conclusions. I shouldn’t wonder if the bracing air were to do you a
great deal of good, and the house is pretty sure to be warm and
comfortable. But there, now, you are tempting me again to forget whom I
am. You really mustn’t do it, Evelyn; it makes it so much harder to get
into it again each time.”
“We can’t sit looking at each other without speaking, and when we are
alone together it would be a perfect absurdity to keep up the farce.
Why, you said yourself what a comfort it would be to have a good talk
now and then,” remonstrated Mrs Headfort.
“We shall have to be very guarded about it,” said Philippa, gravely,
“very guarded indeed. To tell you the truth, I do not think I realised
how very difficult _I_ should find it to act my part consistently.”
“Why, you have scarcely begun it yet,” said her sister. “You have had
no opportunity of testing yourself.”
Philippa did not reply at once, then she said more lightly:
“All the more reason for beginning it now in good earnest. Don’t let us
talk about anything personal just at present; I wish we were in an open
carriage, this sort of country is so new to me, such a contrast with
home. I like the feeling of the air, a mixture of moor and sea.”
“I think it’s awfully chilly and bleak-looking,” said Evelyn, with a
little shiver. “But I always have a sort of cold feeling on arriving at
a strange place. It may go off after a little.”
“It is only nervousness,” said Philippa, encouragingly.
“No, no,” said Evelyn, “it is worse than that. If you weren’t here, I
should be most terribly homesick already. You don’t know what I
suffered, Phil, after I was married, when we went out to India, even
though Duke was always so kind. And now, since I came back, I have
learnt to lean on _you_ so! I am afraid I am rather contemptibly weak.”
“Poor little Evey,” said her sister, tenderly. “You mustn’t say that of
yourself; I understand you perfectly. Physical strength has a great
deal to do with moral strength, after all. But, oh, dear! we are
falling back worse than ever! Now, I am not going to say another word
till we get to the house.”
Evelyn was not attracted by the rather wild scenery through which they
were passing. She leant back in her corner and shut her eyes, which her
sister did not regret, as anything was better than going on talking as
they had been doing. To her the look of the country was full of
interest, and from its very novelty invigorating.
“I hope I shall sometimes be able to go a good walk by myself,” she
thought. “If only I could make friends with some nice dog who would
come with me—dogs generally like me—but, oh, dear! that reminds me of
Solomon, he is _sure_ to be there; how shall I be able to keep out of
his way? Dogs are so acute. What ill-fate made me get into that unlucky
compartment!”
Her reflections and misgivings, however, were brought to an end more
quickly than she had expected. They had got over the four miles between
the railway station and Wyverston Hall with greater rapidity than she
had realised, and she almost started as they suddenly, or so it seemed
to her, turned in at lodge gates, exchanging the hard high-road for the
pleasant smoothness of a well-kept drive. It had grown much darker,
too, for the avenue at Wyverston was bordered by massive trees of too
sturdy growth to suffer much from the exposed situation. What manner of
trees they were, just now it was impossible to tell—only the faint
fragrance of the falling leaves, and their rustle under the wheels
passing over them, told that autumn winds were already at work.
Sensitive to every natural influence, however trivial, Philippa peered
out into the dusk with a curious sense of enjoyment.
“There is something ever so much more romantic about it than about my
arrival at Dorriford,” she thought. “I really feel as if I were on the
brink of something tremendously interesting. I wonder what? I daresay
it’s all excitement! I have often had these presentiments before,
without their leading to anything. Certainly the thought of tea in the
servants’-hall, or possibly in the housekeeper’s room—let me devoutly
hope it will be the latter—is enough to damp any attractive
anticipations,” and suddenly there came over her a strong yearning to
be where she was, in her own character—an instinctive revolt from the
position she had placed herself in, however praiseworthy the motive.
And as she sat there in silence, these mingled sensations culminated in
a vague fear, almost amounting to terror, of what might be before her,
of the unknown risks to which she might be exposing herself by the
extraordinary step she had taken—risks outside herself, in no way
connected with the completeness or incompleteness with which she might
carry out her part.
But want of courage was by no means a characteristic of the girl, and
with the practical good sense which contrasted curiously with the dash
of recklessness in her temperament, she now told herself that, after
all, there was no real ground for these mental tremors.
