Philippa
by Mrs Molesworth
Contents
Good-Byes
“What?” said Philippa
“So Unlike Her”
Fellow-Travellers
“Solomon”
“Miss Ray”
A Successful Début
A Morning Ramble
Mingled Feelings
“Merle-in-the-Wold”
A Cold Nose
An Appeal
Herself Again
Charley’s plan
Maida at Fault
Sunshiny Days
“Rencontres”
A Torn Frill
Good News
A Visitor in a Hansom
Circumstances
On the Way to the Fish-Ponds
Ended
Charley’s Friend
Illustrations
“Philippa already! How nice!”
“I beg your pardon; I never saw Solomon take such liberties before.”
“You will bewitch my father, I am sure.”
His presence was first revealed to the weeping girl by the touch of a
cold nose on her hand.
Looking for all the world like the everyday Philippa.
So he stepped forward with quiet matter-of-fact ease to greet her.
To her the whole scene was almost one of enchantment.
“May I show myself in?” said a voice in the doorway.
Chapter One.
Good-Byes.
Autumn—scarcely late autumn yet—and the day had been mild. But as the
afternoon wore on towards evening, there came the chilliness and early
gloom inevitable at the fall of the year—accompanied, to those who are
sensitive to such things, by the indescribable touch of melancholy
never present in the same way at other seasons.
Philippa Raynsworth shivered slightly, though half-unconscious that she
did so, and turned towards the shelter of the friendly porch just at
her side. As she moved, a hand was laid on her shoulder.
“Come in, you silly girl,” said its owner. “Do you want to catch cold?”
Philippa had been watching the gradual disappearance of a carriage down
the long drive, till a turn in the road suddenly hid it altogether.
Others had been watching it too, but she was standing somewhat
aloof—she had no special interest in the departing guests; she had
never seen them till to-day, and might very probably never see them
again. But something nevertheless had impressed her—the kind of day,
the approach of the gloaming, the evening scents from the garden, the
little shy breeze that murmured and grew silent again—there was a
plaintive harmony in it all, and even the prosaic, measured sound of
the horses’ feet, growing fainter and fainter, and the carriage
receding from sight while the “good-byes” still seemed hovering about,
all fitted in. She did not seek to define what it reminded her of, or
what feelings it awakened in her. It was just a scene—a passing
impression, or possibly a lasting one. There is never any accounting
for the permanence of certain spots in our experience—why some entirely
trivial incident or sensation should remain indented on our memory for
ever; while others which we would fain recall, some which it seems
extraordinary that we should ever be able to forget, fade as if they
had never been—who can say?
“I was just coming in,” Philippa replied, with a slight sense of
feeling ashamed of herself. She hated any approach to what she called
“affectation,” and she glanced quickly to where the little group had
stood but a moment before. It had dispersed. There was no one to be
seen but her cousin Maida and herself, and with a sense of relief
Philippa stopped again.
“Wait a moment, Maida,” she said. “There is really no danger of
catching cold, and it is nice out here. It will feel hot and _indoors_
in the drawing-room, with the tea still about and the talking. Let us
stay here just for a moment and watch the evening creeping in. _You_
understand the feeling I mean, I’m sure?”
Miss Lermont did not at once reply. She was older than Philippa—a great
deal older she would have said herself, and in some ways it would have
been true, though not in all. She had suffered much in her life, which,
after all, had not been a very long one, for she was barely thirty; she
had suffered more, probably, than any one realised, and—even a harder
trial—she knew that she would have to suffer a great deal more still,
if she lived. All this, the remembrance of suffering past, and to some
extent still present, and the anticipation, in itself an additional
present suffering, of what was yet to come, had made her old before her
time. Yet it had kept her young, too, by its intensification of her
power of sympathy. It is not all sufferers who acquire this peculiar
sympathy, nor is it the only good gift to be gained by passing through
the fire. But Maida Lermont’s sympathy was remarkable. It was not
solely or even principally for physical suffering, though to all but
the few who knew her well, physical suffering only had been _her_ fire.
“She has a happy nature,” most people would say of her, “though, of
course, she has had a great deal to bear. I really don’t think any one
so constitutionally cheerful is as much to be pitied as nervous
patients or _very_ sensitive people. There are, no doubt, some who feel
pain much more than others. And then the Lermonts are rich. She has
everything she wants.”
How little they knew! Maida was _not_ “constitutionally cheerful”—the
worst side, by far the worst, of her suffering had been to her, her
vivid consciousness of the wreck it might make of her altogether—mind,
heart, and soul.
But she had conquered, and more than conquered. She had emerged from
her trial not only chastened, but marvellously lifted and widened.
Intellect and spirit had risen to a higher place, and the rare and
delightful power of her sympathy knew no limits. It unlocked doors to
her as if she were the possessor of a magic key. Philippa was right
when she turned to her cousin with the words “you understand.”
“Yes,” she said, after her momentary delay—a delay spent in gazing
before her with her young cousin’s words in her ears. “Yes—it is
fascinating to get inside nature, as it were, sometimes—to feel it all.
I love to watch the evening coming, as you say, and I love to watch the
dawn creeping up—even more, I think. That has fallen to my lot oftener
than to yours, I hope, Philippa.” She smiled as she spoke, so her
cousin was not afraid to laugh softly.
