tone. “I have not the very least doubt that she will keep out of my
way—she took a dislike to me from the very first, even in the train; a
case of natural antipathy, probably. But fate has a nasty little trick
of meddlesomeness in these cases sometimes; just because she would
prefer giving me the widest berth possible, your young lady, my good
Mrs Shepton, may find herself hurled in my way some day when she least
expects it. It is by no means improbable; once Duke Headfort is back
again, he and his wife will naturally see something of the people here,
and Bernard and I are often about Wyverston.”
“But Miss Raynsworth is not Captain Marmaduke’s wife—I am quite sure
_she_ will not want to come here again, sir,” said Mrs Shepton.
“Well, no; perhaps not. But there are other possibilities—Mrs Duke and
my cousin have struck up a great friendship—I told you, you know, that
I heard them planning a visit in which the sister was to be included.
And I don’t see why I should stay away from Merle at the best of the
shooting for any silly girl in the world. Do you?”
“Nobody asked such a thing,” said the housekeeper, feeling for once
rather cross with her adored nursling. “Miss Raynsworth would never
dream of it—once you have given your promise, her mind, so far as you
are concerned, will be quite at rest, Master Michael, I can assure
you.”
“I daresay,” said Michael, grimly, “once I _have_ given my promise.”
He was in a very teasing mood.
But his words failed this time in their effect.
“My dear Master Michael,” said the housekeeper, with a smile, “you are
talking for talking’s sake, just to get a ‘rise out of me,’ as you used
to say. Of course I know it is all right, and I can assure poor Miss
Raynsworth that the matter will be perfectly safe in your hands.”
Mr Gresham did not reply. He had transferred his teasing to Solomon,
from whom he at last succeeded in extracting a growl, which made Mrs
Shepton start. Though if the truth were told, the dachs only growled
out of amiable condescension, understanding that his doing so would
gratify his master, whose childishness really amused him sometimes.
“All the same,” continued the old woman, when Solomon had subsided
again, “I shall be more thankful than I can tell you, when the two
ladies are safely off. It makes me that nervous, sir, you’d scarcely
believe it. And unless I can persuade Miss Raynsworth to stay in her
room with a bad headache this evening, there’s sure to be gossip in the
hall; any one with half an eye could see she is quite upset; her poor
eyes alone—”
Michael looked up quickly, and this time his old friend had no need to
rebuke him for levity.
“Do you mean—” he began. “Are the—all of the servants not—not
respectful and civil to her?”
Mrs Shepton bristled slightly.
“_Civil_, sir; of course they are that, at any rate when _I_ am by, and
I don’t think she ever comes much across them at other times. But
‘respectful’—if you mean behaving to her as if she were not one of
themselves!—is the very last thing to wish for under the
circumstances.”
“Of course, of course—I was forgetting,” said the young man.
“You may be sure _I_ would allow no disrespect to any young girl, above
all, a stranger. And as far as our own servants are concerned I think
it has been quite pleasant, though even I cannot stop talk among
themselves. And the visitors’ servants I know still less about; I had
to give Miss—Miss Ray is the name she calls herself—a warning the other
day, to be a little more chatty and friendly. There’s a maid of Mrs
Worthing’s that I felt uneasy about. She’s a sharp sort of person and
inclined to be spiteful to any one younger and better-looking than
herself.”
“She takes after her mistress, then. I can’t stand Mrs Worthing,” said
Michael, boyishly. “The daughter is a harmless little thing—wax in her
mother’s hands, but Mrs Worthing is a bundle of worldliness, just the
sort of woman to beware of.”
He had more in his mind than he thought it well to discuss, even with
his trusted old friend. It would have required no great acumen to
discover the great attraction of Wyverston at the present time to the
lady in question, for Bernard Gresham was universally recognised as one
of the most desirable _partis_ of the day. And that, not only by reason
of his wealth and social position, but on the higher grounds also of
his personal character and refinement of taste. And what Michael had
overheard of Evelyn’s conversation with his cousin, even one or two
remarks accidentally dropped by his cousin himself, had shown that the
Miss Raynsworth of Dorriford had made an impression on him, little as
he had seen of her.
“Yes,” added Michael aloud, after a little pause, “you are quite right,
nurse. Don’t let the Worthings—mistress or maid—get the slightest scent
of any mystery. And impress upon the young lady at all costs to keep
out of Bernard’s way.”
