think it is the least likely that any one will come; the housemaid has
brought the hot water, I see, and the trunks are all up. And even if
any one did come, they would knock at the door—oh, bother, there are
two doors! I hate a room with two doors. I never know which to be most
frightened of in the night.”
“This one,” said Philippa, indicating it as she spoke, “leads into a
dressing-room, and out of that again, the little room where I sleep. It
was very thoughtful of them to put me so near you, but if you would
rather lock the doors between us at night, _I_ have no objection.”
She spoke laughingly, but underneath the jesting tone there was a touch
of slightly hurt feeling. She had been longing so to see her sister
again, even after the one half-hour’s separation; she was so intensely
anxious to know what had passed in the drawing-room, and now here was
Evelyn, not even affectionate, the very reverse of clinging!
“Nonsense,” said her sister; “of course I’m only too delighted to have
you close by. I would like to look at the rooms,” and she half sat up
as if with the purpose of doing so, but sank down again. “Oh, I am
tired,” she said, wearily. “Get a footstool, Philippa, if there is one,
and come and sit on the floor beside me, the way we do at home. Oh,
don’t you wish we were at home again? It’s all so strange and—”
“No,” interrupted Philippa, her warm heart going out again with a rush
of tenderness the very instant any appeal was made to it. “No, you’re
not to say ‘lonely’ just when I am here on purpose to prevent you
feeling so.”
She had espied a footstool by this time and drew it forward as her
sister wished.
“Now,” she said, “we can talk comfortably for a few minutes; unless,
indeed, it would be better for you not to talk at all, and rest
entirely till you have to dress.”
Evelyn lay back with closed eyes; she certainly was looking very pale
now, but what else could have been expected?
“I _am_ glad I came,” thought her sister, conscious that a momentary
feeling almost of jealousy of the new cousin had passed through her. “I
_am_ glad I came, and if she does get on well with these people, even
to the extent of not seeming to need me, I _won’t_ mind. I shall know
it is only on the surface. What she would have done without me,
practically speaking, I really don’t know! She is about as fit just now
to look out her things and dress herself, as a mouse to draw a train.
And what _would_ her hair be like? It’s in a perfect chaos of fluff,
and I am certain that the Headforts wear theirs perfectly smooth and
have no fringes.”
She smiled at the thought, and as she did so, Evelyn opened her eyes.
“What are you laughing at?” she inquired, languidly, and as her sister
told her, she, too, smiled.
“Yes,” she replied, “you are quite right. They have all three got dark
hair, as smooth as—oh, I can’t trouble to find a comparison—‘as smoove
as smoove’ as Bonny says—dear Bonny! But I do think they mean to be
nice, really nice and cordial, Phil, especially Felicia, the one you
saw just now; she is the eldest. Perhaps I’d better not talk much—”
“You had better talk in a lower voice,” said Philippa; “it is less
tiring, and safer too. All I want to know just now is that you do think
you will be able to get on with them without much effort.”
“Ye-es, I do think so,” answered Evelyn. “I must try to be a little
more dignified than I am at home, and that is rather a strain.”
“You can be beautifully dignified when you choose,” said Philippa,
encouragingly.
“It is not on the daughters’ account I must be so,” continued Evelyn.
“I think _they_ would like me the better if I seemed rather childish;
there is no affectation of being younger than they are, about either of
them. But it is Mrs Headfort; she associates me, I feel instinctively,
with the wife of the possible future master of Wyverston, who, she
thinks, no doubt, should be as stately as herself.”
“I only hope she _does_ associate with you that personage,” said
Philippa, brightly; “it would certainly incline us to like her all the
better. I think,” she went on thoughtfully, “there is something
beautiful and elevating in that sort of regard for one’s family, if not
carried too far. Some people call it only an extended form of
selfishness, but at least it is not a low kind. And, after all, doing
one’s best for those nearest us is not selfishness; it is simply
right.”
“There is something almost beautiful about Mrs Headfort herself,” said
Evelyn, “though there is something wanting, too, in her face. It is a
little hard, and yet certainly not unfeeling; she has evidently _felt_
tremendously.”
“But troubles do harden some people,” said Philippa, “though often more
on the surface than lower down. They get afraid of ever loosening their
armour, as it were, for fear of breaking down.”