“I am generally fast asleep at that time, I must confess. But even if I
were awake, I should not care for it as much as for evening. And to-day
it all seemed of a piece. You know it is my last evening here—and I
heard you all saying good-bye to those people who have just gone, and
Lady Mary’s voice sounded so silvery when she called back ‘good-night’
for the last time. Don’t you think, Maida, that there is _always_
something pathetic, if we stopped to think about it, in farewells, even
if we expect to meet again quite soon? One never can be _sure_ that a
good-bye may not be a real good-bye.”
“Yes, I have often felt that. And the real good-byes, as you call them,
are so seldom known to be such. Last times are not often thought to be
last times—strangely seldom, indeed.”
“And yet there must be a last time to _everything_,” said Philippa,
“even to the most commonplace little details of life.”
They were silent for a moment or two.
Then said Miss Lermont:
“I hope you will come back to us soon again, dear; I should like you to
see more of the neighbourhood and the neighbours.”
“I like what I _have_ seen of both,” said Philippa. “Lady Mary is a
dear little thing.”
“All the Bertrands are pleasant, kindly people,” Maida replied. “They
are happy people, and allow that they are so. It is refreshing nowadays
when so many are either peculiarly unhappy, or determined to think
themselves so. By-the-by, what a very silent man that friend of Captain
Bertrand’s is. Mr Gresham, I mean.”
“I scarcely spoke to him,” said Philippa, adding, with a laugh, “but he
certainly scarcely spoke to me, so I have no reason for disagreeing
with you.”
“Very silent people are almost worse than very talkative ones,” said
Maida. “I suppose you are a very lively party at home, now, with Evelyn
and the children.”
“Fairly so. Evey fusses a little, but she is always sweet, and we love
having them. We shall miss them terribly when Duke comes home and they
go to him, though I suppose it would be selfish not to be glad when he
does. _I_ shall miss them almost the most of all.”
“They keep you pretty busy, I daresay.”
“Ye-es, but not too busy. I am so thankful not to be one of those poor
girls who can’t find anything to do. There is no doubt about what _I_
have to do. But things are much clearer than they were, now that papa
is better. And when Charlie is at home for good, they will be easier
still.”
“We shall have you crying for work to do then,” said Maida, smiling.
But Philippa shook her head.
“I don’t think so,” she said.
Miss Lermont turned to go in.
“Come, Philippa; we really shall catch, cold if we stay out here
longer,” and Philippa followed her into the house.
“How few people understand each other!” thought the elder woman, as she
went across the hall and down the wide passage to the drawing-room.
“Nobody, to see her as she commonly is, would think that Philippa had
those undertones in her character—that tenderness and sensitiveness
that come out now and then. She seems just a very charming girl—bright
and energetic, and full of humour.”
And two minutes later, when Maida was resting on her sofa again, and
heard Philippa’s voice in spite of her reluctance to return to the
“talking,” one of the liveliest in the family party, and noticed her
quick tactful readiness to suit herself to whatever was going on, the
contrast with the dreamy girl who had stood gazing at the darkening sky
outside, responsive to every whisper of Nature’s evening prayer, struck
her even more.
“She is very interesting,” thought Miss Lermont. “I care for her
increasingly every day.”
It was Philippa’s first visit to Dorriford. The relationship was not a
very near one—only that of second cousins on the parents’ side. And the
Lermonts were very rich, and almost unavoidably self-engrossed, though
not selfish. For they were a large family party, though Maida, the
second daughter, was now the only unmarried one left at home. But a
constant succession of incursions from married sons and daughters,
unexpected swoopings down or turnings up of younger brothers from
India, or grandchildren “for the holidays,” kept the house in a state
of never-ending, active hospitality. It was accident—a chance meeting,
that is to say, which had brought about renewed intercourse between the
Lermonts and Philippa’s family, resulting in a week’s visit on the
young girl’s part.
It was to a great extent a new experience to her. Her family “lines”
were cast in very different places to luxurious Dorriford; her life,
though happily far from an intellectually narrow one, had been passed
amidst the restrictions of small means and many cares; her work, almost
indeed before she had left childhood behind her, had been “cut out” for
her distinctly enough.
The next morning brought her own farewells to Dorriford and its
inmates.
“I have enjoyed myself so much,” she said, with her usual heartiness,
to Mrs Lermont, when it came to saying good-bye. “It really has been a
treat to me, and it will be a treat to them all at home to hear about
it.”
“Well, then, dear, I hope you will soon come to see us again,” said her
hostess, kindly. “_We_ have enjoyed having you, I assure you.”
“Thank you for saying so,” Philippa replied. “But as for coming again
_soon_,” and she shook her head. “Some time or other I shall hope to do
so, but not soon, I fear.”
“They cannot well spare you, I daresay. But after all, they could
surely always do without you for a week. So you must pay us more
frequent visits, if they cannot be long ones.”
“If it were nearer,” said Philippa, “there is nothing I should enjoy
more. But you see, dear Mrs Lermont,” she went on naïvely, “it isn’t
only the ‘sparing’ me. I am not so tremendously important as all that.
It is also that we can’t afford much travelling about.” Mrs Lermont
looked uncomfortable.
“How I wish I had spoken of it before!” she thought. “She will perhaps
be hurt at it now that she has said that herself. I wish I had taken
Maida’s advice.”
She glanced round; there was no one within hearing. She half-nervously
slipped her hand into her pocket.
“Philippa, my dear,” she began, “you must _promise_ me not to mind what
I am going to say. I—I know—of course it is only natural I
should—relations as you are—that you have to consider such things, and
I—I had prepared this.” She held out a small envelope addressed to
“Miss Raynsworth.”