So saying, he got up and turned to leave the room. “You may depend upon
me,” he said, with a slight nod, and without waiting to hear the
housekeeper’s fervent thanks, he called to Solomon, who by this time
had fallen comfortably asleep by the fire, and the two went off
together.
When Evelyn came in from her drive, somewhat to her surprise, no
“Phillis” was awaiting her as usual in her room. She had shut and
locked the door carefully, for by this time she had in some ways
acquired caution, and then hurrying through the dressing-room, she made
her way to the small apartment appropriated to her sister, though
scarcely expecting to find her there.
“I believe she has gone out for a stroll,” she said to herself. “Phil
is always so fond of mooning about in the dusk, and I do so want to see
her.”
But her conjecture proved unfounded, for there on the little bed, with
a shawl thrown over her, lay Philippa fast asleep. Evelyn stole up
beside her, and stooped down to see her face.
“Poor dear,” she thought, “she is looking very pale, and there are dark
rings round her eyes; I wonder if there is anything the matter! Anyway
I won’t wake her. I must wait till later to tell her of this new
complication.”
So if young Mrs Headfort looked a degree less trim than usual when she
made her appearance among the circle gathered in the hall for afternoon
tea, it was not to be marvelled at. On her way thither, at the corner
of the first passage, she almost ran into the arms of the housekeeper.
Evelyn started; she was in rather a nervous mood, and it was not often
one came across Mrs Shepton in the upper storeys. To her relief the
housekeeper was the first to speak.
“I beg your pardon, ma’am,” she said, “I’m afraid I startled you. I did
not know you had come in, and I was on my way to your—maid’s room. She
did not come down to tea, and I know her head was aching this
afternoon. I thought perhaps she would like a cup of tea up-stairs.”
“Thank you,” said Evelyn, with incautious fervour. “Thank you so very
much. She is lying on her bed fast asleep, and she does not look at all
well! But I must go down to tea. If you _could_ stay beside her a few
minutes I should be most grateful. She may wake; if she does, please
tell her that I can manage quite well for myself to-night.”
The new-comer glanced at the young lady approvingly; even the flush
which involuntarily rose to Evelyn’s face, much to her own annoyance,
for they were standing close to an already lighted lamp, increased Mrs
Shepton’s good opinion of Mrs Marmaduke.
“I will certainly say so, ma’am,” she replied, quickly.
“I have a quarter of an hour to spare, and I will see to her. Perhaps
the best thing would be for her to go to bed properly. A good night’s
sleep will put her quite right, I daresay.”
And Evelyn, her mind more at rest about her sister, hurried off,
congratulating herself on the lucky chance which had brought them in
contact with such a kindly “unsuspicious” person as the Wyverston
housekeeper.
Chapter Thirteen.
Herself Again.
More “good luck” was in store for young Mrs Headfort that afternoon.
And when she went up-stairs again to dress for dinner, and found her
sister—In bed indeed, but on the alert to jump up to see to Evelyn’s
toilet—she rejoiced that Philippa’s having been asleep before had
delayed her relating the new cause of alarm that had arisen, till she
could at the same time tell of its happy dispersal.
This was what had happened.
Allusion had been made to Mrs Marmaduke’s approaching departure, and in
her thoughtless fashion she had grumbled somewhat at the long journey,
“all by myself in a corner of a railway carriage.” And thereupon, not
unnaturally, Mr Gresham, the elder, had offered to escort her a
considerable part of the way; as far indeed as the junction, where, as
will be remembered, she had, on her journey north, been startled by the
unexpected apparition of her volunteer lady’s-maid.
“It is really on my way,” said the master of Merle, with the
graciousness of manner which, when he chose to exert it, was almost
irresistible, “and as I must be home by the end of this week, a day
sooner or later is immaterial. There are two routes, you see,” he
continued, “and your way only takes about an hour longer. So pray let
me look after you as far at least as Wrexhill.”
Evelyn was aghast; for a moment or two, realising her own folly, she
could not speak. Bernard Gresham saw her annoyance, and attributed it,
fortunately, to a cause very foreign to the real one. He imagined that
she was vexed at not being able to invite him to accompany her to her
father’s house and spend a night there by way of breaking his journey.
And with what he believed to be consummate tact, he hastened to set her
mind at rest. For though few invitations would have suited him better,
he knew that the Raynsworths were far from rich, and thus readily
explained Mrs Marmaduke’s not suggesting what in many cases would have
seemed a very simple arrangement.
