herself.
And she fixed her eyes undauntedly on Bailey with a gesture of
repelling her now offered services.
“No,” she said, icily. “I am much obliged to you, Miss Worthing, but I
should much prefer one of the other maids mending my skirt,” and she
turned away and walked slowly across the room to where one of the
French chamber-maids was standing, looking rather astonished at the
little scene, though she had no idea what it was all about. And just
for a moment Bailey felt staggered. _Could_ she have made a mistake as
to the identity of this young lady and Phillis Ray, the maid, whom she
had met and disliked at Wyverston? The very idea frightened her; what
_would_ her mistress say to her if “Miss Aline” told of her rudeness?
Bailey’s imagination was well stocked with sensational fiction; she had
read of extraordinary likenesses, leading to still more extraordinary
mistakes. But no, a moment’s reflection satisfied her again. There were
other coincidences—here, at Cannes, this girl was figuring as Miss
Raynsworth, sister to Mrs Marmaduke Headfort (for Bailey knew all the
small talk and gossip of the place already); there, at Wyverston, she
had been the same lady’s _maid_. There was some mystery, some secret,
and Bailey’s sensational novels came in handy again, as suggesting
reasons and clues by the score. She had _not_ made a mistake.
All this passed through her mind so rapidly that she was quite prepared
with an answer when Aline, waiting an instant till Philippa was out of
earshot, turned upon her again hotly.
“Bailey,” she said, “I am utterly ashamed of you. I do not know what
has come over you, but I warn you I shall tell mamma all about it.”
Somewhat to her surprise, Bailey did not seem impressed by what she
said. Aline was in general very mild and gentle, and Bailey was an old
servant. Miss Worthing would not have dared to speak so strongly to
her, had she not herself for once been really angry, and she was half
prepared for something rude in reply. But the maid answered calmly
enough:
“Of course, miss, you must tell your mamma what you like. But I shall
have something to tell her too—something that will surprise her more
than anything you tell her of _my_ behaviour. And I take blame to
myself that I have not spoken out before; so particular as your mamma
has always been about you.”
“What do you mean, Bailey? Say what you mean, or I will go straight
into the ball-room and bring mamma here,” said Aline, beginning to be
vaguely frightened as well as angry.
“As you like, Miss Aline,” returned the maid, curtly; “but—”
Aline, glancing round, saw at this moment Philippa, her skirt repaired,
coming slowly towards her. Something in Miss Raynsworth’s cool and
stately bearing at once reassured the younger girl, and afraid of the
_possibility_ of repeated insolence on Bailey’s part, she hurried
forward to meet her companion.
“Thank you so much for waiting for me,” said Philippa. “I hope you will
not have missed all this dance.”
“Oh, no; I don’t mind,” said Aline, confusedly. “Miss Raynsworth,” she
went on, “I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to apologise to
you for Bailey’s insolence. I don’t know what has come over her, unless
she is going out of her mind. She was never like that before. I shall
tell mamma about it at once.”
“Oh, pray don’t,” said Philippa. “Do not spoil the evening by anything
disagreeable. Wait till you are in your own rooms afterwards. It is
really making too much of it to say anything to Mrs Worthing at all,
but still I can understand your feeling about it.”
It would be worse than useless she well knew to persuade the girl not
to tell her mother, even could she herself have condescended to do so.
For she now felt little doubt that Bailey would communicate her
suspicions, whatever form they had taken, to her mistress; and any
check from herself as to Aline’s account of the strange occurrence
would only lower her position.
“I can’t understand _her_” repeated Aline. “She really looked at you as
if she hated you, Miss Raynsworth. Can she be confusing you with some
one else? Now I come to think of it, she spoke of you as ‘Miss Ray,’
did she not?”
“Yes,” said Philippa, “I think she did. I daresay she did take me
for—for another person.”
“There _are_ very strange likenesses sometimes between people who have
nothing to do with each other,” said Aline, looking perplexed.
But by this time they were entering the ball-room, and Mr Gresham, who
had been waiting about the door for Philippa’s return, came forward to
claim a dance, and at the same time Captain Bertram asked Aline to make
up a Lancers set with him. So the two girls were separated. Nor did
they meet again, except for a hurried good-bye at the end.
Poor Philippa, she would gladly have been left by herself for a few
moments, to recover her composure and think over the disagreeable shock
she had just received. For the brave front she had put upon it was only
in appearance; in reality she was miserably upset.
