left Wyverston. That is the only melancholy bit of it, for he has been
so happy in his regiment, and he loves his work. It was better for him
to do it there—on the spot, as it were—when the _family_ feeling could
keep him up to knowing it was right. Poor old Duke! The squire did so
understand and liked him the better for it, I could see. And I was glad
for them all to feel that there _is_ sacrifice even in his accepting
the position of future head of the house. And—but I must wait till
afterwards to tell you everything. I think I shall have to talk for a
week without stopping, once Duke lets me.”
They were in the drawing-room by this time, where all the others were
waiting to receive the travellers. For the Raynsworths were
“old-fashioned” enough to be a very united family. The comings and
goings of any among them were of interest to the others; their joys and
sorrows were common to all, and Duke Headfort, from his somewhat lonely
and isolated position before his marriage, seemed at Greenleaves, for
the first time, to learn what home life and home affections are.
And even now, when his own kinsfolk had so unexpectedly made those
friendly overtures to him, and his future position bade fair to be a
prominent and prosperous one, Captain Headfort was far too steady and
loyal to change.
“_Whatever_ the squire does for me, and however kind and cousinly they
all are,” he said to his wife, “I can never but know that the _first_
reason is that I am a Headfort. They thought little and cared less
about me till fate, in a sense, forced them to do so. And I don’t in
the least blame them. It was only natural, and I am grateful to them
now for the kind and hearty way in which they are acting. For at best
it must be terribly bitter to them to see a stranger in their son’s
place. But they can never be to me what your people are, Evey. Your
dear people, who welcomed me as a son and a brother, as cordially as if
I had been a duke or a millionaire.”
“Far more than if you had been either one or the other,” said Evelyn,
adding, with a smile: “but then, you know, Duke, it was partly for my
sake, because I had fallen in love with you.”
“Well, what is done for your sake only doubles its value in my eyes,”
he said.
It can readily be imagined, in such circumstances, how _very_ good the
good news the young husband and wife brought back seemed to the little
circle at home. Almost indeed at first it sounded “too good to be
true,” and it was not till Captain Headfort, with the practical
matter-of-fact grasp of things which was a part of his character, went
on to give details about going down to see the place and settle what
had to be done, and how soon they could take up their residence there,
and so on, that they all began to breathe more freely and feel that it
was _real_.
“You must come with us, Phil, when we go to spy the land,” said Evelyn.
“We shall be ever so much the better for your advice and taste.”
And this time Philippa brought forward no excuses for not falling in
with her sister’s wishes, though Brierly—Evelyn’s new home—was within a
drive of Merle-in-the-Wold.
Chapter Twenty.
A Visitor in a Hansom.
A day or two after the Headforts’ return to Greenleaves, Philippa got a
letter from Maida Lermont. The Dorriford people were now at _home_
again, but they had travelled back by slow stages, and this was only
the second time that any direct news of them had come since Mr
Raynsworth and his daughter had left Cannes.
Miss Lermont wrote cheerfully. She was feeling so well, she said, far
better than “this time last _year_,” and she was looking forward to
seeing her cousin before long, though how or when exactly she could not
say—it was more “a sort of presentiment.” She gave a few details, with
the graphic interest of touch peculiar to her, of their journey
homewards and certain new sights and experiences it had offered. And
then at the close came a mention of the name which, almost
unconsciously to herself, Philippa had been looking for all through the
letter.
“I hear from the Bertrams that Mr Gresham has been down at Merle, but
only for a short time,” she wrote. “They will be seeing him in town
next week when they go up. He has been very busy about something or
other, I forget what—oh, yes, I know—some electioneering through an
unexpected vacancy.” And at the _very_ end she added: “I forgot to give
you Aline Worthing’s love, though I faithfully promised her to do so.
They left Cannes the same day you did, but by a different route, so I
did not see them again there, but we came across them in Paris.”
