WINNIE’S AWAKENING

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1676, 13 April 1904, Page 10

WINNIE’S AWAKENING

(B-r Evelyn Fletcber.)

CHAPTER- I.

She was the spoilt child of the family, and took all the good things of life as Mis by a natural right. O'r, rather, she did not take, that is tar too aggressive a word; she merely accepted them without question and without protest, for it never crossed her contented mind that she might oe wronging som© one else by doing so. Since everybody regarded it as a matter of course that Winnie should nave her own way in everything, it was quite natural that Winnie herself should acquiesce in this view of the position; and the one person who might have been expected to think differently did mpre than any other to strengthen her in her nelief. Bertha Raymond was ten years older than her sister; ten years in actual age, hut twice as many in thought and Reeling. She adored the pretty, petulant child, and never dreamed of grudging ner the affection that was lavished upon ner though she herself might be felt somewhat out in the cold in consequence. Their mother's early death filled her with pity for the motherless baby, and it never crossed her mind that Winnie's loss was as nothing compared with her own; for Winnie had been too young to miss er love and care, while to Bertha she uad been all the world. • When Winnie was eighteen she was a very pretty girl as well as an - extremely popular one. Bertha was nice-looiiing, too, but hers was a quieter, less obtrusive beauty than her brilliant little sistei s, and no one thought of looking at her twice when W innie was in the room, ioesiues, the younger girl always seemed so sure of everybody's approval and admiration, and so happily conscious of them, that lew people could resist her sunny smile ana imperious little ways; while the elder appeared quite unconscious of her own attractions, and indifferent to th© imp tension she might be making on those about her. At eiglit-and-twemty she regarded herself as altogether past girlhood—a view of the matter m which Winnie quite nonestlv concurred. It was at this time that Giles w est bury returned to England after an absence of twenty years, and wrote to propose a visit to the Raymonds. , . Mr. Raymond and he were old friends, and he had been much at Hals ton tiau in the old days when Mrs. Raymond was alive, and Bertha a pretty, fair-haired little girl. She remembered him well, and looked forward to his coming witn much pleasure. Not so Winnie, who—for once —failed to interest herself in tbe -x----pectecl guest. -s , „ . “I don't want to see him. she »aiu petulantly. “I don't know liow you can find in lids conning to* lotfk so ridiculously pleased about. 'Why, I've heard of -ini all my life, and he must be a hundred at least! Coming on, Monday, do you ay, Bert? But I am going to the Grahams on Monday, and I mean to.be away at least a fortnight. Has father forgotten. I won- “ But could you not go to the Grahams a little later. * You go there so often that I am sure Mrs. Graham would not min u your putting it off.” “No but I should. Charley would not be there then, and the place is dull when he is away. Run and tell father I shad not be at home, Bert dear; he may like to put the man off—not that I care,''she added. stifling a yawn. But Mr. Raymond did not see his way to putting his friend; off, neither did he show any disposition to interfere with his daughter's plan®. j “Tell her it really doesn't matter, ne said cheerfully. “We shall manage to entertain him very well without her. It is not as if he were a young fellow. L should think he’d be more your sort than hers; but in any case the tiling is settled now, and I'm not going to unsettle it. A decision which surprised Winnie not a little'. Monday came, and she started in excellent spirits. Though the Grahams' house might be dull in Charley's absence, she always enjoyed herself there immensely when he was at home; for the girl was a born flirt, and he one of her most devoted slaves—and yet a slave with a will of ois own upon occasion, which made their relations all the more exciting. Despite her oft-repeated prohibitions, ae managed to meet her—“quite by accident, of course” —at the Junction where she .-ad to change. “Odd tiling that I should have business in Merston to-day of all days!” he said jauntily, as they shook hands on the plat-' form. “Very odd, indeed!” she assented, with dancing eyes; and then they both laughed and walked away together. They were a handsome couple, and looked thoroughly well satisfied with themselves and with each other. Two people who were in the carnage she had left exchanged glances, and smiled. “A very charming girl!” said the old lady benevolently; the girl had been chattering to her for the last half-nour, and had told her much, and the old lady liked to be confided in. “Yes,” the man assented, but without enthusiasm. He was a man in the prime of life, vel| set up, and with a been, clever face. He had taken little part in the conversation, but had a shrewd suspicion that a good! deal of the chatter had been directed at him; and it told him more than his kindly old compaion. “She appears to have a most happy disposition,” the old lady continued refl-ct-ively. “Very. So long as life goes smootluy with her She will never break her heart over other people’s troubles. Oh. a most happy disposition indeed!” “Yes,” assented the old lady, who was a little deaf. “Just to hear her laugh does me good. Such sunny natures neip us sadder folk to bear our troubles.” “It’s all the help you'll ever get from her or I'm much mistaken,” he muttered; then aloud, “She is a very pretty girl, and it is a rare treat to listen to heir. An