“How wise you are, Phil!” said Evelyn, admiringly. “I never thought of
things in that way when I was your age. I shouldn’t wonder,” she went
on, reflectively, as if she had made a great discovery, “if it were
partly Mrs Headfort’s hair that makes her look hard. It is quite dark,
did I tell you? And when people get old, I think grey or white hair is
so much prettier. I do hope mine will get white—mamma’s is so nice,”
and she put up her hand to her own wavy locks as if to feel if the
desired transformation had already taken place.
“Now, Evelyn,” said Philippa, seriously, “leave off chattering. You may
go to sleep for twenty minutes still; I will undertake to get you
perfectly ready in the time that remains. I have got out nearly
everything you will want, and you are to wear exactly what I have
chosen.”
Evelyn smiled submissively.
“I must just say one thing, Phil,” she began again, “and that is for
your satisfaction. I do believe the Headforts would have been perfectly
aghast if I had come without a maid. And that reminds me—how do you
think you are going to bear it? Will it be endurable?”
“Much better than endurable,” said Philippa, “but I will tell you about
it afterwards. The housekeeper is a dear old woman. And on your side
you must notice everything, to amuse me. I shall want to know all about
the other people staying in the house.”
Then she resolutely turned away, and busied herself afresh with
completing the preparations for her sister’s evening toilet.
At the appointed time came Miss Headfort’s tap at the door, and in
response to Evelyn’s “come in,” the eldest daughter of the house made
her appearance. Philippa looked at her with considerable interest—a
double interest, indeed; she was both curious to have a better view of
Miss Headfort herself, and also most anxious to observe the effect upon
her of the charming personality before her. Mingled with her sisterly
pride in Evelyn, there was now what one may almost call the pride of
the artist in his handiwork, and for both there was good cause.
Evelyn had left herself entirely to her sister’s mercies, and the
result was such that even Felicia Headfort’s melancholy eyes lighted up
with pleasure at the sight of her cousin’s wife, whose lovely fairness
was shown to great advantage by the pale, blush-rose tint of her dress.
Her naturally beautiful hair owed much also to Philippa’s careful
manipulation, all the more deft and clever in that there was not the
slightest appearance of studied art about it—the little bow of pink
velvet to match her dress really looking as if it had flown down of
itself to nestle among the wavy coils. Evelyn’s stock of jewellery was
limited; for this important occasion she wore the one good ornament
which her Duke had, with much unsuspected self-denial, gathered
together enough money to procure for her—a string of fair-sized pearls.
[Illustration: ] “You will bewitch my father, I am sure.”
“My dear,” said Miss Headfort, impulsively, “your dress is quite
charming, and you do not look the least tired now. You will quite
bewitch my father, I am sure.” Evelyn smiled.
“How nice you look yourself,” she said to her cousin, gently stroking
the sleeve of Felicia’s soft, grey velvet bodice, for though far more
than the orthodox term of black attire for the loss of their two
brothers had passed, the Headfort sisters had not yet—if indeed they
ever would discard it—worn anything but half-mourning.
Miss Headfort looked very handsome in her velvet and rich old lace;
handsomer than Philippa had expected from her former glimpse of her.
And the two figures together harmonised from their very dissimilarity.
The sight was gratifying to the girl’s sensitive perceptions of beauty;
but as she stood there in the background in her plain, black dress and
disfiguring spectacles, unnoticed, and in a sense unthought of, even by
her sister, it would be untrue to human nature, to girl nature
especially, to say that no shadow of mortification passed over her as
she again realised, and this time more fully than hitherto, the
abnormal position she had placed herself in.
But almost simultaneously her vigorous resolution of character, greatly
assisted in the present case by her vivid sense of humour, reasserted
itself. There was a considerable amount of triumph, too, in the success
of her plan.
“I do believe,” she thought, “that I shall be able to carry it through
perfectly to the—no, I won’t say ‘bitter end’—but till the curtain
drops for ever, I hope, for I am quite sure I shall have had enough of
my rôle by then, as ‘Phillis Ray, lady’s-maid.’ Though but for her,
goodness only knows what Mrs Marmaduke Headfort would have been looking
like at the present moment—as to her headgear above all!”
A glance of affectionate gratitude from Evelyn as she followed her
conductress out of the room, added to Philippa’s self-congratulation.