“You will accept it, dear to please me? And I want you to remember that
whenever you can come to us, the cost of the journey must not enter
into your consideration. That must be _my_ affair. If there were no
other reason, the pleasure that having you here gives Maida, makes me
beg you to let this be understood.”
The old lady spoke nervously, and a pink flush rose to her face. But
the moment the tone of Philippa’s voice in reply reached her, she felt
relieved.
“How _very_ good of you, dear Mrs Lermont!” she exclaimed, heartily. “I
never thought of such a thing; if I had—” She stopped and coloured a
little, but without a touch of hurt feeling. “I was going to say,” she
went on, laughingly, “that if I _had_ dreamt of such kindness, I would
not have alluded to the expense. But you had thought of it before I
said anything about it, hadn’t you? And of course you know we are not
at all rich. ‘Mind,’” as Mrs Lermont murmured something; “no, of
course, I don’t mind, except that I think you are very, very kind, and
I am sure they will all think so at home too.”
She kissed her cousin again, and the old lady patted her affectionately
on the shoulder as she did so.
“Then it is a bargain,” she said. “Whenever they can spare
you—remember.”
Philippa nodded in reply, though she had not time to speak, for just
then came one of her cousins’ voices from the hall, bidding her hurry
up if she did not mean to miss the train.
“She is a thoroughly nice, sensible girl,” said Mrs Lermont to her
daughter, when Maida entered the drawing-room that morning an hour or
two later.
“Yes,” Maida replied. “She is all that and more. I like her extremely.
But I do not know that life will be to her quite what one would feel
inclined to predict, judging her as she seems now.”
“How do you mean?” said her mother. “I should say she will get on very
well, and meet troubles pretty philosophically when they come. She is
not spoilt, and there is nothing fantastic or in the least morbid about
her.”
“N-no,” Miss Lermont agreed. “But she is more inexperienced than she
thinks, and though not spoilt in the ordinary sense of the word, she
has not really had much to try her. And her nature is deeper than you
would think—deeper than she knows herself.”
“Possibly so,” Mrs Lermont replied. “But though you are certainly not
morbid, Maida, I think you _are_ a trifle fantastic—about other people,
never about yourself. You study them so, and I think you put your own
ideas into your pictures of them. Now _I_ should say that Philippa
Raynsworth is just the sort of girl to go through life in a
comfortable—and by that I don’t mean selfish—satisfactory sort of way,
without anything much out of the commonplace. She has plenty of energy,
and, above all, any amount of common-sense.” Maida laughed. This sort
of discussion was not very uncommon between the mother and daughter;
they were much together, owing to Mrs Lermont’s increasing lameness and
Maida’s chronic delicacy, and often alone. And they understood each
other well, though in many ways they were very different.
“Perhaps you are right, mother,” the daughter said, “Perhaps I do work
up people in my imagination till they grow quite unlike what they
really are. People, some especially, interest me so,” she went on,
thoughtfully. “I feel very grateful to my fellow-creatures; thinking
them over helps to make my life much pleasanter than it might otherwise
be.”
Mrs Lermont glanced at her half anxiously. It was so seldom that Maida
alluded to the restrictions and deprivations of her lot.
“I am sure, dear, you always think of them in the kindest possible way;
you may be critical, but you are certainly not cynical,” and she
glanced at her daughter affectionately. Mrs Lermont was an affectionate
mother to all her children, but her daughter Maida had the power of
drawing out a strain of tenderness of which one would scarcely have
suspected the existence in her. Miss Lermont smiled back.
“I am glad you think so, mother,” she said; “all the same, I often feel
I should be on my guard lest the interest of dissecting others’
characters should lead me too far. As for Philippa, I shall be only too
glad, poor child, if her life is a happy and uncomplicated one.” And
the subject for the time was dropped, though Maida’s memory, above all
where her affections were concerned, was curiously retentive. From that
time her young cousin had her own place in what Maida sometimes to
herself called her invisible picture-gallery; there were many touches
still wanting to the completion of the portrait, some which no one
could have predicted.
Philippa herself, tranquilly seated in the corner of her second-class
railway compartment, would have been not a little astonished could she
have overheard what her cousins were saying about her—_herself_ was
not, as a rule, the subject of her cogitations.
It was a long journey to Marlby, the nearest station to Philippa’s
home; long, comparatively speaking, that is to say, for the length of
journeys, like the measure of many other things, is but a relative
matter, and the young girl had travelled so little in her short life
that the eight hours across country seemed to her no trifling matter.
She enjoyed it thoroughly; even the waitings at junctions and changing
of trains, at which many would have murmured, added to the pleasurable
excitement of the whole. There was something exhilarating in the mere
fact of passing through places whose names were unfamiliar to her.
“What a pretty name!” she said to herself, at one station where some
minutes had to be spent for no apparent reason, as nobody got out or
got in, and neither express nor luggage train passing by solved the
enigma—”‘Merle-in-the-Wold!’ and what a pretty country it seems about
here! I don’t remember noticing it on my way coming. I wonder how long
it will be before I pass by here again. They won’t be so afraid about
me at home after this, when they see how well I have managed—catching
trains and everything quite rightly, and not losing my luggage, or
anything stupid like that—though, I suppose, I’d better not shout till
I’m out of the wood. I should feel rather small if my things don’t turn
up at Marlby.”