outsider sees so much more of the game, and already I believe I know her better than if we'd lived in the same house tor year®. Yes, she is a most interesting study.” “A study? Is that all you modern young men think about when you see a girl like that?” “Modern young men! lam probably quite elderly in her pretty blue eyes l — as much of a Methuselah as her father's old friend, of whose expected arrival she was telling you. I daresay—if the facts were known—the poor old) fellowi is not much more than forty. These felfabsorbed yonng things sometimes take astonishingly narrow views.” “You seem rather piqued about it,” ’and! the old lady looked at him with an amused smile.

“Yes. but not on her account. It is the thought that perhaps—somebody eis© may take the same view that gives ner word® their sting. But, no, I'll not believe it. The likeness —for she is very like—can only be skin-deep, and —” “I cannot quite catch what you «re He had never meant that she should; indeed, he had forgotten all about her in the thick, thronging memories the girl s face had conjured up, and her words brought him back to the present with a “Wo are just in now,” he remarked, consulting his watch, ‘And I shall just be able to see you comfortably into your carriage before I have to catch the tram back to Merston.” • _ And with that tiro train steamed slowly into th© station, and np more was said on the subject.

CHAPTER II

“And you really are not finding it dull here ?” “Dull? No. Why in the world should I ?” “Oh, father is so much engaged just now and everybody away but me. If only one of the boys bad been at home— ’ “I assur© you I'm very happy without them.”