Still more so, a word or two from Miss Headfort which caught her ears
as, suddenly discovering that her sister’s fan was still reposing on
the dressing-table, she ran after her with it, a few steps down the
passage—“very clever maid yours seems to be; she must—” But the rest of
the sentence was deferred, as Evelyn turned to take the fan held out to
her.
“Poor Phil,” thought Mrs Marmaduke, as she entered the drawing-room,
with a curious mingling of pride in her sister, and regret almost
amounting to irritation at the state of things she had brought about,
“I really can’t bear to think of her up there alone! For I do feel as
if it were all going to be very nice, and that, but for her, I could
really enjoy myself. So I must just try not to think of her for the
time. I am sure it is what she would wish.”
And acting on this comfortable determination, she was able to respond
with unembarrassed graciousness to the cordial, though somewhat formal,
greeting of her host, who came forward to meet them as soon as he
caught sight of his elder daughter’s entrance into the room.
And, as Felicia had predicted, the charm of Evelyn’s half-appealing yet
dignified manner, added to her extreme prettiness, did its work. From
that moment the old man’s subjugation was complete.
That it was so, was from the first a source of satisfaction to his wife
and daughters. For they were not only good, high-principled women—they
were personally unselfish, and superior to all petty, feminine
jealousies, and with much latent tenderness of nature, unsuspected by
those who only judged them by the surface stiffness of manner.
Christine, the second Miss Headfort, though some years younger than her
sister, scarcely appeared so. She was less handsome in features, but so
much brighter in complexion and colouring that at first sight she was
the most striking; but in spite of Wyverston Manor and its traditions,
there was a touch of the “advanced woman” about her, which showed
itself unpleasingly in a rather obtrusive “superiority” to her dress
and general appearance.
“I am plain-looking,” she was wont to inform her friends, with a
certain pride, “and no longer young, and I am not going to pretend to
be otherwise. And I am splendidly strong, and intend to keep my health
at all costs, so I do not care in the least about my complexion or my
figure. I go out in all weathers, and ignore the existence of whalebone
and steel.”
But she was a very agreeable woman, nevertheless—her bark infinitely
worse than her bite—full of real kindness of heart. And if a trifle
dictatorial in her way of showing this, and perhaps irritatingly
convinced that a Miss Headfort of Wyverston could “do no wrong,” it was
easy to forgive and even forget those foibles in one so ready to put
herself aside whenever called upon to do so for the sake of others; so
genuinely compassionate to the suffering or oppressed. She loved all
animals, and was loved by them in return; she would have loved little
children had she known more about them; thus with her, too, Evelyn’s
fragile and almost childlike appearance only prepossessed her in the
young wife’s favour.
Chapter Eight.
A Morning Ramble.
The party this evening was not a very large one; still, a comparatively
small number of people is enough to be somewhat confusing to a
new-comer, to whom they are all absolute strangers. More especially
when the new-comer in question is in such a position as was Evelyn
Headfort on this occasion in the Wyverston drawing-room, where, as a
recognised member of the family, to whom honour was due, it behoved her
host and hostess to introduce with considerable formality all the other
guests.
To all appearance she stood this little ordeal well, considerably to
Mrs Headfort’s satisfaction.
“Though she looks so young,” thought the elder woman, “she has plenty
of self-possession as well as charming manners.”
But inwardly Evelyn had been feeling considerable trepidation, and it
was not without some relief that she found herself and the man allotted
to her safely on their way to the dining-room. _His_ name her memory
had retained, though she was in a state of mystification as to those of
most of the others. She glanced up at her cavalier. She was not
peculiarly small, but he seemed to tower above her, and had to bend his
head to catch some little commonplace remark which she felt it due to
herself to volunteer, “for fear,” as she afterwards confessed to
Philippa, “he should have thought me shy.”
“Certainly,” was the reply; “quite so,” but that was all, and Evelyn’s
little feeler, which she had sent out in hopes of its breaking the ice,
had no effect beyond that of making her wish she had left the sentence
unsaid.
Seated at table, however, where she found herself, to her alarm, at her
host’s left hand, she hazarded a second observation—anything, the
silliest speech in the world was better than for her new relations to
think her in any sense unequal to the occasion.
“I beg your pardon,” said Mr Gresham, for such was his name; and as he
bent slightly towards her, she was struck for the first time by his
really remarkable good looks, enhanced by a gentleness of expression
which tended to reassure her. She laughed and coloured slightly as she
repeated her very commonplace, little observation.
