Chapter Nine.
The White Weeper.
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.