And lie certainly looked it. ‘‘lt’s very nice of you to say so; but if Bob lrad not still been in South Africa, and George in Germany—” "‘1 could not have bad a better time tlian I am having at present,” and be ooked at her with laughing eyes. “You .see, I have not the faintest recollection of Bob or George, and had no thought mt them when I came home; but I do very distinctly remember a fair-haired little girl in a pinafore with whom I was great friends, and —I find her very little changed, Bertha/'’ “Save in the matter of the pinafore?” “Save in the matter of a pinafore, ton had your mother’s eyes even then, and now —I should have known you anywhere from your likeness to.her.” ’“I am glad you think me like her,” with a smile and a sigh; “but wait till you have seen Winnie. Winnie is—” “Everything that is charming, no doubt.” He spoke a little impatiently, but tlve impatience—had she only known it—was not for her. “But we are not talking about Winnie just now. I want to talk about something else for once—something that interests me a great uea.l more.” She looked a little puzzled. “And that is?” “Yourself.” She shook her head with frank amusement. “All, I am not interesting at .all; and indeed, there is nothing to talk about. I have just lived lysie all my life, and nothing has ever happened to me.” “Then you are like the happy nations that have no history?” *T suppcoe so, but they are not very interesting to read about, a.r© they?” He looked at her sweet face and smiled. “Perhaps not; but they would be extremely pleasant to livo with.” lie said, with conviction. He had been some days at Ha-lston Hall, and already Bertha and he were on the pleasantest terms. This was not strange, for she so greatly resembled her mother, who had been his boj'ish ideal of sweet and gracious womanho-od that he felc as though he had found her again after years of parting; found her. and yet with a difference. He was amply satisfied, a.id had small desire for other society than that of this gentle girl; for to him she was a girl still for all her sedateness. and a meat dhurmiuig and attraoidv-e one. Winnie’s praises wearied him. Vv.aa not everybody exalting her at Bertha’s expense ? So the days passed pleasantly away, and Bertha forgot her anxieties on Inis .©- count, and no longer regretted her sister's absence. She forgot that she was twentyeight years of age, and quite past girlhood; why, indeed, should she remember it when Winnie was no longer there to remind bar of th© fact by her own. vivid youth? And she found a new joy in 'ife a fairer beauty in each summer clay, a sweeter charm in the starlit night, Siio did not question how or why this should be, she merely knew that it was so, and took it for granted, and was liappv. But one brilliant afternoon as she sat in the garden alone, she s-aw a. slender, white-robed .figure flitting between he flowering shrubs towards her. and sprang to her feet with a cry of welcome. “Winnie!” she exclaimed, and then again—“ Winnie! Why did you not let/Us know you were coming? We had no idea —” rc “I know.” and Winnie laughed rather consciously, as she Kissed her in her careless, impulsive way. “I had no idea uf it myself till—l got tired of it all, Bert; I put up with it as long as I could—l did, indeed—but it was all so dull, and—” “Dull ? But wasn’t Charley there ?” “Y'es, that was jmvt it!” ruefully. “He was, oh, so tiresome, and so terribly young! X am tired to death of Charley and boys like him; and—l thought it would, be pleasanter at home no‘w—and more amusing.” “And what doe© Mrs. Graham say to it all ?”

•'"Oh, she was as nice as possible. Of •course, I didn't toll her that Charley bo rod ms—“l should hope not!” “But I said you had an old friend of father's staying here, and I thought he was boring you a little —" ‘‘Winnie!" “And it seemed only fair I should] do my share in entertaining him. Oh, "he quite understood, and said sh© was glad I was so considerate! It is really all . light, Bert dear. And now, -are you not honestly glad to have mo at home again ?" •‘Am I ever anything but glad to nave you at home?" Bertha asked, and there was a note of reproach in her gentle voice. “But I wish you had not troubled about me. We have been getting on very well, and I haven't boen bored in the least” —neither, she added 1 mentally, has he, which is of infinitely greater importance; but she did not say this to Winnie. • "Yes; but ~you will get on fiver so much better with me," she saiu, gaily. “I will take the old gentleman off your hands for a bit. By the way, is he very old, Bertha ?" But it seemed Bertha had no wish uo discuss him with her. “You will soon be able to judge for yourself,” she said quietly. “Yes, I know; but—l'm off it with boys, and that's the truth. It's all the fault of a pian in the train the other day. He was splendid, and, oh, you can't think how he took the sdiinei out of Charley and the .rest! I'd give anything to know who he was, and if only— But no, I shall never see him again!" Sihe gave a quick sigh, and then added! more lightly, “Soyou see I'm prepared) to like anybody up to fifty, say, for his sake; from which you may judg& what an impression he has made upon me. Now, is Mi”. Westbury more than fifty ?" . ' “Fifty ? No, nor anything like it; out you may think him old for all that/' “Not now," and she shook her head with mock gravity. “Haven't I been telling you I'm tired of froyu?" There was a note of seriousness in her usually gay voice that made her sister glance at her in sfur- : prise. “Oh, yes, I'm quite m earnest, and she nodded confidentially. T shall never see iim -again, so -E manct telling you. And! now 4 , Bert, wiiero is

