the Lermonts and their young cousin. And the names were not clearly
announced. But Mr Gresham from the farther side of the room “spotted”
Miss Raynsworth at once, and managed cleverly to place himself in her
way as she turned, with some little uncertainty of bearing, from
shaking hands with her hostess. He was far too much a man, not only of
the world, but of drawing-rooms, to run any risk of making her or
himself conspicuous, yet he was resolved at once to take the place
which he intended to hold while the fates left Philippa in his
vicinity—that of a former acquaintance. So he would ask for no fresh
introduction, but stepped forward with quiet matter-of-fact ease to
greet her.
[Illustration: ] So he stepped forward with quiet matter-of-fact ease
to greet her.
“How do you do, Miss Raynsworth?” he said. “You arrived yesterday? I
knew you were coming, as I had a letter from Mrs Marmaduke Headfort two
or three days ago.”
He brought in Evelyn’s name purposely, being in his heart slightly
doubtful of the girl’s immediate recognition of him, little dreaming of
the familiarity to her of his whole personality among the guests she
had so often watched from Evelyn’s window at Wyverston! But even
without that, she would have known him again.
She looked up with her pretty, half-startled eyes, a slight pink rising
to her cheeks, as she held out her hand.
“You have heard from Evelyn more recently than I have done, then,” she
said. “Were they all well? Did she give you any ‘family’”—with a
smile—“news?”
Mr Gresham was inwardly triumphant. How well he had managed this first
introductory move! Nothing could have happened better than the whole
combination of events. Here, at Cannes, a few days would be worth weeks
elsewhere; the life was so much less formal, the opportunities of
meeting so much more frequent and less observed. He would have ample
time in which to judge further of this girl, whose strong
individuality, whose “uncommonness” had even at first sight so
attracted him, _ferré à glace_ though he believed himself, and that not
altogether without reason, in such matters.
So he at once stepped on to the platform which his own tact, and
Philippa’s simplicity, and circumstances, the accidental isolation in
which she momentarily found herself for one, had erected.
“News,” he said, pleasantly; “oh, dear, yes, any amount. The actual
reason of my being honoured with a letter just now was that Mrs
Headfort thought it would interest me, which it certainly does,
extremely, to hear that she and Duke are going up to Wyverston next
week.”
Philippa’s eyes sparkled.
“Are they really?” she said. “I had not heard of it. At least I knew
that they were to go some time or other, but I fancied not till
I—father and I, I should say—were home again.”
She was so interested that all her constraint and self-consciousness
disappeared. Nothing could have suited Mr Gresham better. His superior
information from Greenleaves put him in the position of being applied
to by Miss Raynsworth, and set her and himself at once on friendly and
almost confidential relations.
He glanced round. They were still both standing, and near Lady Mary,
who was eagerly talking to Miss Lermont, and not noticing any one
else’s movements. There were no seats close at hand, but some tempting
wicker lounges stood just outside on the balcony, on to which opened
the long low windows.
“Won’t you come outside?” said Mr Gresham. “It is crowded in here; and
then I can glance through what Mrs Headfort says.”
So within five minutes of the dreaded entrance into Lady Mary’s
drawing-room, Philippa found herself seated most comfortably beside the
very man whose presence had been the cause of her nervous misgiving.
No one could have reproached Mr Gresham with “silence.” He exerted
himself to the utmost, without seeming to do so in the least; he
talked, though not too much; he made the girl forget everything (little
as he suspected that there was anything for her to forget) except the
present pleasant intercourse. For he believed that all the opportunity
he wished to obtain for himself depended upon this first _tête-à-tête_,
and, however he might hereafter judge it expedient to alter or modify
his tactics, he had no doubt as to the advisability of his present
exertions.
Maida Lermont, from the couch which was quickly provided for her in a
corner of the room, started with surprise when she heard her young
cousin’s peculiarly pretty and musical laugh ring out, as some
half-hour or so later, Philippa, followed by Mr Gresham, made her way
back into the drawing-room, and looking round for her special friend,
drew forward a low chair to Miss Lermont’s side.