“I am actually mistress of the situation,” she thought. “It _does_
depend upon myself, and I am not afraid of breaking down once I am
really started, for I have plenty of imagination. Rather too much, in
some ways—if we had been arriving on a bright summer afternoon, with
the sun shining and no feeling of mystery and gloom, I should have been
quite in high spirits. After all, considering everything, I daresay it
is safer for me to be rather depressed.”
Very grave she was, very grave, indeed, as she stood behind Mrs
Headfort in the hall a moment or two later. She was intensely eager to
judge of the nature of Evelyn’s reception by her new relatives, but for
the present she had small opportunity for observing anything. No member
of the family was visible—only an irreproachable, grey-haired butler
was informing her sister that the ladies were in the drawing-room, ere
he turned to show her the way thither, and Evelyn, as she followed him,
glanced back for an instant with a half-piteous, half-humorous
expression which made Philippa feel as if she must either laugh or
cry—which, she could not have decided.
To neither inclination, of course, did she yield; she did not even
speak, as, in her turn, she followed a younger man-servant who civilly
offered to show her the way to the housekeeper’s room, a new question
presenting itself to her mind at the words. What sort of person would
the housekeeper turn out to be? A great deal might hang upon
this—everything almost, in fact; and as the vision of some housekeepers
she had seen, stout and self-satisfied, innately vulgar in their very
civility and obsequiousness to their superiors, rose before her mind’s
eye, again it came home to Miss Raynsworth that she had been far from
realising what she was undertaking.
A door in the somewhat dimly-lighted passage was thrown open, and as
the footman stood aside to let her pass in, a pleasant, gentle voice
met her ears.
“Good-evening,” it said, quietly; “you must have had rather a cold
journey. You have just arrived with Mrs Marmaduke Headfort, have you
not? Take a seat by the fire,” and as Philippa murmured her thanks and
glanced round her at the neat, comfortable little room, Mrs Shepton,
for such was her name, went on with increasing kindliness of tone, as
she saw that the girl seemed young, and suspected that she was
timid.—“It is long past tea-time, of course, but I have ordered a
little for you. I thought you would be glad of it.”
“I shall be very glad of it, indeed,” said Philippa, looking up
gratefully, and speaking in the slow, careful way she had determined to
adopt, and in the housekeeper’s face she read nothing to modify the
first instinct of confidence and satisfaction drawn forth by the tone
of her voice.
Mrs Shepton was an elderly woman, with a pleasant though somewhat
careworn face. She had “known trouble” in her time, and many details of
her sad, though by no means uncommon little history were confided to
Philippa’s sympathising ears before her stay at Wyverston came to an
end. And with some natures sorrow elevates as well as softens; though
not in any conventional sense superior to her class, the good
housekeeper was one whom no true woman, of whatever position, need have
hesitated to call a friend. And Philippa’s instincts were quick and
keen.
“She is nice, and good, and kind,” she decided at once. “It will make
the greatest possible difference to me to have to do with such a woman.
I feel as if she were a superior sort of Dorcas.”
The sweet expression on the girl’s face went straight to Mrs Shepton’s
heart.
“There’s nothing like a cup of tea to refresh one after travelling,”
she said in her homely way—there were occasions on which the
housekeeper could be correctly dignified and “stand-off” even to the
most superior of ladies’ maids—but just now her one thought was to set
this shy young creature at her ease. “You have come from Mrs
Marmaduke’s home, I suppose?” she went on, as she handed the tea to
Philippa. “I don’t remember rightly where it is, but it’s at several
hours’ distance from here, I know.”
“It is in —shire, close to Marlby,” Philippa replied. “We left the
house about eleven o’clock this morning.”
“Have you been long with your lady?” pursued Mrs Shepton. “You look so
young. You couldn’t have been out in India with her, surely?”
“Oh, no, I was scarcely grown-up then. I have only just entered Mrs
Headfort’s service, but,” she added, after an instant’s consideration,
“she has known me a long time.”
Mrs Shepton nodded, approvingly.
“Been in the young lady’s Sunday-school class, I daresay,” she thought
to herself, and aloud she added, though without any suggestion of
inquisitiveness, “That is very nice; your mother must be pleased for
you not to be with strangers, that is to say if—” for the seriousness
of the girl’s face, and her absolutely black attire, hinted at the
possibility of her having recently lost some near relation.
