Philippa had let the thing drop; its vulgarity spoilt the idyllic charm
of the scene, and the day, and his new thoughts about herself. “I
remember her teasing me to let the woman come—she was so useful at
helping on these occasions, and so on. And she was walking with Lady
Mary’s servants. But what does it matter? I shall take care that you
are not annoyed again. How _could_ she have imagined you any one but
yourself?” with a rather forced laugh.
“Oh,” said the girl, reassuringly, “at the first glance one does not
notice—dress, and that kind of thing. My _face_ must have reminded her
of some one she knew. Do not say anything about it to any one, I beg of
you; it would be making the maid of far too much consequence, I assure
you. And if her mistress is a friend of yours, it might—might possibly
lead to some annoyance.”
“You are far too good-natured,” he replied. “However, I daresay you are
right. It would be making the woman of too much consequence to speak of
it to Mrs Worthing. Not that the Worthings are special friends of mine.
I had to ask them, though we should have been more the sort of party I
wished without them. But I agree with Michael about Mrs Worthing.”
Another shock for Philippa; somehow this was the first time that his
cousin’s name had been mentioned to her by Mr Gresham. And after all,
what did it matter? She must get accustomed to hearing Michael Gresham
spoken of, even perhaps to meeting him if—if her present companion were
to become a permanent friend. It was only unlucky just now, startling,
to have that name brought on the _tapis_ when she was already upset and
discomposed. And to-day, when she had meant to be so happy!
But she must not be so weak-minded. And with this
determination—impelled too, half unconsciously, by the strange
fascination of a subject she would fain avoid—she looked up at Mr
Gresham inquiringly.
“Michael?” she repeated.
He smiled.
“Oh, I forgot,” he said. “You don’t know the family archangel? I have
got into the habit of imagining that you know all that your sister does
about—about myself and my home interests. Not that old Michael is
exactly a part of my home, except by old association. He is my cousin.
We were brought up together, more or less, but there is not any very
great amount of common ground for us to meet on. He is—ah, well, a very
good fellow in his own way, but rather a bear—doesn’t shine in
society—in fact, it and he know very little about each other.”
“Why so?” asked Philippa. She was nervously anxious not to seem to
avoid the subject of the younger Gresham, and even more so to prove to
herself that she had completely mastered her uneasiness. And she was
not free from curiosity about Michael, both as to himself and as to the
light in which Bernard regarded him. “Are you joking,” she went on,
“when you call him ‘the family archangel,’ or do you really mean that
he is very, remarkably good?”
“Honestly,” said Mr Gresham, “I don’t quite know. Good things are not
necessarily the most agreeable, are they? Rather the other way
sometimes. Oh, yes, Michael’s very good, a model of steadiness and
industry and all the rest of it, but not distinguished by suavity and
charm of manner. He lives so out of things, you see.”
“Is he a misanthrope, then?” asked Miss Raynsworth, her curiosity
increasing.
Mr Gresham hesitated. He was a very truthful man, and prided himself
intellectually as well as morally on his accuracy. And Philippa’s
question revived some old memories. Michael a misanthrope! Who would
ever have associated such a word with the bright-faced schoolboy of not
so very many years back, or the young fellow going up to college with
everything this world can give him in the present and the future? And
then the change; the shock of finding on his death that the father he
had so honoured had for years deceived him and his too confiding
mother, the clouded name, the broken-hearted widow, who had no strength
to rally even for her boy’s sake; the transference to Bernard, the son
of a younger brother, of the inheritance which, but for his father’s
misdoings, would at least in some part have been his! No, by nature
assuredly Michael was no misanthrope, but if circumstances had
conspired to make him one, would it have been a thing to wonder at?
But all this the elder cousin had no wish to explain to the girl beside
him. Still he was loyal, and his face had grown graver as at last he
turned to reply:
“No,” he said, “it wouldn’t be fair to call him that. He’s had—he’s had
troubles enough to sour him, and he’s not soured. And—oh, well, to give
him his due, he has been a bit of a hero in his time.”
Philippa looked up quickly. She had never liked Mr Gresham so much as
at this moment. And some instinct told him so.
“I cannot tell you all about it,” he said. “He would not wish it, even
though you do not know him. But I can give you some idea of it. He gave
up great advantages for himself for the sake of clearing the name of
one whom he had little reason to sacrifice himself for. _I_ think it
was quixotry, and so do many others, except—well, yes, there was
another element in it, the peace of mind of one very dear to him. He
was very young; I doubt if he realised the grind of a life he was
bringing upon himself.”