“She used to laugh like that at Dorriford,” thought Maida, “but it is
the first time I have heard it here. And it is Mr Gresham who has made
her look so bright and happy? Yet she has only seen him once before,
and I am sure she was rather nervous about meeting him—I cannot make it
out.”
But if—and this possibility she would doubtless, if taxed with it, have
indignantly denied—_if_ any shadow of misgiving as to Philippa’s
ingenuousness momentarily crossed her mind, it was dispelled the
instant the sweet face approached her own, as the girl said, in a
somewhat low voice:
“Isn’t it nice! Mr Gresham has given me such good news of them all at
home, especially about Duke and Evey; they are going—but no, I must
wait to tell you all about it afterwards,” and here Mr Gresham, who had
half heard, half guessed the drift of her words, interposed with the
gentle considerateness which marked his bearing to the invalid Miss
Lermont:
“Shall I get you a cup of tea, or an ice, or whatever you would like
best?” he said. “I can easily bring it here—it is all in the next
room.”
“Thank you, thank you very much,” Maida replied. “Yes, I should like
some tea and a sandwich very much.—And you, Philippa, you have had
nothing?”
“I will go and get something for myself when Mr Gresham brings your
tea,” said Philippa, and the young man noted her words approvingly.
This was not the sort of girl, he thought, to care to have a man—or
“_the_ man” would probably have more accurately described his
thought—dragging about after her in any conspicuous way. No, there was
no doubt of it, she was a type apart. And he smiled to himself, half
apologetically, at the idea that, after all his several years’
experience of society, and the caution with which he had steered his
way amidst manoeuvring mammas and scarcely less sophisticated
daughters, he might be about to fall a victim to the common malady—to
find himself, if he did not take care, as genuinely in love as any
Henry Hawkins of the people!
But the very candour with which he realised the possibility, showed
that so far he had himself well in hand. And well in hand he intended
to keep himself. For it would be a complete mistake to suppose that
this was in any sense a case of “love at first sight.” Mr Gresham had
long vaguely intended to marry, if—a great “_if_”—he came across the
woman who completely satisfied his fastidious taste, and seemed likely
to prove the realisation of his ideal. An ideal, not perhaps of the
very loftiest, but admirable enough so far as it went. “She” must be
endowed with all the orthodox and specially feminine virtues and
graces; she must be refined and “unworldly”—to insure, indeed, the last
qualification, he was prepared to sacrifice some amount of conventional
“style” or “fashion;” that indescribable touch of finish which tells of
a certain position in the world of the day. The very words employed to
define it, testifying to its variability and intangible
characteristics.
He did not wish for any great preponderance of brains or culture. There
were times when Miss Raynsworth struck him as having been too severely
educated for his standard. Femininity was his _sine quâ non_. So long
as a little Greek and Latin, some notion of mathematics even, did not
unduly harden or stiffen a woman, he would not exactly object to them,
though any approach to obtrusive learning he strongly deprecated. But
Philippa was too unaffected, too self-forgetful, to jar him by any such
putting forward of her acquirements—acquirements which, in contrast
with the real learning of her father and brother, seemed to her, as
indeed they were, but the merest sips of the “spring.” And above all,
he was so sure of her perfect propriety—there was no slightest taint of
“fastness” or “loudness,” or any such horror, in this irreproachable
girl, no love of eccentricity or Bohemianism, no possibility of mad
escapades turning up in which she had taken a part!
“No,” thought the master of Merle, “there could be no risk—no risk
whatever in it. Of course, people would be surprised at the marriage,
but what do I care for that! Everybody knows,” and he smiled half
cynically; “everybody knows that my possibilities of choice have not
been restricted.”
And this was certainly true.
Nor would it be fair to accuse the young man of fatuity, inasmuch as he
was little troubled by any misgiving as to his personal acceptability
to Miss Raynsworth, should he decide to go through with his suit. He
had every possible grounds for believing in it; he knew himself to be
attractive and good-looking far beyond the average; he believed himself
also to be affectionate and endowed with all the qualifications for
making a good husband (though he did not add, “to a wife who would see
everything through his eyes and have no will but his”); and so far—for
this _résumé_ of Mr Gresham’s views of the whole situation is somewhat
ante-dated—that is to say, as the day drew near for Philippa and her
father to leave Cannes, he had no reason to doubt that the young girl
liked his society, and was in a fair way to feeling still more
attracted by him.
