She had been thoroughly satiated with society during the waning days of the “season,” tired of being dressed up like a doll to attend Lady Somebody’s “crush:” of talking inanities to society worldlings, and of being patronized by great ladies on account of her voice.
Lady Marjorie, noticing her pale cheeks and weary languor, had been very wishful to take her with her to the Highlands, where she might breathe the mountain air; but Celia would not be prevailed upon to postpone her visit to Woodruffe, even though she would miss seeing her brother, who was also due at Lord Bexley’s shooting-box before the important twelfth.
She had a vague feeling, almost a presentiment, that her visit to Woodruffe would be fraught with importance; that it was one of those opportunities which, if once missed, can never be recalled. She had been invited by Enid on several occasions, but something had always occurred to prevent her from accepting the invitation, so she was quite determined that nothing should stand in the way this time. She never had reason to regret her decision, for in after years she regarded that month at Woodruffe as the turning-point of her life.
The Wiltons were a large family, with fresh complexions, high spirits, and healthy appetites. It took Celia some little time to distinguish one from the other, for there was a strong family likeness between them, especially amongst the elder ones. She had scarcely recognized Ralph when he met her at the station, for instead of being attired, as she had always seen him, in the garb of a London curate, he wore a straw hat and flannels, and his face and hands were almost as brown as a gipsy’s.
Ralph was the “big brother” of the family, and Celia soon discovered that he was prime favourite at Woodruffe. The girls danced attendance on him, and vied with each other in anticipating his wishes; the boys envied his splendid physique, and made him director of their sports. He was what they called “game for anything,” so full of activity, so humorous in his ways; yet, knowing what he had so nobly endured in that poverty-stricken East End parish, Celia could discern the deep earnestness which lay behind the apparently gay exterior.
At breakfast the first morning he introduced her to all the members of the family, for she had arrived late the previous evening, and had only seen Enid and himself. There were his parents, who gave her a kindly welcome; Cynthia, the eldest girl, who was engaged to be married; Claude the dandy, who was at a susceptible age, and fell in love with her at first sight; Jack, full of bluster and bounce, with a sharp tongue and tender heart; Eric, who was the leading treble in their church choir; and the two little girls, Irene and Doris, who were twins.
“What a crew!” exclaimed Claude, when Celia had shaken hands with them all. “But it is holiday-time; we are not always at home, you know. Parson Ralph lives away, Jack goes to Harrow—which is a mercy, for he is a noisy little beggar,—and I go to dad’s London office from Monday till Friday. You are not used to the ways of a large family, are you, Miss Franks?”
“Oh yes,” Enid answered for her. “Celia has stayed with the people next door to Uncle Brooke’s—the Friedbergs; and I think that their boys, Montie and Victor, are even worse than ours.”
“Which is saying a good deal,” put in Cynthia, with a smile. “Still I hope they will not annoy our guest in any way. Eric is as good as gold when Jack is away at school.”
The two boys stared at Celia somewhat awkwardly at first, and the little girls were very shy, but before the day was out she had made friends with them all. They admired her beauty; and she had such an ingratiating manner that each one of them fell captive to her charms. Even Jack, who possessed an avowed aversion to the generality of girls, pronounced her “ripping.”