The sun-dial stood on the grass in front of, though at some little
distance from, the principal entrance. For at White Turrets the ground
immediately round the house was too much intersected by terraces, and on
too many levels, to have any great unbroken expanse of lawn. And there,
as she had said, Hertha was standing when, a few minutes later, Winifred
joined her.
Even Miss Maryon's short-sighted eyes were struck by her friend's
general look and bearing, Hertha was leaning against the old stone, in a
tired attitude. She was pale, too, and as Winifred drew near she gave a
slight shiver.
"Are you cold?" said the girl anxiously. "If you are, we can go indoors
again at once."
"No, thank you, I am not really cold," Miss Norreys replied; "it is only
the creeping-together feeling one has after a bad night. When I did
fall asleep, I slept, I think, _too_ heavily. I daresay it is a sort of
nervousness. The air and moving about will do me good."
She turned as she spoke, and followed by Winifred, walked quickly
towards the side of the house.
"It is nicest on the terraces," she said; "we can walk up and down, and
talk quite undisturbed, and always find a seat if we want one."
"Ye-es," said Winifred, lagging a little. "But would you mind coming
round to the other side? it is so much more cheerful and sunny."
She was unusually deferential and subdued. "No," said Hertha, with a
touch of obstinacy, "I like the shady side best; I am not cold now.
That walk with the aspens at the farther end is charming. And the
others don't like it--it is the haunted walk, isn't it? So I may as
well enjoy it while with you, who don't mind nonsense of that kind."
"But I do mind it, though in a different way," said Winifred; "it
irritates me more than I can express. I really can hardly tell you how
I detest any allusion to that old story."
"Really?" said Hertha, airily. "I think you should be above such
feelings. It is inconsistent with your--well--your attitude to things
in general. Here we are--let us show our defiance of such old wives'
tales by marching boldly up and down in the White Weeper's own
hunting-ground while we have our talk out."
Winifred laughed a little, but constrainedly. Matter-of-fact as she
was, she did not quite understand her friend this morning.
"Of course, I don't _really_ mind," she said, "if you truly like this
side best. And now will you tell me exactly what you have been vexed
with me for, and in what way you have come to think less well of me than
you used to do?"
Hertha felt somewhat surprised. After all, Winifred was not so dense as
appeared. And "to be quite fair on her," thought Miss Norreys, "she
_might_ have resented my changing to her without giving her my reasons
and a chance of justifying herself to some extent."
This reflection came at a good moment. It softened her tone to
Winifred.
"Yes," she said, "I will be entirely frank with you, and put before you
the whole story of our acquaintance, and what I did to help you, from my
point of view, which is likely, I much fear, to be that of others; and I
certainly will not exaggerate things. For,"--and here a generous
impulse made her add warmly--"I _do_ trust you, Winifred. I trust your
good intentions and your honesty of purpose, though I believe you
deceive yourself; and self-deception is terribly insidious."
She paused a moment, but the girl did not speak. Hertha glanced round
her as if to gather strength and breath for what she had to say. How
fair and charming a prospect it was! There was something almost
_unreal_ in the vivid clearness of the spring beauty all about--
unreconcilable with the troubles and anxieties which yet one knew must
be there behind it all.
But as Hertha's gaze wandered farther, over to where, on the other side
of some rising ground, the old church spire rose up into the blue, and
the lazily curling smoke of the surrounding homesteads told of the human
lives and interests close at hand, different thoughts arose in her mind.
What infatuation was over the girl, or woman, beside her? Who could
desire a more distinct field of usefulness than Winifred Maryon was
deliberately rejecting? The awful problems relating to the poor of our
overcrowded great cities must not be shirked by such as are wise enough
to grasp them, but how thankful should be those whose duties in smaller
spheres are clear and defined, lying among more normal conditions and
along less conflicting paths!
She turned to her companion abruptly.
"Winifred, my dear child--my dear friend, if you don't like to be called
a child--I _wish_ I understood you; that is at the root of it all. I
_cannot_ get at your motives, your way of looking at things."
Winifred looked up--a frown, not of annoyance but of perplexity, lining
her usually unruffled forehead; her blue eyes fixed on Hertha's face
with a touch of appeal which was almost piteous.
"Tell me," she said, "tell me everything; I do want to know."
And Miss Norreys did as she asked. She went back to the beginning of
their acquaintance, and told her all, as it had affected her herself, as
it had taken shape and colour, from her point of view. She spoke as
simply as she could, and tried her best to be practical and
matter-of-fact. For talking to Winifred was not like talking to Celia,
who, young as she was, could take in the sense of a sentence before it
was half expressed, who felt the _spirit_ underlying and surrounding
even the "commonest" commonplaces of life.