But these misgivings did not trouble her long; she was absorbed by the
picturesque beauty of the country around, which was shown to its
greatest advantage by the lovely autumn weather.
“There is really some advantage in living in an uninteresting part of
the world as we do,” Philippa went on thinking; “it makes one doubly
enjoy scenery like this. I wonder I never heard of it before. I wonder
what those turrets can be over there among the trees; they must belong
to some beautiful old house. Dear me, what delightful lives some
fortunate people must have, though, I suppose, there are often
drawbacks—for instance, in Maida Lermont’s case! I wouldn’t change with
her for anything, except that she’s so very, very good. It is so nice
to be strong, and able to enjoy any lucky chance which comes in one’s
way, like this visit to Dorriford. I shall have to be content now with
quiet home life for a good while.”
But home, quiet and monotonous as it might be, was essentially home to
Philippa. Her spirits rose still higher as she knew herself to be
nearing it, and she had never looked brighter than when she sprang out
of the lumbering old fly which had brought her and her belongings from
Marlby station, and eagerly questioned the servant at the door as to
which members of the family were in.
“Mamma is, you say, but not my father—and Mrs Headfort and the
children? Everybody is quite well, I suppose?”
[Illustration: ] “Philippa already! How nice!”
“All quite well, Miss Philippa,” replied Dorcas, the elderly handmaid
who had once been Philippa’s nurse. “Your mamma and Miss Evelyn—Mrs
Headfort, I should say—are in the drawing-room. I don’t think they
expected you quite so soon. My master has gone to meet the young
gentlemen on their way back from school. I don’t suppose they’ll be in
for some time.”
“All the better,” said Philippa, “so far as the boys are concerned,
that is to say. I do want to have a good talk with mamma and Evey
first.”
“Yes, of course, Miss Philippa, you must have plenty to tell, and
something to hear too, maybe;” this rather mysteriously.
“What can you mean?” said Philippa, stopping short on her way; but
Dorcas only shook her head and smiled.
“Philippa already! How nice!” were the words that greeted her as she
opened the drawing-room door. “Darling, how well you’re
looking!”—and—“Evey, dear, ring for tea at once, the poor child must be
famishing,” from her mother.
Certainly there could be no two opinions as to the warmth of the young
girl’s welcome home.
“It is nice to be back again,” said Philippa, throwing herself on to a
low chair beside her mother, “and with such lots to tell you. They have
all been so kind, and I have so enjoyed it; but, by-the-by, before I
begin, what does Dorcas mean by her mysterious hints about some news I
had to hear?”
“Dorcas is an old goose,” said Mrs Headfort, “and a sieve as well. I
wouldn’t have told her anything about it, except that I had to consult
her. It’s nothing so very tremendous after all—only that I’ve got an
invitation to Wyverston—a very cordial one;” the last words
impressively.
Philippa’s brown eyes opened to their widest.
“An invitation to Wyverston,” she repeated; “really? How wonderful! Not
very tremendous you call it Evey; I think it’s wonderful—past words.”
“It does seem so, certainly,” said Mrs Raynsworth quietly, “and, of
course, it may mean—well, everything almost for Duke’s future, for”—
“Oh, and”— began Mrs Headfort, “this is the point of it—his uncle had
first written to Duke about their wish to see me, and I got Duke’s
letter telling about it just two posts before the invitation itself.”
“And what does he say?” said Philippa. “Of course you must go! Dear me,
how exciting it is! Why didn’t you write to tell me at once? I would
have hurried home to talk it over. You’ll have a lot to do, won’t you?”
“A fair amount,” said Evelyn, “but I have got it pretty well planned. I
didn’t write on purpose, for fear of making you think you must come
back.—Yes, of course Duke wants me to go”— She sighed deeply. “You
don’t know how I dread it!”
“I can imagine it,” said Philippa. “What a pity you and I can’t be
mixed together, Evey; I should enjoy it of all things. The sort of
adventure about it, you know.”
“Just what terrifies me,” said Mrs Headfort plaintively. “And as if I
didn’t realise only too fully how terrible it is, Duke writes pages and
pages of warnings and instructions and directions, and heaven knows
what! down to the minutest detail. If he had known more about the
fashions, he would have told me exactly how my dresses were to be made,
and my hair done—”
“He might have saved himself the trouble as to the last item,” said
Philippa, consolingly. “You never have been and never will be able to
do your hair decently, Evelyn.”
Mrs Headfort’s pretty face grew still more dejected in expression.
“I really don’t think you need be such a Job’s comforter, Philippa,”
she said, reproachfully, “just when mamma and I have been longing so
for you to come home. Duke _didn’t_ write about my hair, so you needn’t
talk about it. What he did write was bad enough, and the worst of all
is—”
“What?” said Philippa.
Chapter Two.
“What?” said Philippa.
“He says,” replied Mrs Headfort, glancing round her—“dear me, where is
his letter? I would like to read it to you. I must have left it
up-stairs.”
“Never mind,” said her sister, with a touch of impatience. Evelyn’s
belongings were rather apt to be left up-stairs or down-stairs, or
anywhere, where their owner happened not to be at the moment. “Never
mind about it, you can read it to me afterwards; just tell me the gist
of it just now.”
“If you mean by that the most perplexing part of it, I was just going
to tell it you when you interrupted. Duke says I _must_ take a maid. He
says his cousins would never get over it—be too scandalised for words,
if I arrived without one. Such a state of things could never occur to
them, even though they knew how poor we are!”