Philippa understood the hesitation and answered at once, speaking more
quickly and brightly than hitherto.
“Oh, yes, I have a mother, and father too!”
“I am glad to hear it,” rejoined Mrs Shepton, “but, by-the-by, my
dear,”—the expression denoting that the new-comer had made a
marvellously rapid stride in her good graces—“you’ve not yet told me
your name!”
For the first time, strange to say, it struck Philippa that this—her
surname, that is to say—was as yet an unknown quantity. She was
fortunately not one of those people who change colour on small
provocation.
“Mrs Headfort calls me Phillis,” she said, slowly.
The housekeeper looked rather surprised.
“Phillis,” she repeated; “that is a first name. I suppose it’s with her
having known you so long; but it was your surname I meant. It wouldn’t
do for the servants here to call you by your first name. Of course in a
big house like this we have to be very particular.”
“Of course,” said Philippa, rather coldly. Then recollecting
herself—“My last name,” she said, “is ‘Ray’—‘Phillis Ray,’” and she
smiled slightly in spite of herself.
“Then ‘Miss Ray’ you must be to every one here but myself,” said Mrs
Shepton. “There are not so many visitors among us just now as
sometimes. There’s only Mrs Worthing’s maid—a very experienced person,
much older than you; and Mr Gresham’s valet, Mr Furze, a quiet young
man, and of course he’s so often here with his master that he’s
scarcely like a stranger. But when we are by ourselves as just now, my
dear, I should like to call you Phillis; I had a sister once of that
name—long ago.”
“Yes, please do,” said Philippa, heartily.—“Mr Gresham, did you say,”
she continued. “Is that a gentleman with a dog? I saw the name on some
luggage at the station, which must have belonged to him. They travelled
part of the way in our train—in the carriage I was in—second-class, but
I didn’t see any valet.”
There was a touch of curiosity in her tone, which rather surprised and
possibly disappointed the housekeeper.
“The Mr Gresham I alluded to,” she said, somewhat stiffly, “has been
staying here some time. The young gentleman who came down to-day is Mr
Michael, his cousin. You must excuse me, my dear, if I remind you not
to speak of your lady as Mrs Headfort, but as Mrs Marmaduke,” she went
on. “She is, of course, Mrs Headfort next to my lady, but still—”
“Certainly,” interrupted Philippa, heartily, “I will be careful about
it. Thank you for reminding me, Mrs Shepton. And indeed,” she
continued, “I should be very much obliged to you if you will tell me—me
myself—of anything you think I require advice about. I am not very
experienced, as you can see;” and in her own mind she thought, “this is
an excellent precaution to take. It will prevent any gossip about me
which might not otherwise come to my ears. For I am sure this good
woman is thoroughly to be trusted. And if the Mr Gresham here really
proves to be the one I met at Dorriford, I must be doubly on the alert.
It is really too strange a coincidence.”
Philippa’s last words quite gained Mrs Shepton’s heart, and made her
slight sensation of disapproval of the young girl’s apparent lapse into
gossip concerning any of the visitors at Wyverston disappear. Her eyes
had the kindliest light in them as she replied:
“It will please me very much indeed, my dear, if you will look upon me
while you’re here as if I were in a mother’s place to you; and now, I
daresay, I had better take you to your room—the sooner you take your
things off the better, as the dressing-gong will be sounding soon. Take
care,” as Philippa wavered a little on first getting up; “are you so
very short-sighted?”
“Oh, no,” said Philippa, “I wear spectacles as a precaution;” the truth
being that her unaccustomedness to the glasses, and the reflection of
the firelight upon them, had dazzled her a little.
“Oh,” said Mrs Shepton, tranquilly. “It is best to err on the safe side
if your eyes are at all weakly. But I should have been sorry if you had
really feeble sight, it stands so much in a maid’s way.”
So saying, she opened the door of the room and led the way along the
passage to a staircase at the farther end.
Chapter Seven.
A Successful Début.
In all large country-houses of a certain importance, there is more or
less resemblance in the internal aspect of things. And this Philippa
felt conscious of as she followed Mrs Shepton up-stairs—across
landings, down passages, and up-stairs again.