Winifred did not interrupt her. Now and then her colour rose a little;
once or twice, as Hertha was not sorry to see, she winced, and seemed on
the point of bursting out with some exclamation. And then, when Miss
Norreys had come to the end of the first part of her story and stopped,
the girl looked up.
"Yes," she said, "I see how it must have looked to you, and I see, as I
certainly did not before, that I was _not_ perfectly ingenuous. To a
certain extent I deceived you; at least, I allowed circumstances to
deceive you and others, and I was glad of it, because it suited my
purpose. But remember I did not start with any intention of deceiving
you, and I thought I had a right to take advantage of the mistake when
it arose; because, from _my_ point of view, if my work was worth paying
for, I had a right to the payment, don't you see?" and she looked up
anxiously.
"Perhaps so, but you had no right to the _position_, which alone made
your earning payment possible. At least, you have no right to obtain it
without explaining your circumstances," said Hertha.
Winifred was silent.
"And," Hertha went on, though sorry for the mortification she felt that
her words must cause, "to tell the truth, I don't think your work has
been exactly worth paying for till now. Everything requires an
apprenticeship; part of the idea of this society is to give girls who
need to earn their livelihood a chance of fitting themselves to do so,
by giving them the necessary apprenticeship gratis, and, more than that,
by paying them from the first."
Winifred grew crimson.
"I never thought of that," she said. "I am perfectly ready, indeed I
would much rather pay back what they have given me up to this. For I
believe my work _is_, or will be from now, worth paying for."
"Very likely," said Hertha, but then she went on to lay the situation in
two aspects before Winifred--her own clear home duties, so peculiar and
unmistakable; and the wrong of taking advantage of the society to the
prejudice of some other girl in real need of it.
The first of these Winifred began by disposing of glibly enough. The
work of home was better done by Louise than by herself--better, well,
not literally better--she knew she had a clearer head for figures, and a
more ready grasp of things than her sister. But she was not nearly so
patient and sweet tempered as Louise, she decided complacently: "Oh no,
not nearly. I should try papa awfully."
Hertha stared at her.
"And you would make your own shortcomings an excuse for neglecting
duties?" she exclaimed. "What sophistry! What a vicious circle you are
involving yourself in! Patience and self-control can be acquired. You
speak as if your besetting sins belonged to you, like the colour of your
eyes or the shape of your nose."
Winifred did not reply.
"And my second point--that of taking what is not meant for you?" Hertha
went on.
"That," said Winifred, "is, I think, for the society to decide. Of
course I am now quite ready to tell anything about my circumstances."
In her turn Hertha was silent. She agreed with Winifred that the
society should decide, and she felt considerably inclined to believe
that the society _had_ decided. For Mr Montague's thick letter, though
unopened, was in her pocket.
But the conversation was by no means at an end.
"Winifred," said Miss Norreys again, "I have a great deal more to say to
you--to tell you. But it would be such a satisfaction to me, and what
matters infinitely more, to yourself afterwards, always--if you could
now, without any further reason, try to see where your real duties lie."
"I _will_ try," said Winifred, "but," and at last the tears rose in her
eyes, "I did so long for a wider, a fuller life."
"You cannot have found the petty detail and often wearisome round of
work at ---Street very widening or inspiriting surely."
"No, but I thought that would come. I was beginning to feel that
something _depended_ on me, that I had a post--a place. And I like the
feeling of `London,'" she added naively.
Hertha smiled.
"Yes," she said, "I know that, and you may still have it. I think you
should be more in London than you have been."
"There is Celia, too," exclaimed Winifred.
"I am not forgetting her. But about yourself--you have put it in words.
It is _the sense of responsibility_ about home duties that has been
wanting, and has made them unattractive and irksome. That will come, if
you set your shoulder to the wheel. You will soon see that, as I do
believe is the case, you will be able to do the work better than it has
ever been done, and new developments and possibilities would open out.
Why, with the experience you have acquired, you might work into the
society's hands down here--you might have a convalescent home, or a
children's holiday home."
Winifred's melancholy face brightened a little.
"I will think about it all," she repeated, "and I will write anything
you like to the society, or--but I hate troubling you--would not the
best thing be for you to write to Mr Montague? And now, have you told
me everything?"
"No," said Hertha. They were now approaching the end where the aspens
stood. Hitherto in their pacing up and down they had not gone so far,
but this time Miss Norreys had purposely prolonged their walk a little.