“Has he to work so hard, then?” the girl inquired. “If so, I scarcely
see that he can be reproached with keeping ‘out of things,’ as you say
he does.”
There was a touch of reproach in her tone now, which her companion did
not approve of.
“Oh, as to that,” he said, airily, “it’s a matter of temperament, and
personal idiosyncrasy. Many very busy men find time to mix in society.
But Michael’s a bear; there are only two individuals in the world that
I would care to assert that he loves—individuals, not people, for one
is a dog.”
“And the other?” said Philippa.
“The other is an old woman,” said Mr Gresham. Miss Raynsworth said
nothing, but probably she thought the more. Something in her
companion’s manner gave her the impression that he did not wish to
prolong the conversation in its present direction. And just then an
exclamation impulsively escaped her. They had turned a corner sharply,
in their progress round what had once been the ramparts of the little
fortress, and below them lay a charming view—for the château stood on
high ground, though the ascent to it was so gradual that one hardly
realised its importance.
“How lovely!” she exclaimed.
“Yes,” Mr Gresham agreed, “this is one of the attractions of the place.
I wanted to surprise you—it bursts on one so suddenly,” and he began to
point out to her the landmarks of interest to be more or less
identified from where they stood.
“Don’t you think,” he added, in conclusion, “that this smooth bit of
grass here would be our best dining-room? The view would give people
something to talk about and quarrel over—no two would agree as to what
places can be seen and what not, if other topics of conversation fall
flat.”
So the stretch of old turf—as much moss as grass, perhaps, but none the
less charming on that account—was decided upon for the luncheon. And
after all, the day turned out a pleasant and amusing one for Philippa,
in spite of the shock of the unlucky “rencontre.” In the interest of
talking about Michael Gresham; apart from all personal feelings in
connection with him, she had forgotten her nervous dread of him. More
than once during the day, his cousin’s remarks about him, vague as they
had been, recurred to her memory.
“I wonder what it was he did, or sacrificed, to make Mr Gresham speak
of him as ‘a bit of a hero,’” she thought.
He was once alluded to in her hearing in the course of the day, and
that was by Mrs Worthing, whom Philippa recognised as one of the
visitors whom she had often caught sight of from her watch-tower at
Wyverston. Mrs Worthing was the type of woman whom one is pretty sure
to meet in any “society,” using the word in the narrowly conventional
sense. She was of indefinite age and appearance, well-dressed and
well-bred, an affectionate though somewhat tyrannical mother, to an,
for these days, unusually submissive daughter. There was a papa
Worthing too, who appeared in orthodox fashion on orthodox occasions,
such as his wife’s dinner-parties and receptions, but he was a very
busy man, and, apart from his own line, uninteresting. So when “the
Worthings” were alluded to, it could be taken for granted that the
mother and daughter only were meant.
Aline Worthing was undoubtedly pretty, and, so far, her blue eyes were
without the hard metallic light which was often to be seen in her
mother’s. But she was by no means a clever or original girl. Mrs
Worthing, of better birth than her husband, came from the north, not
far from Wyverston, and old family associations had been kept up to
some extent between the Headforts and herself. It was at Wyverston that
she had first met the Greshams.
She spoke graciously to Miss Raynsworth when the young girl was
introduced to her, a certain reflection of the Headfort lustre being
associated with Mrs Marmaduke’s sister. But there was a touch of
condescension, not to say patronage, mingled with the graciousness,
which made Philippa doubly glad that her meetings with the mistress, as
well as the maid, were not likely to recur.
“I have met your sister, I believe,” said Mrs Worthing. “We were
staying at Wyverston when she came there last autumn; her first visit
there, you remember,” she went on, turning to Mr Gresham. “It must have
been quite an ordeal for her, without her husband too.”
“First visits to new relations must always be something of an ordeal
for a bride,” said Maida, quickly and rather thoughtlessly, for she
detected the covert impertinence.
“Ah, but you see, it was not exactly that,” continued Mrs Worthing.
“You could scarcely call Mrs Marmaduke Headfort a _bride_—she has two
or three children. And, but for my poor, dear friend’s terrible
sorrows, the connection is not a very near one—only second cousin-ship
or something of that kind.”
“My brother-in-law’s father was Mr Headfort’s nephew,” said Philippa,
quietly, determined not to be suppressed.
Mrs Worthing held up her hands in smiling deprecation.
