered and protected, so curiously ignorant of life save in her own
experience of it; the other, so early thrown upon herself, clung to by
others at an age when most are still clinging and dependent; yet neither
of the two either narrowed or hardened--these two, thanks to their
genuine womanliness and unselfish single-mindedness, made friends, and
such a friendship lasts.
By some tacit agreement the "talk," which on Mrs Maryon's part had been
one underlying motive of the invitation, was during the first few days
evaded. They did talk, but not so much about Winifred as of themselves,
their personal feelings, and almost at once Mrs Maryon knew that she
had utterly misjudged this girl, or woman, as Hertha preferred to call
herself. Though it had arisen through no fault of her own, Winifred's
mother was acutely conscious of the prejudice she had harboured against
Miss Norreys, and it now seemed to her as if she could not do enough to
make amends for the mistaken opinion she was yet far too delicate-minded
to avow to its object; and Hertha, on her side, bided her time for the
explanation which she knew was unavoidable. She was feeling her way,
anxious not to blame Winifred unduly, difficult as she found it to
understand the girl, or to sympathise with the line she had taken up.
But the long _tete-a-tetes_ with her friend which Miss Maryon had looked
forward to did not come to pass. Instead, Hertha seemed never tired of
talking to her hostess, relating to her as they grew to know each other
better, tender recollections of her own mother and bygone days, which
she seldom now allowed herself to dwell upon.
And Winifred, one of whose good qualities was a remarkable absence of
jealousy, consoled herself by reflecting that Hertha was probably
actuated by real regard for herself.
"She sees that it will make everything easier for mamma to like and
trust her, and thus to get rid of all these old prejudices against women
with a career," she thought.
Altogether the days passed pleasantly. Hertha allowed herself, for the
time, to live in the present. Her interest in both Celia and Louise
deepened; of Celia's unusual talent she became convinced, and she
determined to do anything in her power to help the young girl to
cultivate it. Mr Maryon recovered sufficiently to join the family
party in the later hours of the day, when his cheerfulness made one
almost forget his chronic invalidism.
"I like your cousin Lennox so much," said Hertha one day to Celia; "I
had no idea from the little I had heard of him that he was so--well,
interesting, as well as sterling."
"I am so glad you like him," said Celia, her face lighting up. "Yes, he
is _very_ nice, though not, perhaps, exactly clever."
"He is not stupid," said Hertha.
"Oh, no; not stupid. He's just the sort of man that would have got on
splendidly if he had had a clever wife. It is such a pity," and she
sighed a little. "I daresay you have noticed--he is so devoted to
Winifred, and she doesn't care for him in the least."
"To Winifred!" said Miss Norreys. "No, I certainly should not have
thought so. Are you sure--it is not one of Winifred's freaks to think
so?" she was going to add, but stopped in time.
"Oh, _quite_ sure," said Celia, with the slightest possible inflection
of annoyance. "Winifred is not at all the sort of girl to flirt, or
anything like that. And I think it is only natural that he should be
devoted to her. She is so clever, and so--unlike the common run, and
Lennox has looked up to her all his life. We should all have been so
glad, for then she could have settled down at home, or close to home,
for good. Len's little place is only two miles away. And it would have
kept White Turrets in the family. He is our second-cousin, you know."
"These arrangements seldom come to pass, however," said Miss Norreys,
philosophically. "Had that anything to do with Winifred's dislike to
staying at home, do you think?"
"Oh dear, no," said Celia. "She did not think it a matter of much
importance. She has always wanted to take a line of her own; she has
always felt herself cramped by ordinary life. And she wants so to be of
real use."
The two were walking up and down the terrace. For a moment or two
Hertha did not speak. Then she said quietly:
"Perhaps I should not discuss the matter with you, dear Celia. You are
so much younger than I. But, before I go, I want to have a long talk
with your mother. I must tell you that I was completely mistaken about
you all. I had no idea whatever that Winifred had such a home, such
plain home duties and responsibilities, as I strongly suspect she has.
I--I thought you were very poor, and that she had to earn money to help
you all."
Celia grew crimson, and almost gasped for breath. "Miss Norreys!" she
exclaimed. Then she added eagerly, "Winifred did not mean to mislead
you--she is not like that."