These two fragments of gossip did not detract from the generally
pleasurable feeling which Miss Lermont’s letter left on her cousin’s
mind. She was glad to know that Mr Gresham had been “unusually busy,”
for—a girl’s fancy is an unmanageable thing—in spite of her strong
self-control, Philippa, at the bottom of her heart, knew that she was
not always mistress of her own thoughts. And now that several weeks had
elapsed since her return and his, for he had told her he meant to be
soon in England again, and he had made no sign, not even a letter to
Evelyn, certain painful possibilities had now and then suggested
themselves. Had the woman, Bailey, who, for some reason or other,
seemed to have become her enemy, had Bailey done or said something? Had
she retailed her discovery to Mrs Worthing, and had Mrs Worthing—a
faint sick feeling came over Philippa at this stage of her conjectures,
and she went no further with them, for what sort of interpretation a
coarse, vulgar mind might give to what she had done, she was at a loss
to imagine.
“She would probably say I had done it for a wager, or some hateful
practical joke—just the kind of thing _he_ would abhor,” she thought.
So in addition to the satisfaction of learning that Mr Gresham had been
unusually occupied, was that of hearing that the Worthings had left
Cannes so quickly.
“They cannot have met again,” thought Philippa to herself. And her
heart grew lighter at once.
“If only,” she went on thinking, “if _only_ I knew him well enough,
or—or had any reason for telling him all about it—the whole
story—_what_ a relief it would be! And even Michael Gresham, rough and
ready as he is, _so_ different from his cousin, once he knew the whole,
was really kind and I don’t think he looked down upon me for it. What
he hated, I can see now, was the feeling that I was deceitful and
unstraightforward. And Mr Gresham understands shades of thought and
feeling so wonderfully—almost like a woman. Oh, no, it could not do me
any harm in any real friend’s opinion if I could tell it all myself in
the first place.”
And perhaps she was right.
“Philippa,” said Evelyn, one morning, “I have ever so many messages for
you from Mrs Shepton—dutiful regards or affectionate respects, or
something of that kind. She was sorely put to it to find out how to
express herself correctly, with proper respect, I mean, and yet with
the affection she really does feel for you. She _is_ a nice woman and
so devoted to Bonny. I only hope—” But here Mrs Marmaduke Headfort
hesitated.
“Go on,” said Philippa, “I don’t mind any allusions now. And I love Mrs
Shepton. Nothing she could say would vex me.”
“You are wrong for once,” said Evelyn. “It wasn’t anything about you I
was going to say. It was only that I do devoutly hope if ever I come to
be—well, at the head of things at Wyverston, that I shall find Mrs
Shepton still there. And I hesitated, because it seems horridly
cold-blooded to think of the dear old squire’s death.”
“Yes,” her sister agreed, “it does. Still he is an old man, and of
course he now _wants_ Duke to be recognised as his heir. That makes a
difference. I should not think Mrs Shepton at all a lover of change. I
daresay she will end her days at Wyverston. She has only been in two
places in her life—first as nurse in one of the Gresham families, and
then, after a few years of married life, as housekeeper at Wyverston.
And her affections seem divided between the two families.”
“I don’t think she cares much about Bernard Gresham, _our_ Mr Gresham,”
says Evelyn. “It is Michael she is so devoted to, and that is natural,
I suppose, as it was in _his_ family she was nurse, though she had a
good deal to do with Bernard too—he was so much with his relations as a
child. She told me some interesting things about the Greshams,
by-the-by. Did you know that _Michael’s_ father was the elder brother,
not Bernard’s, and that the grand-uncle—grand-uncle to these young men,
I mean—from whom Bernard inherited Merle and all his wealth, left it
away from Michael on purpose?”
“N-no,” Philippa replied. “At least I don’t know anything distinctly.
Mr Gresham, in talking of his cousin one day, alluded to his having had
troubles, and spoke of him as having behaved very well, or very
unselfishly or something.”
How clearly she remembered the very spot at which they were standing—in
the grounds of the old château—when Mr Gresham had alluded to Michael!
“A bit of a hero,” he had called him, though he had added what, though
vaguely, pleased her less, something about “quixotry.”
“That was nice of Bernard Gresham,” said Evelyn, “for the position is a
delicate one, and many men without his good feeling and _perfect_ good
taste might almost have taken a dislike to Michael; the association of
having in a sense supplanted him must be rather painful.”
“Supplanted him!” repeated Philippa. “I don’t understand what you
mean?”