“I could fancy myself back at Dorriford,” she said to herself, with
mingled sensations. “It is barely a week since I left it. What _would_
Maida Lermont think if she could see me now? What would I have thought
myself, if I had had a vision of the present state of things? Yet
Dorriford is as different as possible from this place—all bright and
fresh there, and this old house seems to _breathe_ stiffness and
formality. I am sure Evey will be frightened if they put her into one
of the state bedrooms. I do hope my room won’t be far from hers.”
She was learning prudence, however, and said nothing till surer of her
ground. And her reticence was rewarded. For just as, with some dismay,
she caught sight of another staircase, evidently leading to some very
upper regions indeed, the housekeeper stopped short, turning down a
small and almost dark passage on the floor where they were.
“Our own maidservants’ rooms are up that staircase,” said the
housekeeper, “and also two or three for visitors’ ladies’ maids. But
there is a little room close beside Mrs Marmaduke’s, which my lady
thought would be best for you. It opens into her dressing-room by
another door—this is therefore a sort of back-way to her rooms. My
ladies thought she might feel strange, this being her first visit, and
with her not being very strong, as I understand.”
The good woman did not add that the suggestion had in great measure
emanated from herself, however readily it had been adopted by her
mistress.
“Oh, I _am_ glad, said Philippa, eagerly. I don’t mind anything as long
as I am near her,” for as Mrs Shepton opened the door of the small
apartment intended for Mrs Marmaduke Headfort’s maid, she murmured
something, almost in a tone of apology, about its very restricted size.
The housekeeper glanced at her with kindly approval, not unmixed,
however, perhaps, with a little amusement. Philippa had spoken
impulsively and more in her own character than she realised.
“How devoted she is to her lady,” thought the elder woman. “She will be
laughed at for it, I daresay, by other servants, and perhaps it may be
well for her not to express it quite so warmly. But it reflects credit
on them both. Mrs Marmaduke must be a sweet young lady. It will be very
nice if my ladies take a fancy to her, and then some day, perhaps, we
shall be having the dear little boy here.”
For the premature death of the two sons of the house, and the failure
of an heir to Wyverston, had been felt scarcely less acutely by the
attached old servants than by the Headforts themselves. And Mrs Shepton
had been full of eager interest in the overtures at last, though
somewhat tardily made, to her master’s cousin, now the next in
succession.
Philippa’s modest luggage was already standing unstrapped in her room.
It was evident that all the arrangements at Wyverston were punctual and
orderly.
“Through here are Mrs Marmaduke’s rooms,” said Mrs Shepton. “I daresay
you will have time to get some unpacking done before she comes up to
dress. And you must be sure to tell me of anything she wants, or
anything not quite to her mind. There are two bells, you see,” and she
went on to explain where they rang to; “it is just as well to have one
to up-stairs, even though you are close at hand. For this part of the
house is rather shut out from the rest, as you see; it is a sort of
little wing apart, and there is another to match it on the north side.
My lady chose these south rooms, as so much warmer.”
They were very good rooms, rendered more cheerful than they would
otherwise have been by bright fires. For as Philippa had anticipated,
they were very stately and somewhat gloomy.
“I am quite certain Evey would have been awfully afraid of sleeping
here alone,” she thought, but aloud she thanked the housekeeper for all
her care and consideration.
“And where shall I go, when Mrs Marmaduke is dressed and gone down to
dinner?” she inquired, half timidly.
Mrs Shepton considered. She felt quite a motherly interest in Phillis
Ray.
“You will be busy for some time arranging all your lady’s things,” she
said. “I will send up to fetch you in time for supper; it would be
pleasanter for you than coming down to the room by yourself.”
“The room?” Philippa repeated, in some perplexity.
“Our room, of course, I mean,” said the housekeeper, smiling. “Supper
is at half-past nine. Our second-housemaid is a very nice girl, rather
young, perhaps, for the post, but a superior girl in many ways. Her
name is Bell—Isabella Bell, a curious first name to choose, isn’t it?
The head-housemaid is quite an elderly woman, who has been here for
many years. My ladies think very highly of her, and,”—with the
slightest touch of hesitation—“she expects to be treated very
respectfully by the younger ones.”
Philippa laughed slightly.
“Thank you for warning me, Mrs Shepton,” she said.
As she spoke she was already taking off her bonnet and cloak, and again
the housekeeper felt approval of her evident alertness.
