think what she said was exactly premeditated. We were talking about
Cannes and the people there—it was, in fact, the first time I had seen
the Worthings since meeting them there, and I have not seen them again.
Something was said about the Lermonts, and Mrs Worthing expressed her
surprise at finding that the—the Raynsworths were cousins of theirs.
She ‘had never heard of them before; who were they? it seemed odd
somehow.’ I reminded her that Mrs Marmaduke Headfort was a Miss
Raynsworth, and that the young lady of the same name was her sister.
And to my amazement, what do you think the woman said next?”
Michael murmured something unintelligible. Bernard proceeded:
“She looked at me curiously, and said, ‘Ah, that is just it—_is_ she
her sister?’ I stared, naturally, and then said, carelessly, ‘Do you
mean that they are only half-sisters? Possibly so, though I scarcely
think it; they are not the least like each other, however.’ She agreed,
and if no more had been said I daresay I should have thought no more
about it. But I saw by Mrs Worthing’s manner that there was something
more to come, and so, as at the bottom of my heart I _was_ interested,
I said nothing to turn the subject or to shut her up.”
“H-m,” said Michael.
“She hesitated, and then she began again. ‘No,’ she said, ‘I was not
thinking of their being only half-sisters, but sisters at all. There is
something odd about that family, Mr Gresham, mark my words. I know as a
fact—as a fact—that that girl does not always assume the position of
Mrs Marmaduke Headfort’s sister. She has been recognised as figuring in
a very different capacity.’ ‘What?’ said I. ‘Mother, or grandmother,
perhaps?’ ‘It is no laughing matter,’ Mrs Worthing replied; and to give
her her due she was serious enough. She had been very anxious about it,
for Aline’s sake, as it appeared that the child had taken a tremendous
fancy to—to Miss Raynsworth. And then she went on to say that her
maid—a treasure, of course, who had been with her twenty years, and all
that sort of thing—had seen and known that same girl as a servant.
Where and when she did not say, and I would not ask, but she vouched
for it. I laughed at it as an absurd piece of nonsense, and I am glad
to believe that I quite took her in. She does not think she made any
impression upon me. I made some upon her. I asked her on the face of it
how such a thing was possible. She had seen the Lermonts—Miss Lermont
above all, who is far from a silly woman—making much of their guest. I
did _not_ say, ‘You have only to look at the girl to see how
thorough-bred she is.’ I thought it wiser not. I _inferred_, politely,
of course, my surprise at a woman like Mrs Worthing condescending to
listen to servants’ gossip. On the whole, so far as _she_ is concerned,
I am by no means dissatisfied with my diplomacy.”
“And what _are_ you dissatisfied about then?” inquired Michael, drily.
Mr Gresham got up and walked towards the window, where he stood for a
moment or two staring out in silence. Then, without facing his cousin,
he began again.
“I scarcely like to tell you; you will be down upon me for giving a
moment’s thought to it, but half confidences are no good.” And he went
on to relate the curious and annoying episode which had occurred at the
picnic, an episode which he confessed had been emphasised to him by
Philippa’s extreme reluctance to having any notice taken of the
lady’s-maid’s impertinence. “So you see,” he added, in conclusion, “I
could not help putting two and two together, when Mrs Worthing made her
extraordinary statement to me, otherwise I should probably have sent it
quite out of my mind, as utterly absurd and contemptible nonsense, or,
possibly as one of those extraordinary cases of personal resemblance
which one does come across or hear of now and then.”
“And why not explain it in that way still?”
“I don’t know,” said Mr Gresham, slowly; “I really cannot say. There
was something indefinite, unsatisfactory, in her manner.”
“It is surely natural enough that a girl of any refinement would detest
to be mixed up in a scene with Mrs Worthing’s maid, or Mrs Anybody’s
maid,” said Michael, hotly. “A low-minded, suspicious servant! Of
course, Miss Raynsworth treated the thing as beneath contempt. And
after all,” he went on, cooling down again, “what _can_ you be afraid
of? What do you suppose it _can_ be but some mistake? The girl is _not_
a servant. Would a whole family, including the Lermonts, combine to
pass her off as a lady if she were not one? It is inconceivable.
Besides, Mrs Marmaduke Headfort spoke of her sister Philippa to you
often at Wyverston. I remember hearing her say how unlike they were.”