“Oh, no, of course—you know so little. It was this: _Michael’s_ father
was the elder brother, and though, by all accounts, very charming, he
was terribly wild. He ran through all he had and half or wholly broke
his wife’s heart. He died when Michael was about eighteen, leaving any
amount of debts. They _had_ been very well off, much better than
Bernard’s parents, who were in India or somewhere—his father, that is
to say—his mother died when he was born, and he was practically brought
up at his uncle’s. Then his father died, just before Michael’s, so the
two young men came next, though the property was not entailed. Well,
the old uncle was furious at the way Michael’s father had behaved, but
that would not have made any difference to Michael, whom he liked and
respected. But he would do nothing to help to pay his dead nephew’s
debts, and Michael and his mother were broken-hearted about them. Both
on account of the disgrace to Mr Henry Gresham’s memory and also
because some of the debts were unusually bad ones; he had borrowed
money from all sorts of people who could ill afford to lose it, poor
relations of his wife’s, even poorer people still, whom he had cajoled
by his charming manners. It was actual ruin to several. Michael pleaded
and pleaded with the old uncle till at last he got into a sort of rage
and said that for peace sake he would pay them off, if Michael would
renounce all expectation of being his heir. And Michael _did_, for his
mother’s sake more even than for the other reasons, and he never let
her know at what a cost his father’s memory had been cleared. She died
soon after, in comparative peace of mind. And he had to face the world
practically penniless. He knew it; he knew the old man would keep to
what he had said, and he did.”
“Did he leave Michael _nothing_?” said Philippa.
“Nothing. His name was not mentioned in the will. The uncle might have
modified it if he had lived longer, but he was very old and he died
suddenly.”
“And,” Philippa went on, with some hesitation, “has her—has Mr Gresham
done nothing for his cousin?”
Evelyn shook her head.
“I can’t say. I didn’t like to ask Mrs Shepton anything that she did
not tell, but she is a very fair, just-minded woman. She did not say
anything about Mr Gresham—Bernard, I mean—one way or the other. But she
said a great deal about how proud Michael is. I should think it is most
probable that Bernard has offered to help him, but that he has refused
it.”
“Yes,” said Philippa, consideringly. “And then besides if—if he looked
upon his arrangement with his grand-uncle as a compact, I daresay he
would think it not strictly honourable to take any of his money, even
from its present possessor. Still—”
“Still what?” said Evelyn, with some impatience.
“I was only going to say that I think Mr Gresham might have done—well
_something_ to help Michael on.”
“And how do we know that he has not? I feel almost certain he has
_tried_ to do so at any rate. You remember he used the word ‘quixotry’
in talking to you of Michael. Ten to one he was thinking of his
cousin’s refusal to take anything from him.”
“Perhaps so,” said Philippa, somewhat absently. Evelyn felt slightly
irritated with her, and half inclined to blame herself for her own
communicativeness.
“Philippa is so fantastic,” she thought. “Very likely she will now
begin making a hero in earnest of Michael Gresham, and blaming Bernard
for what he probably deserves no blame for.”
But she scarcely understood her sister. Philippa’s thoughts were
certainly occupied with the two men, but not exactly to the
disparagement of the elder. She was only comparing the two in her mind
and saying to herself how little she would have credited Michael with
the delicacy and sensitiveness of _feeling_ he evidently possessed.
“He must be almost a grand character,” she thought. “And I only saw his
roughness and hardness. I never would have thought him so capable of
devotion as he must have been to his mother. What a hard life he has
had! It makes it seem easy for any one to be kind and considerate as Mr
Gresham is, when one knows how smooth things have been for him in
comparison. Still, prosperity _might_ have made him hard and
indifferent; it often does. And that I cannot think he would ever be.”
She was right—right, that is to say, so far as a large nature can ever
fairly judge a small one. Careless or indifferent to his cousin it was
not in Bernard Gresham to be, nor forgetful of the kindness shown him
throughout his youth by Michael’s parents. And Evelyn’s belief that the
struggles the latter had gone through were far more due to his own
determined independence than to Bernard’s selfishness or neglect, hit
the mark pretty closely.
The very evening of the day on which the sisters had had this talk
about the Greshams, a _tête-à-tête_, in which they themselves—Miss
Raynsworth more especially—were the principal subject of discussion,
took place in Michael Gresham’s rooms.
He had dined and was preparing for an evening’s study, for he was
working very hard just then at the higher branches of technical
knowledge connected with his profession, when the sound of a hansom
stopping at his door made him glance out of the window with a touch of
curiosity. For the street was a quiet one, and the neighbourhood was
not fashionable and callers on himself were rare.