“You are looking very pale, Miss Raynsworth,” said Mr Gresham. “Are you
tired? Pray don’t dance if you would rather sit quietly and rest.”
“No, thank you,” Philippa replied. “I would rather dance,” which, under
the circumstances—“sitting out” only meaning a _tête-à-tête_ with her
partner—was certainly true. “I am really not tired,” she went on,
“though I have been dancing so energetically as to tear my dress, you
saw?”
“That was that clumsy Delmaine’s fault,” he replied. “I saw how it
happened. I was waiting to catch you as you came back from the
cloak-room. It is all right now, I suppose?” with a glance at her
skirts. It would have annoyed him to find himself entangled in his
partner’s torn flounces before the whole ball-room!
“Oh, yes,” she replied. “I got it mended by one of the maids in the
cloak-room.”
The word—or was it an unconscious intuition of what was passing in the
girl’s mind?—caught Mr Gresham’s ear.
“Oh, by-the-by,” he said, “I wanted to ask you something. Do give me
leave to speak to Mrs Worthing about that insolent maid of hers. I
really think she must be insane. I cannot forget about it, and I do not
think such a thing should be allowed to pass.”
Philippa smiled—had Mr Gresham been more discriminating, her smile
would have struck him as a very bitter one.
“Oh, dear,” she said, “I wonder at your remembering about that absurd
thing. Surely it should be treated as beneath contempt.”
Mr Gresham looked dissatisfied.
“You might understand,” he said, speaking in a lower tone of voice, and
with something of reproach, “You might understand how inexpressibly
annoying it was to me for anything of the kind to happen to _you_;
above all, when you were in the position of my guest.”
He glanced at her with a kind of delicate inquiry in her eyes, and the
accent on the pronoun made Philippa’s cheeks flush.
“Don’t mind about it, I beg of you,” she said, earnestly. “Promise me
you will not mention it to Mrs Worthing. I scarcely know her at all,
and—and—she might not be nice about it. You have been so kind,” she
went on; “you have done so much to add to the pleasure of my time here,
that I should hate to think it could be associated with anything
disagreeable. Please promise me,” she repeated, in conclusion.
He smiled.
“I am afraid I should find it difficult not to promise you anything you
liked to ask,” he said. “Well, then, we will let the matter drop. I am
so glad, so delighted that you have enjoyed your visit here; and if I
have in the very least added to your amusement, as you so kindly say, I
need scarcely assure you that I am repaid a thousandfold.”
Then he went on to speak, in his most attractive way, of meeting again
in England; of Evelyn and her husband; of “Charley,” whom he had heard
of and would be so pleased to meet; exerting himself so tactfully to
talk of the things which he knew interested her the most, that Philippa
forgot the painful shock she had experienced, or only recalled it to
make light of her own exaggerated fears.
“After all,” she said to herself, “at the very worst I did nothing
wrong, nothing really to feel ashamed of. And if—if I were ever to get
to know Mr Gresham better—really very well indeed, I could make him
understand it all. Even that rough, surly Michael was kind about it,
and Bernard is infinitely gentler and less harsh judging than he. No; I
need not be unhappy.” And that night when she passed Maida’s room, of
which the door was slightly ajar, and heard Miss Lermont’s voice
saying, softly:
“Philippa, dear, is that you? Have you enjoyed yourself?” she answered
brightly, as she went in for a moment:
“Enjoyed myself? I should think so. I have never been so happy in my
life.”
The words and tone gave Miss Lermont much subject for thought. Was this
to be the girl’s fate, then? Was she destined to be one of the favoured
few to whom the good things of life come almost before life has really
begun? Was it to be a case of “true love running smooth,” one of the
exceptions to prove the rule? It looked like it. And in the eyes of the
world—and that not of the thoroughly “worldly” world either—such a
marriage for Philippa Raynsworth would be not only brilliant, but
excellent in every possible way.
“Yet,” thought Maida to herself, “yet, _is_ he really good enough for
her?”
Forty-eight hours after the ball saw Mr Raynsworth and his daughter
started on their journey home.
Chapter Nineteen.
Good News.
“Well, mother,” said Evelyn Headfort, one morning, a fortnight or so
after the return of the two wanderers to Greenleaves, “I hope you are
satisfied _now_ that it was not my fancy about Mr Gresham? I have not
said anything hitherto about it. I thought I would wait till you could
judge for yourself; but I am sure you have had time to hear everything
Phil has to tell by this.”