Little did he suspect what was really passing through poor Mrs
Marmaduke’s mind, and it was with some surprise that he noticed the
still troubled expression on her face, even after he had, as he
imagined, reassured her, by remarking that he must go straight through
from Wrexhill, however late it was, as a new purchase of a valuable
young horse was to travel by this train; a horse which he wished to
keep his own eye on both at the start and on arrival at its
destination.
Evelyn scarcely heard what he said. She murmured confusedly something
in the way of thanks, and then hastily changed the subject till she
could fly up-stairs and consult her sister as to how to steer clear of
this new and most uncalled-for complication.
But up-stairs she found Philippa fast asleep and looking so ill that to
awake her would have been cruelty of which, with all her
thoughtlessness, Evelyn Headfort was entirely incapable.
So it was not to be wondered at that when the young lady got down to
the hall where most of the household were already assembled for tea,
she glanced round her in trepidation, earnestly hoping that her
favourite Mr Gresham might not be one of the company.
“He is sure to begin again about the journey,” she thought, “and I do
not know what to say or what excuse to give. And I must fix the day;
Mrs Headfort, kind as she is, does not, I can see, like people to hang
on indefinitely, and it is an undignified thing to do. I wonder what
Phil would advise. I am really ashamed to tell her what a fool I was.”
Her hopes were not realised. Both the Greshams were among the group
standing round the tea-table, where Christine Headfort was handing
cups. Nor did a letter, which had come by the afternoon post, and which
her hostess begged her to read at once, help to cheer her.
“I must go—_decidedly_—on Thursday,” she exclaimed, impulsively again,
as soon as she had run her eye down the few lines it contained.
“No bad news, I hope?” said Mrs Headfort, senior, kindly.
“N-no, not exactly. It is only that—you see, I made my mother _promise_
to tell me precisely how the children were,” she replied, sure of the
elder lady’s sympathy, “and she says Bonny has a cold and rather a
suspicious cough; and baby is not looking _quite_ well either.
Whooping-cough is about, and the doctor says he cannot be quite sure as
to Bonny till Thursday. I had already spoken of Thursday to mamma, and
she says she is so glad I shall be back by then.”
“I quite understand,” said Mrs Headfort, “and sorry as we shall be to
lose you, my dear Evelyn, I agree with you that you should be on the
spot. When my children were young I never left them if they were the
least ill, not even to my mother’s care. And it was thanks to that, I
do believe, that they all grew up so strong, even Geoff,” with a
moment’s pathetic forgetfulness, instantly followed by a deep sigh.
“Yes,” she continued, pulling herself together with the self-control
habitual to her, “there is nothing like a mother’s watchfulness.”
“I felt sure you would understand,” said Evelyn, “So I will decide for
Thursday.”
“Thursday,” repeated a voice beside her; “you are speaking of your
journey, Mrs Headfort, are you not?” It was Bernard Gresham, who had
overheard her last words.
“I can manage Thursday, I feel sure, so you may feel quite happy about
Mrs Marmaduke,” he went on, turning to Mrs Headfort the elder.
His words awoke no responsive smile on Evelyn’s face, and but a faint
one on that of his hostess, who, truth to tell, was somewhat too
“old-fashioned” in her notions, altogether to approve of this masculine
chaperonage for Duke Headfort’s charming and girlish wife. And Evelyn
rose still some degrees higher in her estimation from her slack
eagerness to avail herself of the young man’s proposal.
“To be so pretty and attractive, and yet so very discreet, is really
greatly to her credit,” thought the old lady.
Another member of the group had noticed young Mrs Headfort’s
hesitation—noticed and thoroughly understood it, in a way which would
have greatly astonished her.
“What’s that you’re saying, Bernard?” said his cousin, stepping
forward. “Going on Thursday? What about the big shoot that day? They’re
counting on you. The squire won’t be pleased, will he, Mrs Headfort?”
“Indeed, no,” said their hostess, quickly, “very much the reverse, I am
afraid.” Her husband was not present.
Mr Gresham glanced at Michael.
“You can take my place,” he said; “you can drop your work for a day, it
will make you something less of a ‘dull boy’;” for the younger Gresham
had been “grinding” pretty steadily during his stay at Wyverston.
“Sorry to disoblige you,” said Michael, drily, “but my work has nothing
to do with it, my work _here_, that is to say. I must be in London on
Thursday morning; I go up by the night express to-morrow. There is no
getting out of it,” and he turned away determinedly.