But that this caller was one of such, there could be no doubt, for
standing on the pavement as he paid the cab, Michael recognised the
familiar figure of his cousin Bernard.
He stepped back from the window with a murmur of impatience. Bernard’s
visits, though infrequent, were not flying ones, and Michael had mapped
out his evening’s work. There was no use in grumbling, however, and he
met the new-comer pleasantly, as the door opened and the small boy who
acted as page on such occasions announced Mr Gresham.
“Lucky to find you in, Mike,” was Bernard’s first greeting. “I would
have telegraphed to say I was coming, but I only made up my mind to try
to see you half an hour ago, so I thought I would just chance it.”
“I am not often out in the evening,” said Michael. “I don’t go in for
dinner-parties and that sort of thing, as you know.”
“I have missed you sometimes, however,” said his cousin. “Last year I
looked you up two or three times, don’t you remember? without ever
finding you in.”
“Last year I stayed later at the office. I very often didn’t come home
to dinner,” said Michael, quietly. “This year it is different. I have
work that I can do better at home.”
Bernard glanced round the room as his cousin ceased speaking. Michael’s
“home” was a somewhat dreary one, and somehow, though he had honestly
meant to do his best for the man who had been all but a brother to him
in bygone days, Bernard Gresham never realised Michael’s uphill life
and struggles without a twinge of something like self-reproach.
“Are you satisfied with the berth you have got?” he said, abruptly.
“Are these fellows—Matterson and Wheeler, I mean—treating you
properly?”
“Quite properly—quite fairly, that is to say, thanks to you,” Michael
replied, for the one thing he had accepted at his cousin’s hands was a
substantial guarantee, which in due course was to pave the way towards
his being taken in as a working partner. “One does not look for more
than that in business matters. I have never expected ready roasted
larks to fall to my share; but I am quite satisfied. Once I am
thoroughly qualified in this special department,” and he glanced at the
papers strewn on the table, “I have no doubt the permanent arrangement
will be settled. But talking of roast larks or roast anything, have you
dined, Bernard?”
Mr Gresham nodded.
“Yes, thank you, all right. I had something at my club early, on my way
here. Have _you_ dined?”
Just then there came a scratching at the door.
“Yes,” said Michael, as he got up to open it. “I take my meals
down-stairs. That’s one thing I can’t stand, eating and working in the
same room. And Solomon,” as the dachshund walked in solemnly, “Solomon
has dined too, but he stays behind for a nap.”
Bernard eyed the dog with a smile that was not all amiability.
“Really, Michael,” he observed, “you are too ridiculous about that
animal.”
“Was that all you had to say to me?” said Michael, carelessly. He knew
his cousin quite well enough to be sure that there was some special
reason for his visit, a reason which it was not altogether easy to
express, for he was conscious that Bernard was beating about the bush.
“No,” Mr Gresham replied, with a touch of sharpness, “it was not all. I
want to ask your advice. But besides that, you have no reason, Mike, to
say or to think that I am indifferent about you. I did want to know how
you were getting on.”
“All right, old fellow. I have never said or thought that you were
indifferent,” Michael answered, and his smile was frank and cordial.
“But what is it that you want to consult me about? You are not thinking
of getting married, are you?”
“I don’t know,” was the reply.
Michael looked at him keenly.
“That means, I should say, that you are,” he said.
In his turn, Bernard fixed his eyes on his cousin.
“What makes you think so? Have you heard any gossip about it?”
“I don’t know if you would call it gossip or not. I have heard that you
seemed—well, a good deal struck by some one you met at Cannes. But you
need not mind about it; it came round to me in the most innocent way,
though I cannot tell you how.”
In point of fact, Michael’s informant was his old nurse, who had
mentioned in a letter to him some allusions which Mrs Marmaduke
Headfort had allowed herself to make, in her confidential talks with
the housekeeper, to Mr Gresham’s admiration for her sister. But no
comments, for or against, had been added by Mrs Shepton.
Bernard did not appear annoyed.
“Oh, at _Cannes_,” he repeated. “It is a nest of gossip about the
English visitors, like all those places. And possibly,” he went on more
slowly, “there was some little ground for it.”