"No," she said, stopping short and looking round her with a strange kind
of curiosity, "I have something more to tell you--where does this path
go to, or end, Winifred?" she broke off suddenly.
"Oh, I don't know exactly. We never come this way," the girl replied
impatiently. "It goes along among the aspens, and then gets into a
tangle. And some way further on there's a brook that runs into a pond.
It's a wilderness sort of a place, and I hate it."
Hertha looked at her.
"Winifred," she said, "you have a sort of belief in the White Weeper
story, otherwise you wouldn't be so cross about it."
"I have not, I have not indeed," said Winifred earnestly. "But I don't
deny that the association is painful. It is said to have been down here
near the pond that the unfortunate woman spent her last night at home
before her husband drove her by his cruelty to take refuge in the
convent at Cruxfield, where she died. And there is always a creepy,
shivery feeling about here; the rest of the place is so open and
bright."
She could not repress a slight shudder as she spoke.
"Do come away," she added.
"Not just for a moment. I want to tell you something here--on the very
spot, from where--no, I will begin at the beginning," said Miss Norreys.
And in a few minutes Winifred was in possession of the whole details of
Hertha's night's experience.
She grew very pale, but listened without a word or gesture of
interruption, till the end. Then she burst out:
"Oh, surely, surely," she exclaimed, "it was a dream. It must have
been."
But Hertha shook her head.
"No," she said, "it was no dream--nothing in the least resembling what
we are accustomed to call dreams. A vision it may have been. Perhaps
all ghostly visitations are visions. But I was awake when I saw it. I
remember her face perfectly. If I were an artist I could paint it."
"And it has impressed you very much?" said Winifred.
"Naturally."
"And you have told no one but me?--thank you for that. It was good of
you, for--of course they would associate it with _me_, with my being
here."
"They could scarcely do otherwise," said Hertha, drily.
"It is strange," said Winifred, as if thinking aloud. "Why, if such
things are, why did she not appear to _me_?"
"Perhaps she cannot. Perhaps you are one who could not be made
conscious of such a presence," said Hertha. "Perhaps--" But here she
stopped, though with a little smile.
"Go on, do," said Winifred.
"I was only going to say--don't think me irreverent, but you are not
easily `convinced against your will,' Winifred. The verse about `Moses
and the prophets' came into my mind. I am not sure that you would give
more heed to a ghost than to those who have already spoken."
"Not as much," said Winifred. "But what, then, has been the use of the
poor White Weeper's troubling herself and you about me?"
"To strengthen _my_ hands, perhaps--in my prophetic capacity, to
increase my conviction."
"And what is that?"
"A very strong one--that harm will come of your persistence. Increased
trouble and sorrow to others it will certainly cause. Listen,
Winifred."
And then she fired her last shot, by revealing to the girl Lennox
Maryon's confidence of the previous evening.
Winifred was not pale now. Her cheeks burned, her face grew crimson to
the very roots of her hair.
"_Louise_!" she repeated, "_Louise_!"
Hertha felt rather provoked.
"Yes," she said, "_Louise_. Your cousin is heart and soul devoted to
her, and what wonder? She is charming and good, and often I almost
think her beautiful. You have always underestimated her."
"Then," said Winifred, without directly replying, "I suppose he never
_really_ cared for me."
"I am inclined to think he never did," said Hertha. "But surely you
should be very glad if it be so? You never cared for him."
"No," said Winifred, "never. But,"--and a curious expression came into
her face--"I suppose it is very contemptible, but it may be a sort of
horrid mortification. I don't know how I feel about it. And yet--oh
yes, I do love Louise, and I know she is an angel of goodness, and I'm
very fond of Len, in his way. I love them all, but--I'm beginning to
see it so plainly. None of them love me. I am out of it all--why was I
the eldest? Why can't I go away and make my own way as I planned?"
They were near a bench. Winifred flung herself upon it and burst into
uncontrollable girlish sobs. She seemed to Hertha to have grown ten
years younger, and never had Miss Norreys' heart gone out to her so much
as now.
For a minute or two she let her cry undisturbed, then she said very
gently:
"My dear child, I think I understand you and the whole story. You have
not sought their love in the past as you might have done, but you have
it. You do not know how much they all love you. And--you are _very_
fortunate--see how duty and affection are pointing the same way in your
case. You have it now in your power to win love and gratitude such as
fall to the lot of few, by simply doing right."
"If it is right and done for that reason, I don't deserve gratitude,"
said Winifred, dejectedly.
"_They_ will think so, anyway. And it will be a sacrifice of your own
wishes to those of others. That should and will bring gratitude."