Mr. Westbury ? I want to entertain and to be entertained.” “He was to join nre here at tea-time, so you won’t have to wait long.” Bertha’s voice was colder- than usual; for the first time in her life she felt that Winnie’s light talk Jarred upon her. After all, Giles Westbury was not just a toy Jor this pretty, wilful child to play with, bul>— “Here he comes, 'Winnie,” she 'aid quietly, as she glancecl across the lawn. Winnie turned and saw him. She sprang up with a little startled' cry. ••Impossible!” she gasped. A. lovely flush dyed her fair face; her eyes were radiant. Bertha looked at her in astonishment. He was still at so in© little distance, and for a moment there was a breathless silence ; then—“ls it really you?” she said, going forward to see him with quick, impulsive grace. “I am so glad.” “Thank you.” He spoke courteously, but without'enthusiasm. “It is very kind of you to say so.” lie looked beyond her to Bertha, and his eyes were stern. How he wished h had told her before of that chance meeting! Why had ho not done so? Just because he had heard so much of the girl that ho Knew he would be expected to swell the universal chorus of praise, and ho was essentially an honest mam. He would say nothing, since anything he could honestly say would be considered far, far beneath the love! .of what Winnie -as justly entitled to in the way of eulogy. “You know —my sister?” Bertha aaiwd. There was wonder in her grey eyes, and somie-thing else, too. Was it dismay? “We mot, yes —by chance—in th© train, ’ he said, speaking as indifferently as no could. •'ln the train,” site repealed. “Ah!” Winnie’s flush deepened; she laughed nervously. “And to think that we did not Know each other ?” she said. But he would have no further reservations. Bertha should know all now—not, of course, that there was really anything to know. “Indeed, I knew you!” He met Winnies eyes calmly as he spoke. “1 guessed tv ho you were at once.” 'Then Ire looked beyond her at Bertha almost apoiogoticany. “She is s> like you,. Bertha,” he said. “Yes,” Bertha assented quietly. CHAPTER 111. With Winnie’s return Bertha’s brief dream of happiness ended. Her lapse into girlhood had baen pleasant while .t lasteu, but it could not survive a iuioni'G'at’s comparison with her sister’s obtrusive youth and gaiety Winnie had com e home to resume her rt.ghtiul supremacy, and Bertha. fell back into insignificance as a matter of course. S'o —for the first time in her life—Bertha put it to herself, not without bitterness. Not that she in any way blamed Winnie; ©he was too j ust, too absolutely loyal to her old beneis no do that. It was in- ■ evitable, she told herself. Winnie must be first whereveriShe was by right divine of her natural gilts and graces; she could no mor© lierp it than the sun could help shiniiig or the birds singing. Yes, it was inevitable; but that made it.none the less hard to bear. Winnie took ovear the entertainment of Giles Westbury with characteristic thoroughness, and Bertha had nothing to do but to efface herself as usual. And Giles? Apparently he acquiesced in the position. What else could he do? Undoubtedly Winnie was very charming, and she was very sure of herself and the power of her civil attractions. Was it likely that this man, of all men —tins man who had been the first loiouon her wilful heart—would’ also be the first to resist her charm? Such an idea never crossed her mind for a moment. That lie merely resigned himself to her civilities, regarding 1110111 as a whim of which she would soon weary, never entered her pretty head. How should 1 it ? Nothing in her previous experience had prepared her for such a possibility. Time passed, ancl Giles began to grow uneasy. To 'devote three whole days to a somewhat unresponsive man, of forty was mor© than he would have given her credit for. and he began to think he had not been unresponsive enough or was it that he had not been sufficiently responsive? Perhaps had he been more easily pleased she would have cared les© to please him; perhaps— Oh, it was becoming altogether too much of a good thing! They had spoilt her 10 some purpose between them, and now she could not imagine that she might by any possibility be “de trop.” Alas! he knew bee ter. A dozen times he had been napeful of a few moments alone with Berthamoments in which lie might have broken down the wall of constraint that had somehow arisen _ between them and a dozen times Winnie had intervened. Not intentionally—he was pretty sure of that; but just because sh© could not for the Tfe of her see that she was not wanted. And the worst of it wa© that Bertha seemed to take it for granted that she was right. For she began to avoid him; he was sure of it, and the conviction stung him to action. He must do something to put things right—if only he could make up his mind what to do. And then a chance word of Winnie’s gave him his opportunity. It showed him in a flash the quickest way out of tbe difficulty, and without a moment’s hesitation he took it. They were sitting in th© garden together in the late afternoon, and Bertha had been called away. Winnie had been quieter than usual, and desultory conversation had ended in silence. To tell the truth, his unresponsiveness was beginning to puzzle her a little, though it is to be supposed that she accounted for it in the manner most gratifying to herself. At length she turned to him with a little laugh. “How silent we are! Talk, Giles. Say something, do. There were plenty of people to talk to me ait the Grahams’, and I only cam© home on your account.” “I know/- he said, “I wonder 1 why you didl it*”