“Then you need not trouble to tell me the young lady’s name,” said
Michael, quickly, “which, to my mind, is always preferable in such
circumstances. But taking that for known, what is it you want to
consult me about? How can you—” He stopped short.
“Perhaps she has given you no encouragement to go further?”
A shade of irritation darkened Bernard’s face.
“On the contrary—” he began. Then he, too, stopped short. He had no
wish to pose as a _fat_, even to Michael. “We need not enter into that
part of it,” he said, composedly. “The thing is this, and, as you like
plain speaking, you must not turn upon me, and call me coarse, or
unchivalrous, or anything of that kind—the facts are these: I left
Cannes all but decided in my own mind to—to—well, to go through with
it. But circumstances delayed my return home, or, rather I should say,
my return to my usual life. I was so busy about that canvassing
business. And, on the whole, I thought it was just as well; I wanted to
think it all over. Well, soon I was at leisure again; one day in
London, when I was just considering how best to proceed, _not_ having
cooled upon it, I met some people you too know. The Worthings.”
Michael crushed up a sheet of paper lying on the table by his hand.
“Indeed,” he said. “And what about that? Has Mrs Worthing not
relinquished her hopes for the fair Aline—poor little soul—and is she
waxing spiteful?”
“She is far too clever to _show_ her spite, whether she feels it or
not,” said Mr Gresham. “And she is too cautious to state anything
distinctly untrue. I can’t make it out. With all reasonable allowance
for her—well, spitefulness is as good a word as any—I cannot understand
her saying what she has done, unless—unless she has some facts to back
her?”
“What did she say?” asked Michael, and he threw the ball of crushed
paper into the fire, with a sort of fierceness.
“She said—” began Bernard. Then he got up and walked up and down the
room. “Upon my soul,” he went on, “it’s awfully difficult to tell. It
was so vague—just enough to be horribly annoying and upsetting, and—”
“People have no right—no right whatever—to be vague in
mischief-making,” said Michael, angrily. “And mischief-making I infer
that it was. She spoke ‘vaguely’ against Miss—no, I won’t name her.
Why, in heaven’s name, did you not bring the woman to book?”
“How could I?” replied his cousin. “Don’t get so excited, Mike. By
Jove! what a Don Quixote you are still! How could I bring her to book,
as you say, without seeming to give credence to her hints? The very
thing she would have liked. Of course, my only rôle was to treat what
she said with absolute indifference, as an absurd mistake. I could see
that my doing so riled her. Besides, you would not have had me let her
see that, mistake or no mistake, I took any special interest in Miss—in
the person concerned?”
“No. I see what you mean,” said Michael, consideringly. “It would have
been very wrong, seeing that you had _not_ quite made up your mind;
very wrong for _her_ sake.” And again he eyed his cousin keenly.
Bernard gave a movement of impatience.
“It would have been very disagreeable for _myself_,” he said. “I
wouldn’t allow that woman to think any chatter or warnings of _hers_
had influenced me. I don’t say—candidly to you in confidence—I don’t
say but what they did, for I believe I had made up my mind to go
through with it.”
“Then, upon my soul,” said Michael, sharply, “I don’t understand you.
You—you care for this girl; you love her or are in love with her, and
you would let the poisonous tongue of a thorough-going, scheming woman
like Mrs Worthing deter you from what you call going through with it,
when you know her motive too! By Jove! Bernard, if you are fool enough
to play into her hands, and I see you some fine day married to poor
little Aline, you need not come to me to complain of your
mother-in-law.”
Bernard flushed crimson.
“You are going too far, Michael,” he said. “To begin with, I have no
right to impute the motive you do, nor to impugn Mrs Worthing’s
truthfulness. It is possible her motives are sincere and disinterested.
It is not inconceivable that she may have some friendly feeling for
me.”
“It is conceivable that she is clever enough to make you think so,”
muttered Michael. Then, after a moment’s silence. “But, after all,” he
said, suddenly, “what _did_ she say? All through this conversation you
have put off telling me.”
“You never asked distinctly,” said his cousin. “I began by telling you
it was vague—vague, and so extraordinary; so—upon the face of
it—_absurd_, that I—I scarcely know how to make you take it seriously.”
Michael laughed, but it was somewhat forcedly.
“You are really a good deal of an idiot, Bernard. But go on, the more
absurd the better.”
Chapter Twenty One.
Circumstances.