“Naturally enough,” said Philippa, “even if Duke hadn’t spoken of it, I
am sure we should have thought of it ourselves. And I don’t see any
such tremendous difficulty about it.”
“I might have managed it in another way,” said Mrs Headfort, “if they
had invited Bonny, for then I could have taken nurse, and—well, without
saying what wasn’t true—let it be supposed that I didn’t want to bring
two servants. And nurse would really have done all I need fairly well.”
“But they haven’t asked Bonny? And I suppose you can’t volunteer to
take him?”
“Oh, dear, no,” Evelyn replied, gazing vaguely around her again, as if
by some magic her husband’s letter could have found its way down to the
table beside her. “That’s just what Duke says. Bonny, you see,
Philippa, is the crux. Bonny must not be obtruded. Duke lays great
stress upon that, and, of course, my own sense would have told me so if
he hadn’t. Oh, no, of course I can’t take nurse and Bonny, even if you
and mamma could have accepted the responsibility of Vanda without
nurse.”
“Of course that would have been all right with Dorcas,” said Mrs
Raynsworth. “I have suggested Evelyn’s taking Dorcas, Philippa, but—”
“It would _never_ do,” said Evelyn, hastily. “I’m sure you’ll say so,
too, Philippa. That’s one reason I’m so glad you’ve come back. Do tell
mamma it would never do.”
“Honestly, I don’t think it would,” said Philippa. “To begin with,
one’s never sure of her rheumatism not getting bad—and then, though
she’s the dearest old thing in the world, the wildest flight of
imagination couldn’t transform her into a maid.”
“I was sure you would say so,” said Mrs Headfort. “You see, mamma dear,
everything is so different from all those years ago when she was your
maid.”
“Dorcas herself is different, certainly,” Mrs Raynsworth agreed, “and
no wonder when you think of all she has done for us, and made herself
into for our sakes,” and she sighed a little. “But otherwise, maids
when I was young, I assure you, had to be quite as competent as
nowadays.”
“Of course,” said Philippa, detecting the tiniest touch of annoyance in
her mother’s tone, “Evelyn didn’t mean it quite that way. But still
Dorcas certainly wouldn’t do. It would be very disagreeable for her at
her age to be thrown into a household of that kind, and perhaps made
fun of by smart servants.”
“And besides that,” said Mrs Headfort, “I don’t see how you could do
without her here; and she is so clever about the children, it is a
satisfaction to know you have her to consult if anything was wrong with
either of them while I’m away. I mean,” she went on, with a
half-unconscious apology for her maternal egotism, “for your sake, too,
mamma, it lessens the responsibility.”
Mrs Raynsworth did not at once reply; she was thinking over things.
“There is Fanny,” she said; “she is a quick girl; she might be better
than no one.”
“I scarcely think so,” said Philippa, “and she is inclined to be a
chatterbox. She would entertain the servants’-hall at Wyverston with
all the details of our life here, and, of course, it would be terribly
undignified to tell her to hold her tongue, as if we had anything to be
ashamed of. It would seem to her that we wanted her to be
untruthful—oh, no, it would never do!”
“There’s nothing to do that I can see,” said Evelyn, “except for me to
go alone. There is just a chance of Dorcas hearing of some one—a girl
in the village—who was coming home between two places, or something of
that kind. Failing that, I see nothing for it.”
“I think a perfect stranger would be worse than anything,” said
Philippa, “she would be so utterly unused to your ways, and yet—I
thoroughly agree with what Duke says about it!”
“Oh, dear,” said Mrs Headfort, throwing herself back in her chair.
“What a bother it all is! I almost wish the Wyverston people had
continued to forget us. And yet I should be so proud and pleased if any
good came of it for Duke, as it were, you know, through me, I mean, if
I could make a good impression on them;” and her face flushed a little.
“How could she fail to do so?” thought her younger sister to herself,
glancing at Evelyn with fond admiration.
Mrs Headfort looked very pretty, the slight additional colour
brightening up her fair complexion advantageously. She _was_ very
pretty, and her beauty was of the kind that bears criticising—looking
into minutely—for her features were all delicate and regular, her
expression sweet though far from insipid, making a charming whole,
though, as a rule, perhaps somewhat wanting in colour.
“Don’t let us talk about this tiresome maid question any more just
now,” the elder sister continued. “I’ve lots to tell you and ask you
about my clothes, Philippa. You must have seen all sorts of beautiful
dresses at Dorriford, though I’m afraid there’s too little time for me
to profit by any hints. And, by-the-by, I’ve not let you tell anything
about Dorriford yet, rushing at you with my affairs.”
“It is so very interesting about your going to Wyverston,” said
Philippa. “It has almost made me forget what I had to tell you. Nothing
really exciting, perhaps! But it was all so new to me, and they were so
kind. I did enjoy it thoroughly.”
Some details of her visit followed—about the people she had met, and
descriptions of the place itself—the latter made more distinct by
questions from her mother, who had stayed there once in her young days
long ago.
“And they say—Mrs Lermont and Maida especially—that I must go back
there before long. And oh! mamma,” she went on, “about the money!
Wasn’t it kind of Mrs Lermont?” and she related what had passed between
herself and her hostess just before she left Dorriford.
“It was very kind, very kind and thoughtful,” said Mrs Raynsworth,
cordially.