This fortnight in the beautiful south was propitious in the extreme to
pleasant projects. The weather was faultless, and not as hot as is
sometimes the case, even early in the spring. The circle of residents
and visitors, to whom the Lermonts had come temporarily to belong,
seemed specially anxious to make the last weeks of their southern
sojourn agreeable. Scarcely a day passed without some plan being set on
foot for diversion or amusement in which even Maida could take part,
and few, if any, guessed how many of these were really skilfully
initiated by Mr Gresham, who was well aware that it would have been of
little use to try to decoy Philippa away from her cousin.
So there was no question of balls or large evening parties for the
girl. Such would have been quite out of her father’s line; nor could
she have expected Mrs Lermont, quietly congratulating herself that such
exertions for herself were over, to have begun again the arduous duties
of chaperon. One exception only in this direction was made, and that
was in the case of a large private dance on the very eve of the
Raynsworths’ departure, at which kind Lady Mary Bertram set her heart
on Philippa’s appearing. But before this there had been gaieties, or
what seemed such to the young girl, in constant succession, and such as
she had little dreamt of taking part in when she left home.
Her letters to Evelyn described fully all that was going on, and
Evelyn’s spirits rose high.
“Nothing could be better,” she said to her mother, just as she herself
was starting with her husband for Wyverston. “Now, mamma, was I _not_
sensible when I made you get and send her those two new dresses, as
soon as we heard of the Cannes visit?”
And Mrs Raynsworth could not but agree with her. “I don’t suppose it
could ever have occurred to Mrs Lermont to give her the pretty blue
evening-dress Phil is so pleased with, _unless_ she had arrived with
one or two decent things. It would have been just like her and papa to
say they had nothing but travelling clothes with them, and could go
nowhere and see nobody. I cannot tell you how delighted I am for the
poor dear to have some fun at last. And,” she added to herself, “to see
something of Bernard Gresham,” though she dared not say this, in so
many words, to her mother!
Picnics were among the favourite amusements of the moment at Cannes,
and picnics on the luxurious scale that these were carried out were new
to Philippa, whose only experience of out-of-doors entertainments was a
holiday tea-drinking in the Marlby woods, when one old donkey carried
on his back the whole material part of the repast. After two or three
of these expeditions she found, it is true, that they began to pall a
little. Still, it was always a pleasure to be with Maida, especially in
the charming surroundings of lovely scenery and weather; and, more,
probably, than she would have allowed herself to own, never did Mr
Gresham show to greater advantage than on these occasions. His tact was
wonderful; without making her or himself in the least conspicuous he
yet succeeded in giving her the feeling that she was never forgotten,
that her amusement and enjoyment were his first consideration, and that
once satisfied that these were insured, his own pleasure was complete.
_No_ girl, certainly no girl of Philippa’s sensitive and responsive
nature, could have been unconscious of this subtle and delicate
consideration; to her, singularly free from vanity in any form,
unspoilt and unselfish, there was something almost intoxicating in this
refinement of homage.
Spots of interest, either by reason of their own beauty, or sometimes
from historic association, now and then indeed combining both, were
usually chosen for the scene of the picnics.
One of the last to which the Lermonts and their guests were bidden was
given by Mr Gresham himself, and he had bestowed much thought and
consideration upon its locality.
Nor were his labours unrewarded. It proved to be one of the most
successful parties of the season, and but for an incident which
momentarily affected Philippa unpleasantly by recalling events which
the last fortnight, with its sunshine and distractions, had almost
ended by banishing from her memory altogether, the day would have been
one of unalloyed enjoyment.
The picnic was to be at an old château a few miles off. An old
“manor-house,” with remains of the domestic fortification necessary in
those turbulent medieval times, would perhaps better describe it. For
it had never been large, and now one part of it had fallen into
picturesque ruin, while the remainder had been not unskilfully
restored, more strictly speaking, perhaps, kept in repair, without any
jarring modern innovations such as the French _positif_ way of looking
at such things often introduces.