“I was only saying that it feels ever so much colder here than farther
south!” she said.
“You’ve come from the south,” he responded, with some appearance of
interest. “Have you travelled far to-day?”
“Oh, no, not really very far,” she replied. “After all, one can’t
travel very far in England; but any cross-country journey makes you
feel as if you had—it wastes so much time, though we fitted in our
trains pretty well.”
“Is your husband with you?” her companion rejoined, in reality for the
sake of drawing her out, for he knew perfectly well that Duke Headfort
was still in India, and likely to be there for some time. For, as the
housekeeper had mentioned to Philippa, the elder Mr Gresham was a very
frequent visitor at Wyverston, and intimately acquainted with the ins
and outs of the Headfort family affairs.
Evelyn started slightly.
“I shouldn’t have said ‘we,’” she thought to herself. “Oh, no,” she
said, aloud, “I’m quite alone here, and it is my first visit to this
part of the country. It is considered very—well, I don’t exactly know
what to say—not picturesque, I suppose, but not commonplace?”
“Far from commonplace. It is bleak in some directions—bleak and bare;
but the moors are very fine, and at some seasons their colouring is
wonderful. And the stretch of the Wildering Hills to the west is very
imposing. You will think it so, I have no doubt, as you come from—” He
stopped, and went on again:
“Did I not understand you to say that you live in a flat country?”
“Well, yes,” said Evelyn, though she did not remember having
volunteered any information of the kind. ”—shire _is_ flat, certainly,
and where we live there is no beauty except good trees. My sister,” she
continued, feeling as if she were talking very inanely, and with a
nervous dread of letting the conversation drop, “was staying lately in
Westshire. She was delighted with it. She said part of the route coming
back was as pretty as—as Switzerland.”—“How idiotic that sounds!” she
said to herself.
But her companion appeared rather to appreciate her remarks.
“Westshire,” he repeated. “Yes, some parts of Westshire are charmingly
picturesque. May I ask what part of the country your sister was staying
in?”
“I don’t know what part it was that she thought so pretty,” said
Evelyn, gratified by his interest. “The place she was staying at was
Dorriford. It belongs to the Lermonts—cousins of ours.”
“Oh, indeed,” said Mr Gresham, thawing more and more; “I know
Dorriford—at least I was there the other day. I drove over with some
friends in the neighbourhood. Your sister’s name is?” and he glanced at
her questioningly.
“Raynsworth,” said Evelyn, quickly.
“Exactly,” rejoined her companion. “I remember her perfectly. But you
are not like each other—Strikingly unlike, even; for Miss Raynsworth is
dark—dark and tall. I remember.”
An appalling misgiving seized Evelyn. He “remembered her perfectly;”
perhaps, by no means improbably, suggested her sisterly pride, he had
been struck by Philippa’s somewhat uncommon style of beauty. Why, in
heaven’s name, had she drawn the conversation round to Philippa at all,
the very last topic she should have chosen to talk about while at
Wyverston? And fearful lest Mr Gresham’s watchful eyes should detect
the least trace of confusion, she forced herself to smile and to say
lightly:
“What a coincidence! I must remember to mention it to my sister when I
go home.” Then, somewhat at random, she plunged suddenly into some of
her Indian reminiscences—a subject she usually avoided as hackneyed and
commonplace.
Mr Gresham seemed somewhat perplexed, though he listened courteously,
but without his former interest.
“I have never been in India,” he said, with a touch of languor, “and I
don’t think I want to go. Were you born there? I’ve often noticed that
people who were born there have a sort of liking for the place,” as if
the great empire of the east were some insignificant village.
“Oh, no,” said Evelyn, “we are all quite English, and I don’t think I
do like India. I am not very fond of travelling. I fear I am the lazy
one of the family.”
“Your sister certainly struck me as very vigorous,” began Mr Gresham
again; “the Lermonts were talking of wonderful expeditions they had
been making while she was with them.”
“Oh, why did I say I had a sister,” thought Evelyn, in desperation,
“and why did I ever give in to this mad escapade of Philippa’s? I feel
certain it is going to land us in some dreadful hobble,” and
unconsciously to herself her expression grew so tragic that Mr Gresham
began to wonder what in the world was the matter.
