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.”