Chapter V: The Wiltons of Woodruffe

Woodruffe was an old-fashioned country house, standing in a little valley of its own formation, and thus protected from the high winds which came from the sea. It affected the Gothic style of architecture, with long windows which opened outwards, and a porch like that of a church. From the front an extensive view of cliffs and ocean was obtained, while from the back one could gaze on miles of verdant meadowland.

When Celia pulled up her blind the first morning after her arrival, it seemed as though she were miles away from civilization. There was not a vestige of anything human to be seen, yet she knew that less than an hour’s walk would take her into busy Brighton. With a sigh of enjoyment she threw open the window, and inhaled the fresh morning air: the fragrance of flowers, the faint scent of hay, the strong salt breeze: how different from the stifling heat of crowded London.

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.”

She fell into their ways as easily as if she had been accustomed to them for years. A greater difference to her life in town could not be imagined; but she thoroughly enjoyed the change, and the colour returned to her cheeks. Up at seven every morning for an early bathe with Cynthia and Enid, she spent the rest of the day driving, boating, or engaging in field-sports with the boys. An enjoyable musical evening, to which all the elder members of the family contributed, usually terminated the day. Celia sang her prettiest songs; it was quite a pleasure to sing to such an appreciative little audience.

The high spirits and good humour of the Wiltons were contagious; she found herself becoming quite an adept at witty repartee. One thing she noticed: there was never a jarring note in their innocent fun. If any disagreement arose between the boys, it only needed a word from one of the elders to quell it in an instant. Unlike the Friedbergs, they were obedient to authority. In spite of their mischievous proclivities, Jack and Eric could always be prevailed upon to do what was right, not by threats of punishment or parental wrath--as had been the case with Montie and Victor--but simply for right’s own sake.

There was something about the whole family--a kind of high moral tone, as it were--which had been entirely lacking among the Friedbergs. Celia could not explain it, but she felt its force. There was a reason for it, however; it was the result of their early training. From their tenderest years they had all been taught to submit to a very high standard of right and wrong, in order to bring their lives into harmony with a life which was, to them, the very acme of perfection--a Divine Life which had been lived just nineteen hundred years ago. It was this which dispelled selfishness, and made them amenable to discipline; which gave them noble ideals, and imbued them with the love of all that was good. Their evident spirituality made a deep impression on Celia: she wanted to find out the reason of it; once again she began to think.

One morning, when the girls were promenading on the West pier, they passed a lady whose face was familiar to Celia, though she could not remember for the moment where she had seen her before. The lady smiled, and looked as if she wished to stop and speak; but Celia, not being sure of her identity, passed on. Presently she recollected that she had met her at two or three social functions, and had been introduced to her by Lord Bexley at Richmond.

By the band-stand they met her again, and this time she advanced towards Celia with outstretched hand.

“You remember me, don’t you, Miss Franks?” she said with a fascinating smile. “Mrs. Neville Williams, you know. I had the pleasure of hearing you sing so charmingly at Richmond. It is quite delightful to meet somebody one knows here. Brighton in August is so full of trippers and rich Jews---- Oh, I beg your pardon,” as Celia reddened. “I quite forgot. You are staying with friends?” with a glance at the Wiltons. “Is your brother here also?”

“No, he is in Scotland,” replied Celia, when she had introduced the girls. She wondered what made her ask after him, for to her knowledge the two had never met. “Do you know him?” she added as an afterthought.

“Just slightly. I met him some years ago, before he made his reputation as an artist. I do not think he would remember me. He is married, I suppose?”

She asked the question with apparent carelessness, but an eager light flashed into her eyes; and, on receiving an answer in the negative, an enigmatical expression, half cynical, half triumphant, passed over her face.

The band struck up one of Sousa’s most inspiriting marches, and they listened in silence for a few moments. Then Mrs. Neville Williams held out her hand.

“Well, I hope you will come and see me at the Metropole before I leave; I go to Ostend next week. Good-bye; I am so pleased to have met you;” and with another sweet smile she moved away.

Celia gave a little sigh of relief. “There is something I don’t like about Mrs. Neville Williams,” she remarked to Enid as they took their seats. “I fancy that she is too sugary to be sincere. Lady Marjorie positively detests her, though I haven’t the faintest idea why.”

“She is awfully made-up,” said Cynthia, disapprovingly. “And just look at the way she sweeps the dust off the pier with those long skirts.”

They passed her yet again on their way home. She was conversing with a gentleman in French, and affected not to see them this time.

Celia made up her mind not to call at the Metropole, for she was not desirous of cultivating her acquaintance. It was not often she took a dislike to any one without adequate cause, but she felt a vague distrust of Mrs. Neville Williams, especially as Lady Marjorie disliked her too.

There was a letter from Lady Marjorie waiting for her when she got back to Woodruffe. She was enjoying herself immensely, and Herbert was having good sport. Celia was surprised at the familiar way in which she wrote of him. The letter was full of “Herbert;” he was no longer “Mr. Karne.” Were they going to make a match of it after all, the girl wondered? She, for one, would be delighted if they did.

There was also a letter from David Salmon, who was spending his holidays in the Isle of Man. He would probably run down to Brighton before the end of the month; and he hoped Celia was having a good time.

Celia read the letter twice, and then absent-mindedly tore it up into little bits. Cynthia Wilton watched her in surprise.

“You naughty girl!” she exclaimed. “Is that what you do with your love-letters? What would your _fiancé_ say? Look, this is where I keep my sweetheart’s letters.” She pulled one out from the inside of her blouse. “Just over my heart, you see.”

“I don’t know that I have a heart,” Celia answered, half playfully, half in earnest.

Then she sighed.