“Yes,” Mr Gresham agreed. “I know she did, and I had seen her
myself—you forget—the same girl that I met at Cannes—I had seen her at
Dorriford.”
“Then what in heaven’s name are you worrying about?” exclaimed Michael.
“You blow hot and cold with one breath.”
“I have no doubt that it is all right, practically,” said his cousin.
“She must be herself. What I dread is the possibility of some wild
practical joke—acting a part for a wager,” and here he shuddered. “Can
you imagine anything more detestable for me? The sort of thing I could
not stand coming up in the future about _my wife_. It would be
insufferable.”
“Then why risk it? Why take any steps towards making her your wife?”
said Michael. His tone was peculiar.
Bernard Gresham’s face fell.
“You really think there is risk of something of the kind? you seriously
advise me to give it up?” he said. “I had hoped you might suggest
something, that possibly you might have found out what it has all
arisen from, and set my mind at rest.”
Michael shook his head and laughed, somewhat grimly. “Not if I know
it,” he said. “I would do a great deal to oblige you, but not act
detective, thank you, my good fellow. Do I advise you to give it up?
Well, yes, if,” and here his voice softened and deepened till its tones
were very grave and yet almost tender too, “if you cannot entirely and
absolutely trust a woman to be incapable of any really unladylike or
unfeminine action, or course of action—well, yes, without such trust I
should strongly advise you, for her sake, even more than your own, to
give up all idea of making her your wife.”
Mr Gresham’s face had brightened at first; as Michael came to a
conclusion it fell again.
“Ah!” he exclaimed, “the way you speak seems to describe her. She gives
one just that feeling. You might have seen her—”
“I have heard of her,” said his cousin, laconically.
“And yet,” the other went on, scarcely noticing the interpolation,
“yet, I am _not_ satisfied, and that’s the truth of it. You don’t think
I could ask her about it—straight out, you know—do you, Mike?”
“Premising, of course, as the excuse for your im— for your interest in
the matter, that if she explain things to your satisfaction, you have
almost made up your mind to propose to her? Well, what do you think
yourself? How does it strike you?”
“Don’t be so confoundedly sarcastic,” said Mr Gresham, in a tone of
reproachful irritation. “I have come to you for advice; I have told you
the whole thing as I would do to no one else, and—you might see I am
very much upset. I suppose you cannot understand—a cold-blooded
misogynist like you.”
“Come now, you needn’t call me ugly names,” said Michael, whose spirits
seemed to rise as Bernard’s went down. “I suppose we look at things
quite differently. I don’t think I _do_ understand your excessive
uneasiness and perplexity.”
“Put yourself in my place,” said Bernard, eagerly, “if you—” He
hesitated.
“Go on; if I cared for any one as you do for _her_,” said Michael,
“would I feel as you do? No, I would not. That’s just it. It is not in
me to ‘care’ in that sort of way, without giving complete trust.”
“You don’t know anything about it,” grumbled his cousin. “You mean,
then, that you think I should—”
“I don’t mean anything. You are you, and I am I. I am afraid I cannot
advise you.”
Bernard got up slowly.
“Thank you for listening to me, all the same, old fellow,” he said, as
he held out his hand. “You’ll come down to Merle at Easter for a day or
two as usual? I shall count upon you.”
“Well, yes. I daresay I shall, thank you.”
They shook hands. Michael opened the door, followed his guest a few
steps down the staircase, and stood looking after him till the hall
door shut again. Then he returned to his sitting-room, and there came
the sound of the hansom driving away.
“I wonder how it will end,” he said to himself, and for a few moments
he stood there with a curious dreamy expression, very unusual to him.
Suddenly he started. The dachshund, divining something out of the
common, had crept up to him silently, and was licking his hand.
“All right, Solomon,” said Michael, “all right. Many thanks for
reminding me that I’m wasting time. That would never do.”
He sat down at the table, resolutely drawing his books and papers
towards him, and set to work to get as much done in the evening as the
long interruption had made possible.
“Easter,” he said to himself, when at last he stopped working and
proceeded to “tidy up,” as the children say, methodically and
carefully, all the notes, plans, and books with which the table was
spread. “Easter is very late this year—as late as it can be. By that
time, nearly a month hence, surely Bernard will have made up his mind,
as he calls it.” A gesture of something almost like disgust escaped
him. “Has he got any mind, I sometimes wonder! What can _she_ find to
attract or interest her in him, except of course his good looks?”