"N-no," said Hertha. "I was very indignant at first, but now I don't
think she meant anything, except at all costs to get her own way. Of
course there was no calculated deceit about it, otherwise she would have
found some means of preventing my coming here. But she has placed me
myself in a very disagreeable position, as I must make her see. And she
must face the consequences. But I should like to know--you have plenty
of sense--do _you_ think she is doing right?"
Celia was sorely pressed. Her loyalty to Winifred rose up in arms. But
she was taken at a disadvantage: she had always believed that Miss
Norreys had warmly aided and abetted Winifred in her search for a
career.
"I--I am so surprised," she said at last. "I suppose it is best for me
to tell you the truth. Yes, at the bottom of my heart I now think--I
did not always, but I do now--that she could find plenty to do, and
plenty opportunities of being useful to others, here at home.
Especially as--you know all that, I suppose? You know that all the
property, and it is large, will be _hers_. She is in the position of an
eldest son."
More and more astonished, Miss Norreys felt at a loss for words.
"No, I had no idea of that," she said. "That puts her duty beyond all
question. I cannot understand her. I feel almost inclined to say I
have no patience with her."
In her excitement she walked on rapidly. They had just, for the second
or third time in their stroll, reached the end of the long front
terrace, where some steps led down to a straight but more shaded walk,
running parallel with one side of the house. Hertha was beginning to go
down the steps, when Celia laid her hand on her arm. Turning in some
surprise, Miss Norreys saw that she was paler than usual.
"Not down there, please," she said. "I do dislike that walk: it is so
gloomy, and--to tell you the truth, that is the path leading up from the
old bowling-green, that they say is haunted." Hertha could scarcely
help laughing. Here, in the broad daylight, it seemed so absurd to be
afraid of such things.
"I should, all the same, like to explore it," she said. "Now I come to
think of it, I don't think I have been down there at all. But of course
we won't go that way if you would rather not;" and she good-naturedly
turned back.
"I don't generally mind so much," said Celia, looking rather ashamed.
"But--she, or it, really has been seen lately--they call her `The White
Weeper'," and she instinctively lowered her voice a little. "I mind it
just now, because, you see, it seems so mixed up with Winifred."
Miss Norreys looked puzzled. "Mixed up with Winifred?" she repeated,
"how do you mean? What is the story of the White Weeper?"
So Celia related, as she had done to Eric Balderson, the old legend;
entering into it in somewhat fuller detail than to that semi-sceptical
person. For, as she went on, she saw that Hertha was not at all
inclined to laugh at it; on the contrary, she looked as interested and
impressed as could be desired.
"It is strange," she said, when Celia stopped. "A curious tradition to
have been handed down through so many generations. And I cannot see but
that we should sometimes take these things as warnings or guides to a
certain extent. Then the reason of Winifred's annoyance, whenever it is
mentioned, is that the White Weeper would evidently not approve of _her_
present line?"
"Yes," said Celia. "And--it does seem distinct. She," and the girl
gave a half-frightened look over her shoulder in the direction of the
shady walk, "she has been seen lately, two or three times. And the
people who have seen her were in more than one instance strangers here--
and even those who have heard about the ghost don't know the _reason_ of
her coming. They only think it portends some trouble. But I do think
it strange that she should have begun to come so much more since
Winifred has been so determined on leaving home."
"You don't disapprove altogether, at least you _did_ not, of her ideas?"
said Hertha.
Celia looked unhappy.
"I told you, dear Miss Norreys, that I have changed. I did sympathise
more than I do now, and then I feel as if I were disloyal to her. I
would rather not say more than that."
Hertha did not press her.
"You don't think Winifred is at all afraid of the White Weeper?" she
said, with a little smile.
"She always mocks at it, but she gets angry too," said Celia.
"Ah, that shows a latent misgiving somewhere. I am rather glad of it,"
Miss Norreys replied.
Then, feeling that she had perhaps said as much as was wise to the girl,
who was, after all, the youngest member of the family, she changed the
subject.
But that evening she had a long and exhaustive talk with Mrs Maryon,
which ended by Winifred's mother feeling that she could never be
thankful enough for the chance which had brought them the friendship of
the woman she had so misjudged.