“Oh, dear, dear,” she said, “that is beyond me. It reminds one of
‘Dick’s father and John’s son.’—Aline—where is Aline?—can you unravel
it? Aline is so good at riddles.”
“And I maintain,” said Maida, smiling too, and absolutely ignoring Mrs
Worthing’s latter remarks, “that my cousin was certainly in the
_position_ of a bride; possibly you are not aware, Mrs Worthing, that
the Marmaduke Headforts went out to India immediately they were
married, and Evelyn only came home comparatively recently.”
“Your cousin?” repeated Mrs Worthing. “Dear me! I am all at sea. I did
not know you were connected with the Headforts.”
“Nor are we,” said Mrs Lermont, “but Mr _Raynsworth_ here,” with a
pleasant glance in his direction, “is my husband’s cousin.”
“We are getting quite into a genealogical tree,” said Mrs Worthing,
“and I _am_ so stupid at that sort of thing. I never know who people
are or to whom they are related or anything like that. And I don’t
care. _I_ like people for what they _are_, in themselves, you know. Mr
Worthing says I am a regular Socialist—like _your_ cousin, Mr
Gresham—that dear eccentric Michael and his dog.”
“I must set you right on two points, I fear, Mrs Worthing,” said
Bernard, gravely. “Michael is not a Socialist, and his dog is not my
cousin.”
Everybody laughed—even Aline Worthing. Her mother did not like it, but
she pretended to think it an excellent joke. And Mr Gresham saw with
gratification that the Lermont connection had “told.”
“We shall have no more bald impertinence from her,” he said to himself,
“but she won’t love Philippa any the better for having been the
indirect cause of a snub. I had a presentiment that these people’s
coming would somehow or other spoil the day. Even that madwoman of a
maid of theirs daring to think of accosting Miss Raynsworth in that
extraordinary way!” and his face darkened with annoyance as he recalled
the incident which somehow still hovered uncomfortably about his
memory.
Maida Lermont, ever alert and ever kind, noticed the touch of
constraint in the air.
“What about the dog, Mr Gresham?” she said, brightly, “the dog whom you
will not acknowledge as a member of your family? I should like to hear
more about him—dogs always interest me, and I know few whose
relationship _I_ should not consider an honour. Is your cousin’s dog
specially ugly or evil-minded or vulgar?”
“Vulgar,” ejaculated Aline Worthing; “how funny you are, Miss Lermont!
Who ever heard of a _dog_ being vulgar?”
Philippa’s eyes gleamed and she opened her lips impulsively as if about
to say something. How she longed to “speak up” for dear Solomon!
Mr Gresham ignored Miss Worthing’s remark.
“Ugly,” he repeated, meditatively. “Yes, his ugliness is his beauty. I
don’t mind that. He, the animal in question, Solomon by name, is a
thorough-bred dachshund. ‘Evil-minded or vulgar’—no, Solomon must be
acquitted of those charges. And to begin with, I never said I should
not consider it an honour to be his blood-relation, if you remember. I
only stated the fact—that I was _not_ his cousin.”
He looked up lazily, and again everybody laughed. And Mrs Worthing,
whose good-humour had returned by this time, proceeded to amuse them
all by various anecdotes illustrative of the eccentricity of the dachs
and his master.
“They are quite inseparable,” she added. “Last year at Wyverston you
never saw one without the other. We used to meet them coming home from
long rambles over the moors, the dog generally a few paces in front of
the man, both looking so solemn and—so ugly.”
“Mrs Worthing,” said Mr Gresham, drily, “you must pardon my reminding
you that the animal’s master is my cousin.”
No one was quite sure if he was annoyed or not, but Mrs Worthing
laughed. She was not without some gift of repartee.
“Then,” she said, “you must allow _me_ to remark that the family
likeness is not striking.”
And Philippa fancied that the implied compliment was not altogether
distasteful to her host.
Aline Worthing was sitting hear her. From time to time she had made
feeble efforts to catch Miss Raynsworth’s attention—there was something
about Philippa which attracted the weaker girl—but hitherto without
success. She now tried again.
“Do _you_ think Mr Michael Gresham so very ugly?” she said, in a low
voice. “Mamma is always saying so. I don’t think I do—there is
something rather nice about his face. But, oh,”—as she caught sight of
the astonishment, which an acuter observer might have described as not
unmingled with alarm on her hearer’s face—“I forgot, you were not at
Wyverston. I suppose you don’t know the other Mr Gresham?”