Easter was so late that year, and the spring came on so rapidly, that
it was quite confusing and unsettling to one’s ideas.
“Good-Friday on a positively summer day would be too much for my brain
to take in,” said Evelyn Headfort.
“Yes,” her sister agreed. “But _Easter_ and sunshine are not
incongruous. Let us hope we shall not have winter back again; there is
still a week to Easter Day, you know, Evey.”
“I don’t think it is likely to get cold again now; there are no weather
prophecies of the kind,” said Mrs Headfort. “Still it is well to make
hay while the sun shines. I _think_ we shall be pretty straight by the
end of next week. I mean to say, the rough of the work done, so that I
shall not need to come back again till we come for good.”
“I _think_ so,” Philippa agreed. “But you know tradespeople and
workpeople are proverbially behind time in these cases.”
She glanced around her as she spoke. They were standing in what was in
process of being converted into a drawing-room in the old house on Mr
Headfort’s —shire property which was now to be Evelyn’s home.
It was a dear old place, and with great capabilities of better things;
though hitherto it had been little more—of late years at least—than a
large well-kept farm-house.
But it was not substantially out of repair, and it was very roomy. So
no fresh building was called for, only the removal or alteration of
partitions and doors and such, comparatively speaking, expeditious
work, as well as painting, papering, and general embellishment to suit
Mrs Marmaduke Headfort’s taste, and to be a fitting background to the
well-chosen furniture of which a great part was the old squire’s gift.
A “wedding present” he called it, though coming somewhat late in the
day.
Altogether fortune was smiling on Duke and his wife. And Evelyn’s busy
little brain meant to extract more smiles from the capricious lady
before she had done with her. It had not been only and entirely for
selfish reasons that she had dragged her sister from home to “rough it”
for a fortnight at Palden Grange, declaring that she could not possibly
“manage” without Philippa’s advice and practical help about everything.
“Especially as Duke, you know, mamma, will be out all day. He is
infatuated about his new work and says he has such a lot to learn, and
he doesn’t care a bit what our house is to look like. No, I _must_ have
Phil.”
And Phil she had, the girl herself neither urging nor objecting to the
plan. Philippa was perplexed and unsettled in those days. She could not
understand Bernard Gresham’s silence. For the weeks were passing, and
the reasons for seeing and hearing nothing more of him, which for a
time had satisfied her, were no longer in existence. Evelyn, too, was
puzzled; half prepared to be angry with her hero, and at other times
inclined to throw the blame on her sister’s “stand-off” manner.
“Though after all,” she reflected, with a return to her usual practical
common-sense, “it is very awkward for men sometimes. And in our case it
is not as if we had a big house and lots of people staying with us, so
that he could easily hint to me that he would like an invitation. That
would be so _very_ marked in our case. No, the only thing is for them
to meet again ‘accidentally.’”
And she set her quick wits to work, and that successfully. She found
out that the master of Merle made a practice of spending Easter there,
usually coming down a week or so beforehand. And this year there was no
doubt of his being there, as he had been so much away during the winter
that various things were calling for his attention. Palden Grange was,
as has been mentioned, only a few miles from Merle-in-the-Wold. It was
necessary that Evelyn, as well as her husband, should be on the spot
for some little time, to direct and superintend the alterations going
on, so all turned out naturally, Evelyn arranging that their residence
at Palden should include Easter-tide, _and_ her sister’s company.
Philippa felt as if she must resign herself to fate. She would have had
an inexpressible horror of going out of her way or even seeming to do
so, to meet Mr Gresham again, yet, on the other hand, any refusal to do
what the Headforts so greatly urged would have been disobliging and
unkind, unless she could have given the true reason for it. And that
reason, above, all the putting it into words, seemed to her as
indelicate to entertain as the converse. For after all, Mr Gresham had
not literally committed himself, and everybody said, and she was always
reading so in stories, that men were very changeable and
capricious—even good, well-meaning men.
“Far more so than women,” thought the girl. “No, I must just go on my
own way and not swerve to right or left through any thought of him.
That is the only thing to do if I wish to retain my own self-respect.”