“But,” began Mrs Raynsworth, “if there were anything of that kind to
tell, Philippa would be more likely to tell nothing.”
She smiled a little at her own rather “Irish” way of expressing
herself.
“Of course, mother dear,” said Evelyn, with a touch of impatience. “Of
course I know that. What I mean is, that you can _judge_. I don’t dream
for a moment that she is the sort of girl to tell even _you_ of the
conquests she has made. But to me—and I don’t suppose Philippa has said
as much to me as to you. I have been so busy, you see, getting ready
for Wyverston,” for the Marmaduke Headforts were on the eve of starting
for a visit to the north, “and Duke wanting me every two minutes—but
even judging by what she has said to _me_, I feel no doubt about it
whatever. It is in her own hands. He fell in love with her that first
afternoon at Dorriford. I shall always say so.”
“Well, time will show,” replied Mrs Raynsworth. She seemed slightly
nervous, or rather disinclined to discuss the subject. But Evelyn,
though a little disappointed, was not suspicious of there being any
other reason for her mother’s reticence than Mrs Raynsworth’s extreme,
perhaps exaggerated delicacy.
“I don’t know about that,” she replied. “There are ways and means of
_preventing_ ‘time’s showing.’ It does not do to be a fatalist in such
matters, any more than in any others, mamma. If Phil chooses to—well,
to discourage its going any further, either actively or tacitly,
nothing is easier than for a girl to discourage a man; no one will ever
believe there was anything in it! At least no one would ever be sure
that there had been. I do not call that ‘time’s showing;’ _I_ should
call it girl’s perversity.”
Mrs Raynsworth hesitated.
“I think you can trust Philippa,” she said. “There is not a touch of a
flirt or coquette about her. If she had real grounds for believing that
any man she felt _she_ could care for, cared for her, she would behave
with simplicity and straightforwardness, I am sure.”
“Perhaps she would,” rejoined Mrs Headfort, “but how about what you
call ‘real grounds?’ Short of putting it into so many words, I doubt if
she ever _would_ believe it, and till she did, she would be tacitly
discouraging without meaning it, and then the ‘so many words’ would
never come! It is a vicious circle, when you have to deal with any one
so fantastic as Phil.” And to herself she added, “And I do believe
mamma rather encourages it in her. They are both too impracticable.”
Poor Evelyn, she was feeling put out. For she had, to tell the truth,
been putting considerable restraint on herself not to cross-question
her sister. And she had only refrained from doing so in the hope of
being rewarded by a good comfortable “talk over” of the whole affair
with her mother before leaving for Wyverston.
And Mrs Raynsworth understood her perfectly, and was sorry for her
disappointment. But there was another motive for her own
uncommunicativeness. Philippa had told her _all_ that had happened—the
last annoying “rencontre” with the maid, Bailey, as well as the first.
And the mother’s heart was sore—sorer than she would for worlds have
allowed Philippa to suspect. Was this miserable piece of girlish folly
never to be forgotten? Was it to cloud her daughter’s life and
prospects always? For Mrs Raynsworth knew the world and society much
better than might have been supposed from her present quiet and almost
isolated life. Her youth had been spent in a very different _milieu_
from the simple though refined home which was all that her scholarly
husband was able to give her. And she knew how the least breath of
anything against a girl—any, even harmless, piece of fun or
thoughtlessness may be magnified or distorted—above all, where there is
any element of spite or jealousy present—into grotesque, but none the
less fatally damaging proportions.
“I almost wish,” thought Philippa’s mother, “that I had not made her
promise never to tell the story without first consulting me. Had she
been free to confide in Maida Lermont, for instance, Maida might have
found some way of telling it to Mr Gresham, simply and unexaggeratedly;
_if_, that is to say, Maida has noticed anything on his side of what
Evey suspects. Maida is very clever and tactful—could I write to her?”
But this idea was dismissed as soon as it suggested itself. It was too
repellent to all Mrs Raynsworth’s instincts—as if her child, her noble
Philippa, needed “explaining,” apologising for!—not to speak of the, to
such a woman as herself, inexpressible indelicacy of presupposing any
special interest in her daughter, before the man in question had
unmistakably declared it!