“It was my sister who was staying there last year,” said Philippa,
evasively.
“Yes, I know. Mrs Marmaduke Headfort. She is very pretty, though not
the least like you,” said the girl, simply, her thoughts already
diverted from the consideration of Michael’s personal appearance; “But
it is so odd,” she continued, “I have such a feeling that I have seen
you before. And to-day, as soon as that visit to Wyverston was spoken
of, I seemed to have seen you there. I suppose it is through knowing
that Evelyn Headfort—she let me call her Evelyn—is your sister.”
“Perhaps so,” said Philippa. Then anxious at all costs to set this
troublesome little person’s little mind at rest, she went on. “Perhaps
Evelyn spoke about me to you. She is rather fond of doing so.”
“Yes, I daresay it was that,” said Aline. “She did talk about you. I
remember somebody said that she and I might be taken for sisters, and
that made her say that her sister and she were not at all alike.”
“Oh, Evey,” thought Philippa, “rash is no word for you!” But aloud she
said kindly, for something in the childish creature touched her: “Yes,
you are both so fair, and your hair and eyes are just about the same
colour.”
Aline smiled with pleasure. And there was no flattery in what Philippa
had said. She was certainly a very pretty little thing, though without
a touch of Evelyn’s charm of mind and originality.
And for the rest of the day she attached herself so steadily to Miss
Raynsworth that Mr Gresham wished more devoutly than ever that he had
restricted his party to its original limits.
Chapter Eighteen.
A Torn Frill.
The ball to which allusion has already been made, as the one gaiety of
its kind that proved attainable for Philippa Raynsworth during her
visit to Cannes, though a private one, was given at a hotel. And that
hotel was the temporary residence of Mrs and Miss Worthing.
It came about, therefore, naturally enough that they were among the
guests, though they had not previously been acquainted with the givers
of the dance. For kind Lady Mary Bertram thought it would be “too bad”
for a young creature like Aline Worthing to be actually on the spot,
listening to the inspiring strains, which would probably prevent her
going to sleep, without taking part in the entertainment. So she
arranged that there should be an introduction, followed by a card of
invitation.
Philippa had heard of the circumstance, but without paying special
attention to it. The evening was not destined, however, to pass without
her having reason to wish more fervently even than heretofore that the
mother and daughter had selected some other route for their journey
home from Italy, than that which had brought them to their present
halting-place.
She had looked forward to the ball with considerable interest and a
fair amount of girlish excitement, which Miss Lermont was glad to see.
It was only natural and right that Philippa should enjoy herself and
should wish to do so. And this dance was almost a début for her. In the
Raynsworths’ very quiet life, occasions of the kind were rare, and
since Philippa had been really grown-up, for various local reasons the
neighbourhood of Greenleaves had been peculiarly dull.
Maida herself superintended her cousin’s toilet, and the result fully
rewarded her. Philippa had never looked better, and her total absence
of self-consciousness greatly added to the charm of her appearance. She
was frankly pleased with her dress, and delighted that her kind friends
approved of the whole effect, and then she thought no more about it.
“Of course I do not expect to dance very much,” she said to Maida, “and
I hope Lady Mary will not trouble herself about partners for me. It is
not as if we had been here all the winter and knew everybody there is
to know; it is not even as if we lived in the ‘world’ at home, like the
Worthings. Miss Worthing says they have found ever so many old friends
and acquaintances here. But I shall enjoy it quite as much if I dance
very little; it will be all so new to me, you see.”
She did not allow, even to her inmost self, that the knowledge of Mr
Gresham’s presence, the certainty that he would not suffer the evening
to pass without spending as much of it as good taste would permit by
her side, had something to do with this foreseeing philosophy of hers.
And Miss Lermont was the very last person to hint at such a thing.
[Illustration: ] To her the whole scene was almost one of enchantment.
“I daresay you will have quite as much dancing as you care about,
dear,” she said, quietly, “I am sure you dance well; you have the look
of it, and your partners will find that out quickly. Besides,” with a
smile, “you must allow something for the charm of novelty. Those other
girls who have been here all the winter have not _that_ advantage over
you.”
Philippa laughed.
“There will be the charm of novelty for me, assuredly,” she said.
And then, as the Bertrams’ carriage was announced, she kissed her
cousin affectionately, promising to relate all her adventures in full
the next morning.
“I am sure she will enjoy herself,” said Maida to Mr Raynsworth, as he
came back from putting his daughter into the carriage.