“I’ve got ever so much money over,” Philippa continued. “The whole of
Mrs Lermont’s present, of course, and some of what you gave me, mamma.”
“You may give me back the remains of mine,” said her mother, “but you
must certainly keep what your cousin gave you for yourself, however you
do another time. You father must certainly pay it this once.”
As she said the words, the door opened and Mr Raynsworth came in. He
was tall and thin, fair like his elder daughter, and with the slight
bend in his shoulders inevitable in one of his scholarly habits. He
smiled brightly as he caught sight of Philippa, who started up to meet
him.
“Well, my dear little secretary,” he said, affectionately. “Safe back
again. You’re not sorry to be home, I hope.”
“No, indeed,” said the girl, “though I’ve been very happy. It was quite
time for me to come home, as Evelyn is going to start off so soon. You
would have been left with nobody at all!”
“I haven’t been much good to him,” said Mrs Headfort, deprecatingly.
“Oh, yes, my dear,” said her father, with amiable condescension,
“you’ve been very good, very good indeed. You did your best, and who
can do more?”
Mrs Headfort smiled. She knew she was much less clever than her sister,
but the knowledge never roused in her the faintest sensation of
jealousy.
“And _à propos_ of my secretaries,” continued Mr Raynsworth, “it’s
going to be an _embarras de richesses_. There’s a letter from Charlie
by the second post”—he held out an envelope as he spoke—“to say that he
may be coming next week instead of a fortnight later.” Philippa’s face
fell a little. Fond as she was of her elder brother, it went somewhat
against the grain with her to think of so soon giving up the post of
amanuensis to her father, which she had filled for the last two years.
“So,” Mr Raynsworth went on, “so far as _I_ was concerned, my dear, you
might have paid a longer visit at Dorriford.”
“Or you might come with me to Wyverston! How I wish you were coming!”
said Mrs Headfort, quick to perceive the slight disappointment in her
sister’s face called forth by her father’s speech, though it had been
made in all innocence.
“I wish I could go with you,” said Philippa. “I shall have nothing to
do when you’re away.”
“Oh, yes, dear, you will,” said her mother; “Charlie will be wanting
you all day long, to begin with.”
“And I want you dreadfully _now_,” said Evelyn. “I am longing to show
you my clothes and what I’m arranging about them—several things I
couldn’t fix about till you came back.”
“I’m quite ready,” said Philippa. “I’m not the least tired,” and she
rose to accompany her sister up-stairs, but again the door opened, and
this time two pairs of arms were thrown round her with exclamations of
delight.
“Oh, Hugh—Leonard! one at a time, please,” she exclaimed, laughingly.
“We’re so glad you’re back,” said the boys together, “and we’ve such
heaps of things to tell you—and to show you,” added Leonard. “Are you
too tired to come out to-night? I’ve got the other guinea-pig I was
hoping for—one of the feathery kind, you know; he is such a beauty. Do
come—”
He got hold of his sister’s sleeve and began tugging at her, while Hugh
on her other side was evidently bursting with some equally important
communication he was longing to make to her.
Evelyn interposed, partly through selfish motives, partly, it is to be
hoped, through pity for her sister.
“You mustn’t drag Philippa out to-night, boys,” she said. “It would be
inhuman! Don’t you see she has had her hat on all day; you forget she’s
been travelling since the morning. I’ve been selfish enough myself in
keeping you here all this time talking—come up-stairs with me,
Philippa,” and she passed her hand through her sister’s arm.
“I am really not tired,” said Philippa. “Perhaps I can come out later
to see the guinea-pig, Leonard;” but she did not resist Mrs Headfort’s
persuasive touch. The latter glanced at her once or twice as they
slowly made their way up-stairs. Philippa’s face had an absent, grave
expression, which made her sister feel somewhat self-reproachful.
“You _are_ tired, Philippa, whatever you say, and it is greatly my
fault. It is horrid to be rushed at the moment one arrives, with a lot
of home worries.”
“They are not worries in the first place,” said Philippa, rousing
herself; “I am feeling nothing but the greatest interest in your plans.
I am only thinking it all over.”
“I hope you include my clothes in the ‘it,’ then! There are some
patterns I must decide about before the post goes out. Will you come to
my room as soon as you’ve taken off your things?”
“I must just peep in at the children for a moment,” said Philippa, “but
I’ll come down again directly.”
The nursery was next door to her own room, a floor higher. For on Mrs
Headfort’s return from India with her two babies more than a year ago,
Philippa had given up to her sister the room which had been her own
since Evelyn’s marriage.
Joyful sounds from above reached Mrs Headfort’s ears as she turned in
to her own quarters—“Auntie Phil!”—“Aty, turn back!”
“How those children do adore her!” thought their mother. “I’m afraid
they won’t let her go, and I really must settle about these tiresome
clothes!”
But barely five minutes had passed before Philippa appeared again,
divested of her travelling things, bright and interested.
“How did you manage to escape from the nursery?” said Mrs Headfort,
admiringly.
Philippa laughed.
“I told them I _must_ come down to you; children have a great respect
for ‘must’ Oh, how pretty!” she went on, as she caught sight of an
evening-dress lying on the bed; “you don’t mean to say that’s your old
heliotrope! How capitally you’ve managed it!”
“I am so glad you like it,” said Evelyn, in a tone of great
gratification. “I took it to Warder’s as soon as I heard about this
terrible visit. It is really the only thing that’s quite ready. I must
get one completely new evening-dress. Mamma and I thought white or
cream would be best.”