The château had not descended to the rank only of a farm-house, for its
owners, the bearers of a name which would at once serve to identify the
original home of the family, still visited it from time to time. And
during most of the year, with good-nature, not unmingled very probably
with legitimate pride in the old, old home, they allowed any who cared
to do so, to visit it, and wander all over the demesne and the château
itself with perfect freedom.
It lay, however, somewhat off the usual routes of pleasure-seekers, and
was less known than it deserved to be. Maida Lermont had never seen it,
and though her eyes lighted up with pleasure at the idea of a visit,
some doubts were expressed by her mother as to whether the distance and
the reported roughness of the roads would not make it too fatiguing for
her.
“Oh, mamma,” she exclaimed, speaking for once with almost the
disappointment of a child in her voice, “_please_ don’t say so. The
Château de C— is one of the places I have longed to see ever since we
came.”
Philippa glanced at her affectionately. Maida’s “humanness” was one of
the characteristics that attracted her young relation to her so much.
She never, notwithstanding the long discipline of her life, affected to
be above or apart from the natural tastes and interests of those about
her.
“_I_ won’t go, if you don’t,” whispered Miss Raynsworth, stooping over
Maida.
But Bernard Gresham caught the words; a slight frown, showed itself on
his face. He was pleased—more than pleased indeed—to gratify Miss
Lermont, whom he cordially liked and admired, but for Philippa to
suggest giving up the expedition for Maida’s sake, when she must in her
heart have known that he had planned it all for _her_, was most
annoying. And for the first time he mentally accused Miss Raynsworth of
affectation.
“She shall see her mistake,” he said to himself, “if she takes that
line with me. I shall throw up the whole affair if there is any risk of
her not coming, I should have the Worthings thinking, or the mother
pretending to think, I had got it up for them—how I do detest that
woman! ‘So kind of you to look us up at once; you know we were only
here _en passant_,’ when I didn’t know they were here at all, and cared
less.” But a moment after, the sound of Philippa’s sweet voice speaking
in half-appealing, half-coaxing tones to her hostess, made him glance
round from the window whither he had turned to hide his annoyance; and
Mrs Worthing and her iniquities faded from his mind as if they had
never existed.
“I really think, Mrs Lermont,” he said, “that the risk of over-fatigue
for your daughter can be guarded against. I shall look out for a
specially easy carriage, and we can take our time about it and drive
slowly if Miss Lermont prefers. We shall not be at all a large party,
and nearly all, people who know each other well—the Denvers and Maxtons
and one or two more—the only strangers a mother and daughter who have
just arrived, whom I suppose I _must_ invite, friends of the Wyverston
Headforts, by-the-by,” he added, turning to Philippa.
But for once the name of Wyverston failed to catch her attention, so
engrossed was she in the question of Maida’s joining the picnic.
“Yes,” she said, speaking with reference to the first part of Mr
Gresham’s speech, of which he felt instinctively that she greatly
approved, “yes, dear Mrs Lermont, I really am _sure_ it would do Maida
no harm. We should all take such care of her, and you would be there
yourself.”
“Of course,” said Mr Gresham, cordially, “I am counting on you and Mr
Lermont, and Mr Raynsworth; I think the touch of antiquarian interest
about the château may be a lure to him, may it not?” with a glance at
Philippa.
“I have no doubt it would be,” she replied. “But I will _make_ him come
whether he cares about the fifteenth-century tower still standing or
not,” said Philippa, laughingly.
“Miss Raynsworth, Miss Raynsworth,” said Mr Gresham, “you have been
‘reading up,’ and you will come out with your learning to shame us
all.”
“That would be so like Philippa!” said Maida, touching the girl’s
shoulder affectionately. “But, mother, we are waiting for your
decision,” for Mrs Lermont had not spoken again.
“Silence gives consent,” said Philippa, and as her hostess only smiled,
so her reply was interpreted.
Chapter Seventeen.
“Rencontres.”
Morning broke over a cloudless sky the day of the expedition to the
Château de C—, the last but two of the Raynsworths’ sojourn at Cannes.