“No,” she decided, “I can do nothing. I could _speak_ to Maida,
possibly to her mother. But writing anything of the kind, putting it on
paper, I cannot.”
Perhaps she was wrong. A great many things in this often crooked life
of ours might be put straight if people were less timorous of speaking
out, of their doing so being misunderstood. But for many, life-long
suffering, death of every hope, seem preferable to even the shadow of
indelicacy. And of such were Philippa and her mother.
And then again came a species of reaction to Mrs Raynsworth, much as
had been the case that last evening at Cannes with Philippa.
“I am surely after all exaggerating it,” thought she, “I am letting
myself get morbid; at the very worst there is nothing to be really
ashamed of in what the foolish child did, and in the _motives_ which
led to her doing it there is much to be proud of. Any man who was
worthy of Philippa, who could rise above conventional notions of
propriety where higher feelings called for doing so, _would_ understand
and would scarcely blame her, though as we—as her father and I do—he
might regret, bitterly regret, that she had been so rash. No; I will
not let myself be unhappy about it, for there is no real reason, and
Philippa would find out if I were so. Her intuitions are so quick and
accurate. And, above all, _she_ must not be allowed to grow morbid
about it.”
It would have been an unspeakable comfort to the mother to have
confided the whole story, with its sequence of anxieties and
misgivings, to her eldest son. But this she had deliberately decided
not to do. Charley was so proud of Philippa; he loved to guard her from
every touch of roughness or coarseness, as if she were too good for
common life at all; it might be exaggerated, but it was very sweet and
tender all the same, and his mother could not face the thought of his
pain and indignation did he ever come to know what his sister had done,
and the detestable gossip and comments that even now might result from
it. No, Charley must never know.
And the unselfish determination to keep her uneasiness to herself made
Mrs Raynsworth even more consistently cheerful than usual, so that
Philippa felt herself justified in dismissing her misgivings, and now
and then, though rarely, for the girl knew the complexities of her own
character and its weaknesses, when few would have suspected them—just
now and then she allowed herself a little day-dreaming, of radiant,
rose-coloured possibilities, whose beauty any more definite picturing
would, to such a nature as hers, have destroyed.
And some weeks passed, happily and peacefully. Evelyn and her husband
stayed nearly a month at Wyverston, and Philippa enjoyed to the full
her mother and elder brother’s society. Little Vanda was no trouble
now, for she was fast outgrowing her delicacy, and the weather was
lovely. And the letters from Wyverston were cheering in the extreme;
nothing could be more satisfactory, wrote Evelyn, than the progressing
friendship between the squire and her husband.
“They all like him, I can see,” she wrote, “and who could help it? Duke
is so good and so simple and single-minded. I feel almost certain
something will be arranged before we leave this, so that we need never
go back to that dreadful India again.”
“Is not that good news?” said Mrs Raynsworth, looking up from the
letter which she had been reading aloud.
“Excellent,” said Philippa, heartily. “I wonder where their home will
be. Does Evey say,” she went on, rather thoughtlessly, for Charles was
present, and the subject of her sister’s maid was always a somewhat
nervous one, “does she say how Berthe is getting on?” Berthe was a
French maid whom Miss Lermont had found for Mrs Marmaduke Headfort.
“Very well, indeed,” said her mother, consulting the letter afresh.
“Ah, yes, here it is: ‘Berthe is shaping very satisfactorily. There
have been several inquiries as to why I had parted with—’ Oh, yes,
nothing of consequence,” Mrs Raynsworth went on, confusedly; “let me
see, what more does Evey say? ‘I am so extremely glad that Berthe
neither speaks nor understands English at present. It prevents all
possibility of gossip, and—’”
“Gossip,” interrupted Charley; “what can Evey mean? She—we—have no
reason to fear servants’ gossip. Surely,” and he flushed a little,
“surely Evelyn is not vulgar-minded enough to be afraid of her maid’s
talking of the simple way we live—of our not being rich?”
“Charley!” said Philippa. “How can you dream of such a thing? Of course
not; but Duke’s position among his relations is a rather delicate one.
There might be plenty of gossip about it.”
She felt herself crimson as she spoke; she hated herself for the
species of subterfuge she was condescending to, and afterwards she felt
that it had been scarcely necessary. Charley was not of a suspicious
nature.
Her suggestion of a natural reason for her sister’s fear of gossip
seemed to serve its purpose. Charley gave a kind of grunt of
semi-apology to the absent Evelyn, and no more was said.
