Chapter Eleven.
A Victory.
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.”