So Evelyn had her way, and here they were at Palden; here they had been
for more than a week, as busy as bees, and nothing had been heard of Mr
Gresham, no allusion even had been made to their vicinity to his home,
except that one day when something had been said by Duke about taking
Phil over to see the gardens at Merle before they left, and she had not
replied, Evelyn had not seconded the proposal. She had indeed rather
discouraged it, for which her sister had mentally thanked her.
“Imagine our going over there, and his possibly having come home and
meeting me like the girl in _Pride and Prejudice_—could anything be
more horrible?” thought Philippa.
And she was grateful for the sort of tacit understanding of her
feelings which her sister seemed to show, though at the same time
rather surprised at it.
Then suddenly the aspect of everything changed.
That very afternoon—the afternoon of the day on which the sisters had
been discussing the probability of the work being sufficiently advanced
to allow of their return to Greenleaves within a fortnight—as Philippa
and Evelyn were unpacking some especially choice china which had just
arrived, and which was to be carefully locked up in one of the
innumerable cupboards of the old house till Mrs Marmaduke Headfort
should return “for good,” the young servant, who was their temporary
attendant, appeared in the doorway with a face of some consternation.
[Illustration: ] “May I show myself in?” said a voice in the doorway.
“If you please, ma’am,” she began, “there’s a gentleman called to see
you. I told him you were very busy, but he _would_ come in, while I
told you. Mr Gresham is his name.”
“Where is he?” said Evelyn, getting up as she spoke, for she had been
kneeling in front of a packing-case—her face rosier than usual. “What
room did you show him into? Not into the drawing-room, assuredly,” she
went on, with a laugh, to Philippa, “for it is blockaded with ladders
and scaffolding, and—”
“May I not show myself in?” said a voice in the doorway. “I have only
just come down and heard of your being here,” and so saying the
new-comer came forward.
He shook hands cordially with Evelyn; the circumstances made anything
like formality impossible, yet Philippa thought she detected a touch of
constraint in his manner as he turned to her. For the moment she had
not leisure to ask herself if this pained or gratified her; her whole
efforts being devoted to the maintaining in herself an entirely calm
exterior, and this Evelyn’s ready tact greatly assisted. She chatted
merrily to Mr Gresham about the house, and the furniture, and their
future plans, till her two companions grew completely at ease, to all
outward appearance at least. But it was not till shortly before Mr
Gresham left, that Philippa allowed herself to yield to the happy
consciousness which had gilded the last days of her stay at Cannes.
For it was not fancy—he did hold her hand, for a moment longer than
conventionality permitted, and though he addressed Evelyn as he made
plans for meeting again on the morrow, it was Philippa’s eyes that his
sought.
“Yes, you must all come over to luncheon,” he said, “and leave the
packing-cases to themselves. I only wish you would come to Merle
altogether while you are in the neighbourhood.”
Chapter Twenty Two.
On the Way to the Fish-Ponds.
During the next few days all outward circumstances seemed to combine in
one direction. The weather was perfect; Evelyn the most tactful of
chaperons; Merle itself surpassed in beauty all that the sisters had
heard of it. Their host—for such he practically was, as nearly every
day saw them Mr Gresham’s guests—quietly exerted all the powers he
possessed to enhance the charms of his home. And Philippa lived in the
sunshine of the present, in happy confidence as to the future.
“It _must_ be all right,” she told herself. Only—once or twice—an
almost imperceptible hesitation in the young man’s manner struck her,
or her imagination, with a faint shadow of misgiving, and occasionally
an unspoken inquiry in Evelyn’s eyes startled her a little.
Why did he not speak definitely?
Though even as she thought this, she dismissed the question.
“I should have no misgiving,” she said; “I have no reason for it. It is
only that miserable secret in the background! If he would but give me a
chance of telling him about it; it would be so delightful to find, as I
know I should, how fanciful and exaggerated I have been in fearing that
a man like him would really be changed to me because of it.”
The opportunity was to come, as such things often do, when she was
least expecting it. Two or three days before Easter, Michael Gresham
made his appearance at Merle. His cousin welcomed him cordially,
though, truth to tell, he had almost forgotten this arranged-for visit.
“So you’re all alone,” said Michael at breakfast the first morning—he
had travelled down by a night train—“I am all the better pleased,
though rather surprised. You are not generally so contented with your
own society.”