"And you prefer to put it all before Winifred yourself, then, my dear
Miss Norreys?" said Mrs Maryon at the close of their conversation.
"I think so. I have strong grounds of my own. For, you see, though I
do absolve her from any intention of deceiving me, the result to me is
the same as if she had deliberately done so. In fact, it is almost
worse--it makes me seem such a foolish person! I shall tell her that
the whole _must_ be explained to Mr Montague, and, as regards the
society, it must be left in his hands. And she will not have the excuse
of putting it upon Celia now. I may tell her what we have planned for
_her_, may I not?"
"Certainly, most certainly," said Mrs Maryon. "There is one comfort,"
she went on. "If Winifred _does_ give in, she will do so heartily.
There is nothing small about her--no jealousies or resentfulness. If
she stays at home or sets to work to do her duty here, she will be
thorough about it."
"Then let us devoutly trust she will," said Miss Norreys. "I feel
rather hopeful. I am not sure but that at the bottom of her heart she
is a little _desillusionnee_ about her career. It has not all been
smooth sailing."
But at this Winifred's mother shook her head.
"_That_, I fear, in a nature like hers, would only rouse greater
determination--not to use the harsher word, obstinacy," she said.
But Hertha was sanguine and confident. She felt her own ground sure,
and though personally willing enough to sink her own cause of complaint,
she intended to make use of it for the sake of others.
That was to be a day--an evening rather--of explanations. The young
people were amusing themselves in the billiard-room after dinner, and
Miss Norreys, feeling a little tired, and having no special liking for
billiards, was sitting quietly in the drawing-room, thinking over the
family complications in which she found herself so unexpectedly
involved, when the sound of some one entering the room made her look up.
Somewhat to her astonishment, she saw that the new-comer was Lennox
Maryon. Still more surprised did she feel when he came forward and drew
a chair close to her own.
"Am I intruding?" he said; "you look nearly as startled as if I were the
famous White Weeper herself." His tone was bantering, but underneath
Hertha perceived a touch of nervousness.
"I fancied you were absorbed in your game," she said. "No, I did not
fancy you were the White Weeper, though I confess I have been thinking
about her. But she never comes inside the house?"
"She has never done so up to now," said Lennox, "but Heaven knows what
desperate steps she may not be driven to take if things go on as they
are doing at present."
His tone was so peculiar that Miss Norreys glanced at him questioningly.
"I hope devoutly she will wait till I have gone, then," she said, half
laughingly. "I have no wish at all to make her acquaintance. Are you
joking, Mr Maryon, or are you at all, just a little, in earnest?"
"Yes and no," he replied. "I am half joking out of the excess of my
earnestness. Miss Norreys, I have something to tell you--a confession
to make. Do you know, sometimes I have fancied you guessed, that I am
very seriously, very thoroughly, in love, for the first time in my
life?"
"With?" asked Hertha.
"My cousin Louise," he said, quietly, though his sunburnt face deepened
a little in colour.
Hertha nodded her head.
"Yes," she said, "I thought so. And--what about Winifred, Mr Maryon?"
"I know the difference now," he replied. "That was a case of thinking I
was what every one wished me to be. Now--oh, _what_ a difference!"
"You should be very grateful to Winifred," said Hertha, drily.
"I am," he said, naively, "_most_ grateful. But,"--and here his honest
eyes grew troubled--"it is far from plain sailing. As things are,
Louise won't hear of it, and she is a girl of her word. It all depends
upon Winifred. Miss Norreys, she is infatuated."
A full explanation followed. Lennox was clear-headed and entirely
candid, and before the conversation was at an end, Hertha saw and
understood things more thoroughly than even after her talk with Mrs
Maryon.
"I will do what I can," she said, "but I feel less confident than I did,
somehow. I almost think I could brave a visit from the ghostly guardian
of the family, if I thought her influence would carry the day."
"Hush, my dear Miss Norreys," said Lennox.
"I admire your devotion, but I tremble. _Supposing_ she--it--took you
at your word."
And again Hertha felt uncertain if he were joking or in earnest.
But before she could say more, Celia appeared in the doorway.
"You lazy people!" she said, "everybody's asking for you. We are going
to have a dance in the hall before we go to bed."