Just then, to Evelyn’s enormous relief, came a happy interruption. A
voice from the opposite side of the table, which was not a very wide
one, addressed her by name.
Evelyn looked up in surprise, forgetting for the moment that as all the
guests had been introduced to her, the owner of the voice had every
reason to know who she was.
“I hope, Mrs Headfort,” he said, “that my dog did not really frighten
you to-day? He is very demonstratively affectionate when he takes a
fancy, and he had made great friends with—with your maid.”
”‘Out of the frying-pan into the fire,’” thought the unfortunate
Evelyn; “this time I must brave it out.”
“Is your dog a dachs?” she said, quickly. “Oh, yes, I remember seeing
him; he tried to jump into the carriage, but I wasn’t really
frightened, only startled for a moment. Is he with you here? You must
introduce him formally, if so. I love dachshunds—our favourite dog was
a dachs. He died—some years ago. We can hardly bear to talk of it even
now.”
A perplexed look stole over Michael Gresham’s face at her words. Was he
dreaming? or going through one of those strange experiences familiar to
us all, in which it seems as if we were living for a second time
through some event, or train of events, often of the most trivial,
which has already happened?
No; the conviction he now felt that words almost similar to those Mrs
Headfort had just uttered had quite recently been addressed to him, was
too strong, too unmistakable to have anything of fancy about it.
“By Jove,” he thought, “it was the girl in the railway carriage—her
maid—who told me the very same thing about a dachshund she had had. I
can’t make it out. They didn’t seem to be talking like mistress and
maid when Solomon jumped at them, though I didn’t hear clearly what
they were saying. There was something inconsistent about the girl from
the first. Well, it’s no business of mine.” Then, conscious that
Evelyn’s eyes were still directed towards him, he threw off his
hesitation and answered lightly:
“I hope the association will not be too painful to prevent your making
friends with my Solomon. Not that I don’t sympathise in the loss of a
dog—it’s a terrible thing.”
“Don’t let my cousin get on to dogs, Mrs Headfort, his own dogs
especially,” interrupted the elder Gresham; “he’ll go on for hours
about that Solomon of his, I warn you.”
Evelyn smiled gently. In her heart she was not very devoted to dogs.
Bonny and Vanda were much more adorable pets. Nor was she anxious in
any way to grow more familiar with the dachshund’s master.
“He must be rather a stupid young man,” she thought, as she glanced
across the table at Michael’s somewhat rugged face. “His cousin
evidently thinks him so, and all the better for us if he is not
observant. And, oh! how plain-looking he is compared to this one!”
For the moment, however, she had not much opportunity of admiring her
neighbour’s clear-cut features. For her host, having done his duty so
far by the elderly dowager on his right hand, now felt free to turn his
attention to his cousin’s pretty young wife. A kindly question or two
about her “Duke” and his doings—even more, some allusion to the
incomparable Bonny, set Evelyn perfectly at her ease. The conversation
which ensued, though of the liveliest interest to herself and not
without charm for the squire himself, naturally left her orthodox
companion somewhat out in the cold. For on his other side was placed a
certain Miss Worthing, a person whom he would have characterised as a
“bread-and-butter miss,” whose timid attempt at breaking the silence
met with but faint success, for all the answers that Mr Gresham
condescended to make to her were monosyllabic and discouraging in the
extreme.
It was not this first evening that young Mrs Headfort discovered how
much honour had been done her by her companion’s animation, though as
she rose to follow in the file of women on their way to the
drawing-room, it did strike her that Mr Gresham’s face looked bored in
the extreme.
“How I do wish he could know Philippa and she him!” she thought. “She
would be just the person to shake him out of that silent _hauteur_, and
I do believe he was struck by her at Dorriford. If only she were here
in her proper character!”
The rest of the evening seemed somewhat long. Evelyn was beginning to
feel very tired, for she had really exerted herself to the utmost.
Fortunately it was not the Wyverston habit to keep late hours, and it
was with a feeling of inexpressible relief that she accepted Felicia’s
hint that she must not hesitate to say good-night, even before the two
or three guests from the neighbourhood had taken their departure.
“They will be going immediately,” Miss Headfort added; “and,” on second
thoughts, “if you like to come away quietly with me, I will explain it
to mamma afterwards, and say good-night for you.”