Philippa woke with that vague sensation of something pleasant to come,
which in youth at least—and let us hope in a modified degree in later
years too—is almost as familiar as its converse, that sad awaking from
temporary forgetfulness when the memory struggles in spite of itself to
remember “what it is that is wrong.”
There was only one touch of “wrongness” to cloud the girl’s happy
anticipations, and that was the knowledge that this delightful holiday
time was so nearly at an end.
“But I am not going to think about that—not to-day, at least,” she said
to herself as she dressed. “I am going for once to live entirely in the
present.”
And these laudable resolutions she repeated in her light-heartedness to
her host for the moment, Mr Gresham, some four or five hours later,
when, already arrived at their destination, for, to avoid the heat of
the day, they had made an early start, at his request, she was spying
the land, otherwise the grounds of the old house, with him in search of
the best place for _déjeûner_.
He commended her resolution warmly.
“And after all,” he continued, “in many cases—or some, at
least—pleasant times—I am more honoured than I can express by your
considering to-day one of them—are only the precursors of others as
agreeable. Let us hope that it may be so in our case. I am determined
to get the Marmadukes over to Merle again before long, and this time I
trust you will be able to accompany them.”
“I should like it very much indeed, thank you,” said Philippa, “if—”
but her sentence was never finished.
Almost as the “if” formed itself on her lips, a sudden pallor crept
over her face, and she started slightly.
Mr Gresham looked up in surprise.
“Have you twisted your ankle?” he was beginning to ask, when he caught
sight of one or two of the servants who had followed in a
_char-à-banc_, and who were now busily unpacking the provisions, just
emerging from the courtyard, as he and Philippa passed the entrance.
And one of these, a middle-aged woman, unexceptionable in appearance as
a superior maid, to his surprise stopped short, as if about to accost
his companion.
“Miss Ray!” she exclaimed; “you here!” were the words that he thought
he heard. And the two first, seeming so like the beginning of
Philippa’s name, would probably not have struck him curiously—the woman
might have been a former servant of the family’s for all he knew—but
for the familiarity of the ejaculation that followed, a familiarity so
unmistakable that he instinctively glanced _past_ his companion as if
in search of the person to whom they were addressed, so impossible did
it seem to him that the woman was speaking to Miss Raynsworth.
But there was no one else behind or near themselves. And again he saw
that Philippa’s face was still very pale, though she walked on rather
more quickly than before, taking not the very slightest notice of the
person who had spoken. And she on her side, after throwing a curious
glance in Miss Raynsworth’s direction, in like manner passed on with
her two or three companions.
“Did that woman speak to you? What did she say? Is she insane?” said Mr
Gresham, in a tone of annoyance.
Philippa turned to him with a slight smile, but her lips were quivering
a little.
“She—she certainly startled me,” she said. “I am afraid you will think
I have no nerves at all. It is absurd to be so easily startled.”
“But she said your name, or something like it,” persisted Mr Gresham.
“What could she have been thinking of?”
“I—I don’t think she said my name,” replied Philippa. “She must
have—have taken me for some one else.”
Her companion felt strangely annoyed. There was something about Miss
Raynsworth’s manner that he could not define. In spite of her having
been so visibly startled, she did not seem “natural,” scarcely, in a
sense, surprised at this curious incident, almost as if she were too
absent-minded to have taken it in! Then a new and more agreeable
explanation of her nervousness occurred to him. What had they been
talking about just at the moment they met the woman? Yes, Miss
Raynsworth was in the act of answering what he had said about her
coming to Merle, perhaps that was it; perhaps, and the thought touched
him with a certain tenderness, at that moment it had flashed upon her
for the first time that he was beginning to care for her specially;
that it was not every girl he would show himself so anxious to meet
again; no wonder it was rather bewildering and startling. She was so
unsophisticated, so free from vanity and that detestable _aplomb_ of
young women in society! Mr Gresham felt satisfied that he had hit the
right nail on the head.
So though he muttered something about “impertinence,” “how could any
one make such an extraordinary mistake,” his annoyance at the incident
gradually subsided. Only for a moment or two it was in danger of
reviving, as Philippa, shaking off her dreaminess with an effort,
looked up quietly and inquired with perfect calm:
“Who was that person? Do you know her by sight?”