But later in the day, when Philippa and her mother were by themselves,
Mrs Raynsworth alluded again to the letter.
“There are one or two things Evelyn asked me to tell you, Philippa,”
she said. “One was that, as I knew she intended to do, she managed to
pay a private visit to that good Mrs Shepton, and to give her the
little present I sent her. And she says she had a ‘charming talk with
her,’ and feels so much happier now that Mrs Shepton knows more about
how it all happened.”
“I am sure _I_ was candid enough about it,” said Philippa. “I scarcely
see what more there was for Evey to tell.”
“Not much, I daresay. But I think too that it is satisfactory and only
fair to you yourself, under the circumstances, that what you told
should have been, as it were, endorsed by a member of your family. And
who so well able to do it as Evelyn? I know for _her_ own sake, she was
anxious to show Mrs Shepton that she had not joined you in _planning_
the thing, though she had not resoluteness enough to stop it. And _I_
am glad for the housekeeper to know very distinctly what your father
and I felt and do feel about it.”
There was a touch of coldness in Mrs Raynsworth’s tone, and a slight
inference of reproach which her daughter’s tender conscience felt to be
not entirely undeserved. She had not answered as gently as she might
have done to her mother.
“Oh, mamma,” she exclaimed. “Of course I know you are always right and
wise, but somehow any allusion to that—that time at Wyverston makes me
nervous and cross.”
Mrs Raynsworth patted her gently. Philippa had crept up close to her.
Evelyn’s letter was still lying open before her.
“There is a long postscript, I see, mamma,” she said. “You did not read
it aloud, did you? Is it anything private?”
Mrs Raynsworth hesitated.
“It is and it isn’t,” she replied. “But of course Evelyn would leave it
to my discretion to tell _you_ or not. She does ask me not to speak of
it to your father or Charley, as Duke wants to tell them himself, once
it is settled. Did you know, Philippa—no, I am sure you did not—that
the Headforts have considerable property in —shire, not far from that
place of Mr Gresham’s, Merle-in-the-Wold?”
Philippa looked up with interest.
“No, indeed,” she said. “I had no idea of it.”
“Nor had Evelyn; it is natural enough, however, that she should not
have heard of it, for it is not what agents call a ‘residential
estate.’ There was no house. But quite lately the old squire has bought
more land there, and on it there _is_ a small house, a sort of good
farm-house, which might easily be converted into a very charming little
place. And with the increased size of the property he wants some one
there to look after it. _This_ is what he is talking about to Duke; his
idea is for Duke to leave the army and settle down there. They are
talking it over busily, Evey says. Of course, Duke is sorry to give up
his profession, but then, as the squire truly says, there is the future
to think of—his children and—” Here Mrs Raynsworth consulted the
letter. ”‘He says, too,’ Evey writes, ‘that if Duke’s future is to be
that of a country proprietor, the sooner he learns some details of the
business the better. That is the way he puts it, you see—half jokingly.
But he is too kind and good to mislead us. And in many ways —shire
would suit us better at present than farther north. I shall get quite
strong in time, no doubt, but India has tried me, and Vanda is not too
robust either. Phil will remember what a lovely part of the country it
is near Merle-in-the-Wold.’ Ah, yes,” Mrs Raynsworth went on, “that
shows that she meant to tell you. She adds also something about Mr
Gresham’s being such a pleasant neighbour.”
“It does sound delightful,” said Philippa, with sparkling eyes. “I do
hope it will be soon decided about I shall have to try to forget about
it, or I shall be able to think of nothing else.”
“It is not likely that we shall be kept very long in suspense,” said
her mother, “for Evelyn and Duke will be back in a week, and by that
time they are sure to know.”
Even a week, however, seems to extend itself magically, if
one—especially if “one” is young and eager—has any great reason for
wishing it over. But the first glance at her sister and
brother-in-law’s bright faces as the familiar old Marlby fly drew up at
the Greenleaves door told that all was right, and Philippa’s heart
rebounded with joy.
“Isn’t it too lovely, Phil?” whispered Evelyn already, as they were
crossing the hall. “Mamma has told you what we have been hoping, hasn’t
she? I told her she might, though Duke wanted to tell papa and Charley
himself.”
“And is it really settled, then?” asked Phil; “if so, it _is_ almost
too lovely as you say.”