Bernard Gresham did not at once reply. He stooped to pat Solomon, who,
needless to say, was in attendance; an unusual piece of amiability
which did not escape Michael’s attention, any more than the slightly
heightened colour on his cousin’s face, as he turned to reply.
“Well,” he began, “I did mean to ask two or three people down, but it
rather went out of my head. I’ve only been here for a week, and I’ve
been pretty busy looking after the Headforts. They are at Palden
Grange; did you know? It’s very rough, of course. They are getting it
into order, so it was only common humanity to ask them to come over
here as much as they liked.”
“Oh, indeed,” said Michael. “Duke Headfort and his wife, of course, you
mean?”
“Ye-es,” Bernard resumed, “and—her sister. She is helping her.”
Michael said nothing. Bernard wished he would speak, but as he gave no
signs of breaking the silence, Mr Gresham began again.
“You remember,” he said, with as near an approach to awkwardness as was
possible for him, “our conversation that evening some weeks ago?”
“Yes,” Michael replied, “I remember it.”
“I have heard nothing more,” said Bernard. “I have not come across
those people again; the Worthings, I mean. And—well, I think I’ve made
up my mind to risk it; to go through with it. Fate seems leading up to
it somehow. I was by no means sure that she was here when I came down,
though it did occur to me as possible that she might be with her
sister, and—I have seen a great deal of her these last few days. I
cannot associate her with any unladylike escapade of the kind that was
hinted at I cannot believe that there is really any risk to run. There
must have been some absurd mistake.”
“And,” said Michael, “you have no misgivings as—as to her reciprocating
your—” He hesitated.
Bernard smiled.
“In ordinary cases that would hardly be a fair question,” he said, “but
as I have given you my full confidence so far, I think I may allow that
that part of it appears to be all right.”
Michael got up from his seat, and strolled across to the fireplace.
There, leaning against the mantelpiece, he calmly surveyed his cousin.
“Then,” he said, “I may almost congratulate you at once? You will
doubtless allow me to do so formally as soon as possible?”
“Certainly,” Bernard replied. “You shall be the very first to hear of
it.”
“And you intend to leave that piece of gossip at rest then?” said
Michael, after a moment’s silence.
A shadow crossed Mr Gresham’s face.
“What else can I do?” he inquired.
“Nothing,” Michael replied. “Most certainly nothing; but granting that
she is all that I feel sure she must be, if there is any truth in the
story, anything that a man could dislike his wife having been mixed up
in, there is _her_ point of view to be considered. _She_ will not let
it rest.”
“How do you mean?” said Bernard, raising his eyebrows.
“She will tell you about it herself, of course,” said Michael, curtly.
Bernard seemed considerably discomposed.
“You had better be prepared for the possibility,” Michael continued.
“There is generally some root for gossip, however exaggerated. I advise
you to face this for both your sakes.”
“You certainly are a Job’s comforter if ever there was one,” said his
cousin, in a tone of annoyance. “Do you mean to say that I should make
further inquiry, or give her an opportunity of explaining it before I
commit myself? It would be so awkward, you see. I scarcely—”
“Good heavens! no,” said Michael, with angry contempt. “Would I suggest
your insulting a woman? I am only forewarning you that if there is
anything that requires explanation _she_ will volunteer it, and on this
account you had better be sure of your own mind, or you may find
yourself in a _very_ awkward position, to put it mildly.”
Mr Gresham’s perceptions were not of the order to detect the covert
sarcasm of the last few words.
“I see,” he replied, consideringly. “Thank you for the suggestion. It
can do no harm to be prepared. But I flatter myself if any one can
steer their way through a tangle of the kind, _I_ can do so. Thanks,
Michael, all the same,” and with his serenity quite restored, he got up
from the breakfast-table.
The expression of Michael’s face when he found himself alone grew hard
and dark.
“What evil genius,” he said to himself, “brought me down here at this
crisis? I wish I were at the antipodes! I almost think I shall go back
to town at once, but—it is just possible that, mixed up as I am in this
affair, I may be of use to her. Heaven knows what is going to come of
it all! That unlucky secret of hers, and Bernard’s smallness of
character! Will she be disillusioned? or does he really care enough for
her to rise above himself? And will she perhaps spend the rest of her
life in worshipping an ideal and never find out her mistake? Such
things have been with such a woman.” He sighed and turned away from the
window where he had been standing.
“No,” he said, “I’ll stay and see it out.”