“Yes,” Philippa agreed, “anything in colour gets so quickly, known, and
white always suits you.”
“And, of course,” said Mrs Headfort, “I want something I can wear for a
long time, and one can always alter a white dress. There are so many
things to consider, you see, Philippa. Duke wouldn’t want them to think
me extravagant, and yet, on the other side, I must on no account be
dowdy.” She gave a deep sigh. “Men have no idea how difficult things
are for women!”
“It is difficult,” Philippa agreed, “but your having no maid still
seems to me the worst of it. Its hateful to depend on a housemaid’s
good offices, and even morning-dresses are so difficult to manage by
one’s self nowadays.”
“Yes indeed,” said Evelyn; “I shall never know if I look nice or not;
it isn’t as if they were people I knew well—or knew at all. Oh, dear
me, how I wish they had waited to ask me till Duke came home! But now
you must help me to decide on one of these patterns, or I shall miss
the post.”
The next half-hour passed quickly in discussions of the details of her
sister’s trousseau, as Philippa laughingly called it; and if the
younger girl in her secret heart found the minutiae rather wearisome,
she kept her feelings to herself, and was more than rewarded by
Evelyn’s increased good spirits and cheerfulness.
“You don’t know what a comfort it is to have Philippa back again,” she
said to her mother that evening at dinner; “I am beginning to feel ever
so much happier about Wyverston. I shall be able to write quite
comfortably to poor old Duke by next mail.”
Mrs Raynsworth glanced affectionately at her younger daughter.
Personally these two resembled each other very closely, nor did the
resemblance stop with their outward appearance. There was decision and
firmness in both faces, both even more strongly marked in Philippa’s
case than in her mother’s, for young as the girl still was, she gave
one an impression of extreme reliability, and of late years somewhat
failing health and the mellowing influence of time had softened the
character of Mrs Raynsworth’s whole personality. Her married life,
though far from an unhappy one, had been by no means free from the
undue share of practical cares which almost inevitably falls to the
wife of a scholar. And that Mr Raynsworth was a scholar, in the fullest
sense of the word, there could be no two opinions. It was from him
Philippa inherited the intellectual side of her character, balanced by
her mother’s practical good sense, and other more ordinary though not
the less desirable feminine qualities.
In his secret heart there were times when Mr Raynsworth sighed over the
girl’s eager interest in social amusements and the daily life of those
about her.
“She almost has it in her to be a really learned woman,” he would say
to himself, and in other surroundings it is possible that his ideal for
her might have been realised. But as things were, Philippa would have
choked in a study had the bulk of her time been spent poring over
books. Her lessons with her father over, or, in later years, the work
she did for him, and that with real appreciation, completed for the
time being, she would fly off to arrange flowers in the drawing-room,
or even to discuss the fashion of a new dress, with as keen enjoyment
as if she had never touched a Greek or Latin book in her life.
Personally she was like her mother. Dark-haired, brown-eyed, and of a
make and bearing suggestive of unusual vigour; while by one of those
curious inconsistencies which abound in family likenesses, Evelyn
Headfort resembled her father in appearance and temperament, and though
by careful education her brain-powers had been made the most of, they
were not above the average.
One gift she possessed—the source of infinite pleasure to those about
her—that of a very beautiful voice, and if Philippa’s generous nature
had been capable of even a passing touch of jealousy of her sister, it
would have shown in this direction.
“It is strange,” she would say, sometimes, “that one can adore music as
I feel I do, and yet have no power of expressing it one’s self.”
And even as a little child her sweetest dreams and fancies were shaped
and coloured by the longing to find herself in possession of the
marvellous gift of music, a gift which she sometimes felt inclined to
reproach her sister for not sufficiently prizing. For musical as she
undoubtedly was, Evelyn was neither poetical nor imaginative, however
difficult it might be to credit this when one gazed at her delicate,
almost ethereal features and lovely, dreamy blue eyes.
“One can’t have everything,” she would reply, prosaically enough, to
her sister. “You’re a hundred, thousand times cleverer than I, and
quite as capable or more so, and, to _my_ mind, quite as nice-looking.
You really needn’t grudge me my voice. I only care about it because all
of you do.”
But for the dissimilarity between them—possibly, indeed, to some extent
in consequence of it—never were two sisters more heartily attached to
each other. Never was a home less disturbed by the friction of opposing
tastes or unrestrained moods than theirs. There was, no doubt, dormant
intensity of feeling, depths of devotion and capacity for suffering in
the younger girl’s nature not yet gauged—potentialities which, it is to
be questioned, if any of those about her could have understood even had
she been sufficiently conscious of them herself to attempt to express
them, or egotistical enough to wish to do so. But though possibly there
was less power of sympathy with her deepest self than she had any idea
of, there had been nothing in her life or surroundings to stunt or
thwart her individuality. Nay, rather very much the reverse—calm and
stillness are excellent guardians of character in certain stages of its
development.
Chapter Three.
“So Unlike Her.”
The next few days were fully occupied with Evelyn’s preparations for
her visit. And here, perhaps, it may be well to explain why so
apparently unimportant a matter as young Mrs Headfort’s spending a few
days with her husband’s relations should have been looked upon by
herself and her own family as an event of such moment.
