White Turrets

But by degrees the great fact came to be incontestable – the genius was there.

And Winifred, for her part, kept her promise man – or womanfully. She had not boasted in saying she was not one to do things by halves. She set her shoulder to the wheel of the duties she had never before taken any real interest in. There came up to Celia now and then lists of appallingly clever books on eminently practical subjects, all directly or indirectly connected with the management, on the best possible lines, of a large estate.

And when Celia returned to London again, after a happy Christmastide at White Turrets the following winter, her report was most encouraging.

“I cannot tell you how well Winifred is getting on,” she said, “and how excellently she does everything. And with her as his more than right hand, papa seems a different being. She really is very clever.”

“I am sure of it,” Miss Norreys replied warmly.

“And the queer thing is, that though she has never been so useful in her life, she is so much less self-confident,” said Celia. “She is, oh, so much softer and more sympathising!”

“I think that is natural. She is no longer at war with herself, and unconsciously on the defensive,” replied the elder woman.

“But is it not delightful to you to think that it is really all your doing, dear Hertha?” asked Celia.

Hertha smiled.

“I do not feel that it was,” she said. “At least, my hands were strengthened very strangely. I – Celia,” she broke off abruptly, “I want to ask you something. Has the White Weeper been heard of or seen of late?”

“No, I believe not once,” said Celia in surprise.

Hertha bent her head in sign of satisfaction.

“I thought so,” she said. “Celia,” she went on, “I think I will tell you now what I have never told any one but Winifred.”

And she related the story of her strange experience that moonlight night at White Turrets.

Celia listened breathlessly, her face growing a shade paler.

“How extraordinary, how strange!” she exclaimed. “And you think Winifred was really influenced by it?”

“At least she did not mock at it – not in the very slightest,” said Hertha. “And – there was something more, that day she fainted, you remember?”

“Yes,” said Celia.

“Did she never tell you what she had felt?” And Hertha repeated what Winifred had told her.

Celia shook her head.

“No, she never told me. She knows I have always been so frightened about it. But – I scarcely see why she came, or tried to come, to Winifred herself, when the point was gained and she had given in?”

“Ah – I must tell you the rest, and this I think impressed your sister most of all. A day or two after I returned to London, after that Easter time – I went, at her request, to collect her things and pay some money she thought due to the people she had lodged with. What do you think I found? A deserted house – in the possession of the police. There had been a fire the night but one before, caused, no doubt, by the people themselves, for they were a very undesirable lot. They had all escaped, however, as they lived below; but the upper rooms, the very rooms Winifred had had, were literally gutted – in a state of black, charred desolation. We cannot say, of course, but when I explained my errand, the policeman said the lady should be thankful that she had been prevented returning. ‘Ten to one if she could have been got out alive,’ he said.”

“Oh, Hertha!” exclaimed Celia, horror-struck. “And you told Winifred?”

“Yes, though not immediately. She was still ill when it happened. But I think it impressed her exceedingly. Still, as she has not told you about it, it may be as well never to mention it.”

“I will never do so,” said Celia. “But I think I shall never feel afraid of the White Weeper again.”

Then she went on to tell her friend about Louise and Lennox in their own house, their marriage having taken place the preceding autumn.

“They are as happy as the good people in a fairy tale,” she said.

When Celia went home the next time – a little more than a year after she had joined Miss Norreys, she took with her an astonishing piece of news. Hertha, Winifred’s typical, self-dependent woman, Hertha, was going to be married!

“It is an old story,” said Celia, calmly. “An old story, ending very beautifully, I think. I cannot tell you much, for I do not know the whole. But they were separated for years, through nobody’s fault exactly, and neither has ever cared for any one else,” she added simply.

“All the same,” said Winifred, “I am just a little disappointed in her.”

Celia’s own plans were not materially affected by this unexpected event, as, having by this time gathered experience, she was able to go on with her studies without actually sharing her friend’s home. Before long, those studies led her further afield for a time. But this sketch, or rough outline, rather – not worthy of the name of a story – of some girls’ experiences, must come to an end without chronicling the successes of the young painter, of whom great things are prophesied.

There are those, too, who predict that Celia Maryon is about to try the experiment of reconciling the claims and duties of married life with those of a special vocation. And if it be possible to succeed in so doing, assuredly no woman could have a wiser, less exacting, and more sympathising husband than the one whom rumour has selected for her – Eric Balderson.

The End