“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.