Winifred sighed deeply.
"I will do it then," she said, "and once I say a thing, I don't go back
from it. I will give it up. But please leave me alone about it for
to-day. I will keep out of the way till I am all right again."
They were not far from the house by this time.
"I will run in by one of the side doors, and get to my own room,"
Winifred went on. "Will you forgive my leaving you here--and--and I
want to thank you, but I don't quite know how I feel."
"Never mind about me. It is all right as far as I am concerned. I am
very thankful," said Hertha.
Winifred was turning away when another thought struck her.
"About Celia," she said. "I did--unselfishly, I think--I did want to
help her," and the choke in her voice touched Hertha again.
"I know you did, and rightly, and you may take comfort in the thought
that it will, after all, have been through you that Celia is to have the
opportunities she needs. She is to come to me, to live with me for a
time, till, as she expresses it, she can `test' herself. That is to
say, dear Winifred, she can _now_ do so. Had you held out, she would
never have consented to leave home."
Through Winifred's flushed and tear-stained face her blue eyes looked up
at Hertha with perplexity.
"I don't think I yet quite understand your point of view," she said.
"Tell me, is it because you think Celia has special gifts, or that I
have special calls, that you advise us so differently?"
"Both," Miss Norreys replied.
"But supposing I had had her gifts as well as my calls, what then?"
Hertha hesitated.
"I cannot really say," she replied. "It would have been more difficult
to decide. At least, it _seems_ as if it would have been so. But
imaginary positions are not what we have to deal with. And when there
are what appear to be almost equally balanced claims upon us, as
_sometimes_, though not often, occurs, well, perhaps in such a case it
does not matter so very much, in the highest sense of all, _which_ path
we take if we do it heartily and conscientiously. You would not have
been left in doubt long, I feel sure, if such had been your case."
"And it is _not_, so we need not trouble about it," said Winifred,
practically. "But one thing more, as we have come upon this. Do you
think all girls who are not literally forced to earn their bread should
stay at home and lead the old routine humdrum lives--I mean, of course,
those who have no great or special gifts? Have you no sympathy with all
the feeling of the day about women?"
"The very greatest and deepest," said Hertha. "But it is an immense
subject, and cannot be treated in wholesale fashion. Individual lives
differ so tremendously. All I can say about it roughly is that love of
excitement and change and novelty should not be mistaken for real,
deliberate desire to make the best and the most of the powers we have.
And it should never be forgotten that `home' is the place we are born
into--in a very special sense woman's own kingdom. Outside interests
should radiate from and revolve round home--that is the ideal. When
home _has_ to be given up, it should be done regretfully, as a sad
necessity, whereas the wish to escape from it is, I fear, in many cases
nowadays, the great motive."
"But girls are not alone to blame for that," said Winifred. "Think what
some parents are: tyrannical and selfish, scarcely allowing a daughter
to have a mind or a soul of her own."
"I know that some are like that," said Hertha.
"If a girl does not marry, she is treated as if she had no right to have
a self at all! But, where parents are reasonable, I doubt if any
home-life _need_ be narrow and stifling, and all the rest of it.
Monotony is not necessarily an evil. There is immense monotony in all
good work, at least in the qualifying one's self for it. I think what
makes home-life so trying and unsatisfying to so many unmarried women is
the want of the sense of responsibility, the not feeling that it really
matters, except for themselves, whether they are idle and frivolous or
not. It is that sense of responsibility which makes even a dull,
commonplace, _married_ life attractive. The wife feels herself
_somebody_, a centre."
"Yes, I am sure it must be," said Winifred. "But how is it all to be
set right? There are so many girls who can't marry nowadays, they say."
"Well, they must bear it. Cheerful acceptance of evils, irremediable
for _us_, though in the long run they may be set right again, is, after
all, a _very_ big part of our life's work, is it not? And as to actual,
practical work, `usefulness' in the noblest sense, I have great faith in
its coming to those who take at once whatever comes in their way. It is
like capital. Money makes money, we are told. Well, I believe that
doing work brings work to do. But I did not mean to preach like this."
"I am glad of it. I will think about it," said Winifred, gently.
Then she turned away towards the house, walking slowly, however, for she
felt weak and faint from the violent weeping so rare to her. And the
sun had been beating on her head more than she realised. Like many
English people, Winifred did not know the danger of the spring sun--
altogether she felt strangely unlike herself.
And Hertha did not keep her in sight, for she herself moved towards the
front in search of a shady spot, where she might read Mr Montague's
letter undisturbed.