When Michael “looked like that,” his cousin, as well as Mrs Shepton,
knew by past experience that there was no more to be said.
“Surly boor,” he muttered under his breath, though the next instant
there was a smile on his face, as he addressed his hostess.
“Do you really think it would annoy the squire?” he inquired.
“I am quite sure it would, as you ask me, Bernard,” Mrs Headfort
replied, decidedly, “and Evelyn would be the last—”
“Oh, dear, yes,” interrupted Mrs Marmaduke, eagerly. “I would not for
worlds, Mr Gresham, have you risk such a thing for my sake. I shall be
all right—just as right as on my journey here.”
In face of the want of enthusiasm with which his proposal had been
received, there was nothing to be done but for Mr Gresham to withdraw
it, and this he did from a mixture of motives. Few things would have
distressed him more than to show want of consideration for the now
son-less old squire; furthermore, if Bernard Gresham had a special
personal foible, it was the fear of looking ridiculous, and he prided
himself greatly on his tact.
So with a little bow of unruffled composure he accepted Evelyn’s fiat.
“Some other time, perhaps, I may be more fortunate,” he murmured, and
mentally contrasting him with his cousin, by no means to the latter’s
advantage, Evelyn thanked him with graceful cordiality.
All this was what she now had to relate to her sister.
“Did you ever hear of such a lucky escape, by the skin of our teeth?”
she concluded, with exuberant self-congratulation; and Philippa, lying
there pale and fagged-looking after her rare fit of violent crying,
could not but agree with her.
“I don’t know,” she said, wearily, “I don’t know what we _should_ have
done if he had travelled with us in the same train. It would have been
worse now for it all to have been found out than even at the beginning,
now when we are within forty-eight hours of being safe at home! Oh
dear, dear! I am sure I shall never want to leave it again. I wish I
had not gone to Dorriford; somehow that seems to have begun it all. The
meeting Mr Gresham there!”
“You are too depressing,” said Evelyn, impatiently, “instead of being
delighted that I managed to get out of it so beautifully.”
“I don’t quite see that you _did_ get out of it,” said Philippa, rather
maliciously; “as far as I understand, it seems to have been Michael
Gresham who came to the rescue.”
“No thanks to him,” said Evelyn; “it was very horrid and interfering of
him. I do believe he is jealous of his cousin. And I was forgetting to
tell you that afterwards I believe he was conscious of having seemed
very disagreeable, for he came and sat down beside me and began talking
far more nicely than he has ever done yet, rather as if he wanted to
‘make up,’ you know.”
“I don’t quite know why you have taken a dislike to him,” said
Philippa, listlessly. “I should think he’s nice in some ways,
kind-hearted perhaps, or else his dog wouldn’t be so fond of him.”
“I don’t know how you can judge,” said Evelyn; “you have only seen him
in the train.”
Philippa did not reply. She was up again by this time, and busying
herself as usual with the preparations of Evelyn’s evening attire, and
before her sister left her, a promise had been extracted that the girl
would not sit up till Evelyn’s reappearance that night.
The next day passed without event of any moment. It seemed long and
wearisome to Philippa, for in her increased terror of discovery she
almost exaggerated her precautions, and scarcely ventured to leave her
own room. Late in the afternoon she was sitting by the open window of
her sister’s apartment, which looked out on the front of the house,
when the sound of wheels caught her attention, and glancing out she saw
a dog-cart coming round from the stables.
It was hidden from view for a few minutes as it stood under the large
porch, but the sound of voices and laughter reached her ears, telling
their own tale, as she distinguished, “good-bye, old fellow,” “too bad
of you,” and the like. And in another minute the cart drove off, though
not so rapidly as to prevent her perceiving that one of its occupants
was Michael Gresham; and leaning forward slightly she caught sight of
Solomon’s little brown person comfortably ensconced on the seat beside
his master. Just at that moment the young man looked up. That he saw
her there could be no question, for he instinctively lifted his hand to
his cap, and Philippa, crimsoning, drew back hastily behind the
window-curtains.
“It was rather nice of him,” she said to herself, “though rash. I do
hope no one saw it. Poor old Solomon, I wonder if I shall ever stroke
his smooth little back again!”