“I will leave you now,” she said; “you will need all your time to get
things ready,” and so saying, she went away.
As soon as she had the room to herself, Philippa sat down on the little
bed with a deep sigh of relief.
“How nice it is to be myself again, even for a moment,” she thought.
“How shall I ever be able to endure the not being it for a whole week
or more? But how thankful I am that the housekeeper is such a nice,
good woman; how _very_ thankful! At the worst, at the very worst, if
any really terrible complications arise, I almost think I might confide
in her; I am sure she has nice feelings in every way.”
This was something to fall back upon, and indeed she required it; for
the realisation of the presence in the house, of a man whom she was
almost sure was the same as the “silent Mr Gresham” whom she had met at
Dorriford, was undoubtedly appalling.
“I mustn’t frighten Evey about it,” she considered, “but I must find
out about him from her without betraying why. His being here and having
seen me before, might not, after all, have mattered much; he saw so
little of me, and when we were walking about the garden I could
scarcely get him to speak. I wonder if he thought me very young? _I_
noticed him, as anybody must have done, because he is so extremely
good-looking! But _the_ thing that frightens me is the stupid way in
which I drew the other Mr Gresham’s attention upon me in the train. One
could not have invented anything so unlucky,” but here the sound of an
opening door startled her. “I must be quick,” she thought, with a
glance in the looking-glass, and a hasty touch at her somewhat ruffled
hair, “or I shall have nothing ready for Evey.” It was not her sister,
however, only a housemaid with hot water, as Philippa saw, as she made
her way through the dressing-room. A civil “good-evening,” however, was
all that the servant stopped to say, being evidently in a hurry.
“Now,” thought Philippa, “comes a part of my rôle that I shall really
enjoy. It will be charming to make Evelyn look her prettiest, and I
know she will wear exactly what I tell her. I do love nice clothes,”
and with great satisfaction she proceeded to lift out her sister’s
carefully chosen “trousseau” for the occasion.
She had just finished laying out on the bed the dress she had mentally
fixed upon as the most suitable for this first evening—a sort of début
it seemed to Philippa, and far from an unimportant one, when again the
door opened, this time to admit Evelyn herself, followed, or rather,
strictly speaking, preceded by the eldest of the unmarried daughters of
the house.
“I do hope you will find everything as you like it, and do ask for
anything you want,” said Miss Headfort, as she ushered in the young
guest. “Dinner is at eight, so you have nearly an hour still; time to
rest a little before dressing.”
The voice was a pleasantly modulated one, and its tone was undoubtedly
cordial. From the other side of the room, Philippa glanced round with
curiosity to catch sight of the speaker. She was a tall, rather slight
woman, in figure and bearing looking perhaps younger than her age,
which was quite forty. But her face was not young; there were lines of
sorrow upon it, and her dark eyes, though really sweet in expression
when one came to see them closely, were wanting in vivacity and light.
“Why,” thought Philippa to herself, “she looks a hundred times more
melancholy than Maida, and yet her life _cannot_ have been as
hard—except, of course, for the brothers’ deaths,”—with a little pang
of self-reproach at her momentary forgetfulness, “but I do think she
seems nice and kind to Evey,” and this agreeable impression was
confirmed by the sound of her sister’s voice in reply.
“Thank you; I am sure I shall be as comfortable as possible,” said
Evelyn. “Will you call for me on your way down-stairs?” she added, with
the touch of appeal which to her sister’s discerning ears told at once
of her having “taken to” this new relative.
“Certainly, if you like,” was the reply, and the little touch Miss
Headfort gave to Evelyn’s shoulder as she left the room told of evident
gratification.
For a moment or two after the door closed, Philippa remained stooping
over a trunk without speaking. It was not till Evelyn flung herself on
the sofa and called out to her half petulantly, that she thought it
safe to reply.
“Why don’t you speak, Phil?” she said. “You surely don’t intend to keep
up the farce when we are safely alone by ourselves?”
“It would really be better to do so,” replied Philippa, cautiously,
glancing round at both doors before she finally emerged from the
shelter of the big trunk, “but, of course, I won’t do anything to worry
you, Evey. I suppose there is no fear of any one coming to this room
before Miss Headfort returns?”
She crossed the floor to the sofa where her sister lay, as she spoke.
Evelyn in her turn glanced round half-nervously.