“I have no doubt of it,” he said. “In fact she has enjoyed everything
here. And it is all greatly due to you, Maida. I have never seen
Philippa so bright and light-hearted in her life. And I am most
thankful for it. She deserves to be happy.”
“Yes,” Miss Lermont agreed, warmly. “She does indeed.”
And Philippa did “enjoy herself.” To her the whole scene was almost one
of enchantment, and she threw herself into it with no misgiving.
Personally, though in her inexperience she did not realise this, she
was a great success, and she had certainly no reason to test the truth
of her prediction that she would be equally happy if she danced little
or much.
Mr Gresham was her most frequent partner; but from their previous
acquaintance this seemed only natural. And he in no way obtruded the
fact. He had no desire to make any gossip about himself or his affairs
prematurely, and till he had entirely and completely decided that in
Miss Raynsworth he had at last found his ideal, he would have
considered any behaviour calling for such comment decidedly ill-judged
and in bad taste.
Nevertheless he managed to appropriate to himself a good deal of the
girl’s time and attention. And the result of the ball at the Hôtel —,
at which Philippa’s bearing and the admiration she excited fulfilled
his best anticipations, was such as to make him all but own to himself
that in Miss Raynsworth he had found something very nearly approaching
perfection.
The evening did not, however, pass, as has been said, without a sting
of annoyance to poor Philippa. Among the maids deputed to attend to the
ladies in the cloak-room was Mrs Worthing’s “Bailey.”
On arrival, the room being crowded and the attendants busy, Philippa
did not notice the maid’s presence. But later in the evening a slight
accident happened to her dress, a frill of which was torn. Aline
Worthing was standing near her at the time, and good-naturedly offered
to go with her to have it mended, and without the least misgiving, Miss
Raynsworth thanked her, and went with her to the cloak-room, now
comparatively deserted.
“Bailey must be here; our maid, I mean,” said Aline, glancing round.
She was a little near-sighted. And at the name, Philippa’s heart for a
moment seemed to stand still.
“Oh, pray don’t trouble to find your maid,” she said, eagerly. “Any one
can do what is required; a few pins indeed are all that is necessary.”
But Miss Worthing, in the sort of enthusiasm she had conceived for her
new friend, was not satisfied with half measures.
“Bailey! Bailey!” she called, as she caught sight of her attendant at
the other end of the room; “come quick. I want you to mend Miss
Raynsworth’s skirt!”
The woman hastened towards the two girls; but as she drew near them a
curious change came over her face, which had hitherto expressed only
good-natured readiness to attend to her young lady’s summons. It grew
hard and almost repellent in expression, with a look in the eyes of
something so nearly approaching insolence that it made Philippa
shudder. Yet Bailey was not a bad or vindictive woman. She was simply
one of her class; perhaps specially prone, as Mrs Shepton had warned
Philippa, to jealousy of any one younger or better-looking than
herself, and, as a not unnatural result of this, to suspicion.
She smiled slightly as she addressed Aline, but the smile was not a
pleasant one, and she seemed to avoid looking at Philippa, as if she
wished to obtrude her ignoring of her.
“Yes, ma’am,” she said; “what is it I can do? Have you torn your
dress?” and she glanced at Aline’s draperies with a kind of affectation
of concern.
“No, no,” said the girl, impatiently, “didn’t you hear what I said? It
is Miss Raynsworth’s dress that is torn, not mine. Get a needle and
thread and mend it as quickly as you can.”
“Miss—Miss _Ray’s_ dress?” said Bailey, slowly; “no, Miss Aline, I did
not understand that Miss Ray was a friend of yours.”
And now, almost as if indifferent whether Miss Worthing noticed her
extraordinary manner or not, she stared hard at Philippa, with the same
half-impertinent, half-contemptuous smile on her face.
Philippa grew white; Aline grew red with shame.
“Bailey,” she said, indignantly, “what is the matter with you? Are you
going out of your mind? Or have you been asleep and don’t know what you
are saying?”
The maid in her turn reddened a little. She was evidently not
accustomed to be spoken to so sharply, and it mortified her.
“I did not understand,” she muttered, confusedly, and she drew a
thimble and needle-case out of her pocket. “If you will show me—” she
began.
But Philippa by this time had quite recovered her self-possession.
Every nerve in her body tingled with proud indignation. Whether wisely
or unwisely, she felt that there was but one course possible for her to
pursue.