What would she have thought had she known that the departure of both
master and dog had been hastened by some forty-eight hours or so, as
the only means Michael could see of putting a stop to his cousin’s
disastrous proposal of escorting Mrs Marmaduke Headfort on her homeward
way?
There are—there must be such things as “brainwaves.” What had made
Michael look up at the first-storey windows as he drove away from
Wyverston?
Philippa, as she got up from her seat by the window and began some
preparations for Evelyn’s packing, was conscious of some intermingling
of feelings with regard to her former fellow-traveller’s departure. It
was, in a sense, a relief to know that the only person who, besides the
kindly old housekeeper, was in possession of her secret, had left the
place; a salve to her wounded dignity to be no longer in dread of
coming across the man to whom circumstances had forced her to appeal so
unwillingly. Yet, with Michael Gresham there went a certain sense of
protection and security. Somehow or other she was instinctively assured
that however he might blame her, he would have stood by her in any
worse complication, had such arisen, and would have exerted himself to
the utmost to ward off more serious trouble.
“I am happier than I can express to know that we shall so soon be away
from this place,” she said to herself over and over again that evening.
“To think that it is not now days but _hours_ only that have to pass
before we are safe on our way home—dear home, dearest home! I do not
care how angry my darling mother is; I do not care how shocked father
looks; I have deserved it for my headstrong presumption; I only care
for the delight of being safe with them again. And I _don’t_ think
anything worse can happen now, so very near our going, and good Mrs
Shepton so on the alert.” Her hopes were fulfilled. Nothing more to
startle or alarm the sisters occurred. And if there were any remarks in
the servants’-hall about “Miss Ray’s” headache, which again
incapacitated her from coming down to supper or joining in the more or
less harmless gossip which went on at that sociable meal, remarks
friendly or the reverse, Philippa did not hear them. Their early start
the next morning was a reason too for Mrs Marmaduke’s coming up to bed
betimes, and when she congratulated her sister on her cleverness in
having the boxes all but ready to lock, Philippa turned to her with a
radiant face.
“Oh, Evey,” she exclaimed, “I _am_ so thankful to be going home!”
“I am sure you are, you poor dear,” said Evelyn, tenderly. “It must
have been unutterably dull for you, poked up here by yourself, except
when you were forced to—Pah! I can’t think of it—_you_, my beautiful
Phil, sitting at table with a crew of _servants_—common servants.”
“They were not all common,” said her sister. “Some, on the contrary,
were very uncommon. I have told you about the dear old housekeeper. No,
as regards that part of it all, I have been really very lucky.”
“Don’t talk of it all the same,” said Evelyn. “I do not know, honestly
I don’t, how I should have got on here without you, but yet I cannot
endure to think of it. I don’t think I _could_ have stood it, even when
every one was so nice and I was really enjoying myself, if I had not
resolutely _determined_ to put you out of my mind for the time.”
“You are very fortunate in possessing any power of the kind,” said
Philippa, with some amusement at her sister’s emphasising of her own
strength of will.
“Yes,” said Evelyn, “it is an excellent thing to possess.”
“It is the thought of being at home again and rid of all this acting
and planning and watching, that I am so happy about,” Philippa went on.
“I do really and truly feel as if I never shall want to leave mamma
again. I don’t mind if she—”
It was perhaps as well that Evelyn here interrupted her.
“Nonsense, dear,” she said. “You will get quite different again. You
mustn’t give way to such morbid feelings, for _my_ sake even, you must
not, or else I should always have a wretched self-reproach that somehow
I had spoilt your girlhood—though of course it was not my doing. But I
suppose I _might_ have been resolute and insisted on your returning, or
even taken you back myself and telegraphed to them here that I was
delayed.”
“I would not have gone back,” said Philippa, stoutly.
“Well, then, if it wasn’t my fault, don’t punish me for it by saying
dreadful things. You shall come to Merle-in-the-Wold whenever we get Mr
Gresham’s invitation, and enjoy yourself with Duke and me.”
[Illustration: ] Looking for all the world like the everyday Philippa.
“I would not mind _so_ much if Duke were with us,” said Philippa,
doubtfully.
“Of course not; there would be nothing to mind. And _some_ day, you may
come back here—who knows?” But at this Philippa shook her head.
“I cannot imagine such a thing; it has grown into a sort of nightmare
to me,” she replied, and in her heart she devoutly hoped that
circumstances would combine to delay the invitation to
Merle-in-the-Wold indefinitely. But at nineteen, feelings change.