“From a bitter sense of duty, of course —just! Ito entertain you! I knew how bored you must be." “Then it is a pity you troubled abo -t it," coolly; “for we were really getting on very well indeed," “That is just what Bert said," gaily. “But I don't believe it one bit; you were bored, both of you—" “I cannot answer for your sister, of course," he put her chatter aside without ceremony, “but I assure you that I was never further from icing bored in my life than I was then." “Not even now?" she asked, and her eyes challenged] his. “Not even now." Nothing could have been more convincing than his tone. She could not understand it. Such indifference must be assumed, but—assumed or not —it-piqued her. “Still, it was very kind of you to talce so much trouble," he added hastily, “and I greatly appreciate your intentions." “But not my company," with a bewitching glance from under her long lashes; a glance that would have whirled Charley up into the seventh heaven of delight, but left Giles quite unmoved. “Would you rather I left you to yourself now ?" “To myiself? No!" and belaid a detaining hand on her arm. as she half rose. It was his moment of inspiration, and his mind was mad© up. “Winnie, vou

have been so kind to me that I want 1 ou to be still kinder. Will you?" “What do you mean?" she asked, with unwonted shyness, and the colour rushed to her face; but lie never saw it. Bert 1 1a filled all his thoughts, and he had no eyes for her. “I wanlt to tell 3-011 something that .1 could tell to no one else; to ask you—oil, Winnie, you can help me as no one elss can! Bertha—•" “Bertha !" she repeated. “Bertha !" “Yes; since your return T have seen so little of her. She thinks all the world of you, and. l —" “But —I do not understand. What has Bertha to do with it?" “Everything. I—" “You care for her?” “I love her. I hope to make her my wife." There was a brief silence. The flu>H faded ■ from 'Winnie’s face, leaving nor very - pale. The moment of her awakening had come, anld it was very bitter. “She is ®o good, so utterly unselfish,” Giles went on, with all a lover’s absorption in the one and only subject. “She has so poor an opinion of herself, and thinks so much ,of others—of you in' particular— ’’ • VVinnie sprang to her feet. “Ho you think it is necessary to toll me of Bertha’s gpodness? Me I" she flashed out

at him "with an angry laugh. She must either be angry or cry, and anger seemed thie better way out of it. "I know all that she is a thousand times better than, you can do, and—and—l will send her 'o you at once.” And so she did!. "Bertha!” she cried,, breaking in on her sister's solitude, the light of battle still in Her eyes, and who can tell what pain and mortification in her heart. “You arc to go to Giles in the garden; be wants you;, he always wants you, it seems; and —l've been a 'fool not to see it' sooner. Had .1 only guessed—” “Winnie!” and Bertha confronted her with startled eyes. “What do you mean?” “Only this: that Giles is waiting for yon in the garden—for you, I tell you—and’ that I am going back to Mrs. Graham to-morrow.”

“But I thought you found it so dull—” “It can't be duller there than harr. I am going back* I tell you, back—to Oarley and the rest.”

And with a reckless laugh she ian cut of the room.

But Bertha, wondering greatly, went into the garden, where Giles—and happiness’ —awaited her.