It was now nearly four years since Evelyn Raynsworth’s marriage to
Captain Headfort, and during that time two deaths had taken place in
the immediate family of his cousin—the head of the house and master of
Wyverston—which had greatly altered the young man’s position as a
Headfort, with regard to the future. For the deaths had been those of
Mr Headfort’s two sons, and though the large estates were not entailed,
the family feeling of respect for the male line was proverbially
strong. Marmaduke was an only son, and had been early left an orphan;
the care of him in childhood and youth devolving upon relatives on his
mother’s side, elderly people now dead. They had done their duty by the
boy in a conscientious, unemotional fashion, and had left him a small
addition to his own little patrimony: all, indeed, that they had it in
their power to dispose of. So, though Captain Headfort’s childhood had
been a somewhat loveless one, he remembered his uncle and aunt with
gratitude—never so warm, perhaps, as when, at eight-and-twenty, he fell
in love with Mr Raynsworth’s charming daughter—as but for this
opportune legacy he would scarcely have thought it possible to marry.
It had never occurred to him in his wildest dreams, that a day might
come when he should be looked upon as the probable heir to the large
estates belonging to the head of his family, of which he considered
himself a very unimportant member; he was not even disappointed or hurt
when no special notice was taken of his marriage, beyond a somewhat
formal letter of good wishes and a wedding present of the orthodox
type. There had scarcely, indeed, been time for an invitation to visit
Wyverston, as the marriage took place immediately before he and his
bride left for India; but the news of the death of his two cousins,
little more than a year after his own marriage, and the birth of his
own son had inevitably altered the aspect of things, even to a man
uncalculating and single-minded as was Evelyn’s husband.
“There is actually no one of the name to succeed except myself and
Bonny,” he said to his wife, when the first shock of natural concern
for his cousins’ untimely fate had somewhat subsided, “for though Louis
was married, he had only two daughters, and poor cousin Marmaduke is
now quite an old man.”
“It is very sad,” said Evelyn, “very sad, indeed. Shall you write to
them, Duke?”
He hesitated.
“I really can’t say,” he replied; “I know them so little. And, under
these circumstances, don’t you see, I rather shrink from reminding them
of my existence just now.”
“I don’t see that you can help writing,” said Evelyn. “The _not_ doing
so would be only too marked. And it isn’t as if the property were
entailed; it is all _actually_ nothing more to you than to any one
else.”
So Captain Headfort wrote—a short, manly letter of honest sympathy—a
letter which, however, in the months that followed, he often more than
half regretted, though he was too generous to say so to Evelyn. For it
brought forth no response, not even a formal acknowledgment.
“No doubt,” he thought to himself, “they looked upon it as a piece of
officiousness. However, it was done for the best, and I’ll think no
more about it.”
Two years later saw Evelyn obliged to return to England with her
children, for her health had suffered to some extent from the climate,
and little Marmaduke—Bonny, as he was called—was growing thin and pale.
She had been with her own people for several months, when at last the
coming of the little-looked-for invitation to visit Wyverston was
announced to her by her husband, as has been related. Nothing could
have been more unexpected, Captain Headfort having had no communication
till now with his cousins. He was even at a loss to explain their
knowing of his wife’s return home. And naturally he was anxious to
respond cordially to this friendly overture; anxious, perhaps, above
all, that no considerations of misplaced economy should prevent
Evelyn’s making her début among his relatives with befitting dignity.
Hence the sensation in the Raynsworths’ family circle concerning an
event, on the surface, so simple and commonplace. And no one, perhaps,
of all the family party had taken the matter so deeply to heart as
Philippa. It was never out of her head during the few days which
succeeded her return home, and by night her dreams were haunted by
absurd complications and variations of the theme.
As to Duke’s wife herself, the younger sister had no misgivings
whatever.
“Evelyn may be shy,” she thought, “but she is never awkward. She can
always be stately if occasion calls for it. And her clothes will be all
right; indeed, she looks nice in anything, though I do wish she had
some one to help her to put them on. Yes, it is the going without a
maid that spoils it all. I don’t know _what_ can be done!”
For the previous day had destroyed the last hope of a temporary maid
being procurable, and Evelyn, with the touch of _laisser-aller_
inherent in her, and which her life in India had not tended to
decrease, had made up her mind to face Wyverston unattended.
“If only you keep quite well, it won’t matter so much,” said Mrs
Raynsworth.
“I shall take care not to let the Headforts know, if I don’t,” said
Evelyn. “I should hate them to think that Duke had married a limp,
delicate sort of a girl, and, unluckily, I always look much more so
than I am.”
“But you are not really strong yet,” said her mother. “And if you do
anything foolish out of a kind of bravado, you may really lay yourself
up, and think how disagreeable that would be!”
Philippa, who was present, glanced at her sister. She was certainly
looking more fragile than usual. The excitement, and, to a certain
extent, fatigue of the last few days were telling upon her, and a
feeling of additional anxiety came upon the younger girl.
“I shall really not be a bit surprised at anything that happens,” she
said, in a tone of annoyance. “You are quite right, mamma, and I wish
you would frighten Evelyn well. She is sometimes as silly about herself
as if she were no older than Vanda,” and the laugh with which Mrs
Headfort treated this remonstrance was by no means reassuring.
This conversation took place on Tuesday—Friday was the day fixed for
Evelyn’s journey. Late on Thursday evening Mrs Raynsworth and her
eldest daughter were sitting alone in the drawing-room, or, to be more
exact, Evelyn was lying on a couch while her mother sat beside her.