considered his own, Michael heard through the open window the sound of
voices on the terrace below. One he recognised immediately as belonging
to Mrs Marmaduke Headfort, then a man’s voice, which he supposed to be
that of her husband; Michael had never met Captain Headfort. Himself of
course unobserved, he approached the window. Yes, there was a third
visitor. It was the first time he had seen Miss Raynsworth in her own
character, and suddenly there flashed upon him the full strangeness of
the position.
“I shall have to be introduced to her,” he thought. “Will little Mrs
Headfort be equal to it? She knows at least that her sister and I were
travelling companions, even if she has been told no more as to my part
in it. And how will the girl herself stand it? I know how essentially
candid she must be. I must do my best to make it as little awkward as
possible. They have come over to tea, no doubt; I will keep out of the
way till we meet in the drawing-room.”
A moment or two later his cousin put his head in at the door.
“The Headforts are here, Michael,” he said. “We are going through the
woods to the old fish-ponds; do you care to come or not?”
Michael shook his head.
“I am not quite ready,” he said; “you’ll be back to tea, I suppose? You
can introduce me to your friends then. To Miss Raynsworth and Headfort,
I mean—Mrs Headfort of course I know.”
Bernard Gresham scarcely stayed to hear his reply.
“All right,” he said. “They’re waiting for me,” and he shut the door.
Half-way to the fish-ponds, Evelyn’s strength showed signs of giving
out.
“Duke,” she said, plaintively, “if I go much farther you will have to
carry me back. You forget that we walked here from Palden!”
Duke looked intensely penitent.
“Of course,” he said; “why didn’t you say so before, Evey, when Gresham
proposed it?”
“I didn’t know how far it was,” she replied. “Is it _much_ farther, Mr
Gresham?”
Bernard hesitated.
“I am extremely sorry, Mrs Headfort,” he said. “I’m afraid I must own
we haven’t come half-way. But of course if it is too much for you we
had better give it up.”
“Oh, dear, no,” said Evelyn, quickly. “That would vex me dreadfully. It
is such a lovely day. You three go on, and I’ll easily find my way back
to Merle, and wait on the terrace for you. I shall enjoy the quiet, and
it would be a shame to stay indoors on such a perfect afternoon.”
“Nonsense,” said Duke. “Of course I’ll take you back, and then I’ll
stroll this way again and meet you and Philippa on your return,” he
added to Mr Gresham.
Philippa opened her lips as if about to remonstrate, but before she had
time to speak Bernard broke in.
“Don’t say you are tired too, Miss Raynsworth. I had set my heart on
showing you the fish-ponds. The woods there are in perfection at this
time of year.”
“I am not tired,” said Philippa, quietly. “Perhaps it is the best thing
to do. Be sure you rest well, Evey, for there’s the walk home to
consider.”
“Oh, no, you must let me send you back, of course,” said Mr Gresham.
“_Au revoir_, then,” and the quartet separated.
Philippa and her host walked on some little way in silence. Both,
though neither fully realised it for the other, were making up their
minds to a decided step. For the last few days had made the girl
resolve that if circumstances combined to render her doing so possible,
she would tell Mr Gresham the facts of the travesty she had since so
bitterly regretted. And if anything had been wanting to confirm her in
this decision, Michael Gresham’s arrival would have done so.
But the task before her was far from an easy one. Independently of her
own not unnatural shrinking from the subject, there was the terror lest
in volunteering this confidence she should appear prematurely to take
for granted any special interest in her affairs on the part of her
companion; any right, so to say, on his side, to know all details of
her life. How could she broach the subject?
She glanced at him; he was not looking at her, but gazing before him
with a preoccupied expression. And in some degree to her relief, just
as she was nervously clearing her throat to begin to speak, he suddenly
turned towards her.
“We have still fully a mile before we get to the fish ponds,” he said,
“but I do not think we need walk quite as fast as we are doing.”
Philippa slackened her pace without speaking.
“I am so glad,” Mr Gresham continued, “of this lucky chance of speaking
to you uninterruptedly.” Then for the first time he hesitated.
“I—you,” he went on, “you must know, Miss Raynsworth, how much interest
I have come to feel in—you, and—in all that concerns you.”
Philippa glanced up quickly. What was coming? His words would normally
have admitted of but one interpretation, but something in his tone, its
calm, almost business-like deliberateness, made her doubtful. For the
moment she was on the point of availing herself of this preamble as an
opening for what she had made up her mind to say. Then she hesitated,
and while she did so he went on.
“I—I am not impulsive, Miss Raynsworth. I am considerate by nature, and
in anything involving not only my own happiness but that of another, I
am deeply conscious that it behoves me to be doubly so. A mistake may
be made in two minutes which a lifetime cannot undo. So you will not
misunderstand me if I confess that it has taken me many weeks—nay,
months—to decide upon—”
There was no doubt now, he was going to propose to her, and with the
disappearance of all uncertainty on this head, her own resolution
revived. In her nervousness she was for the moment unconscious of the
curious egotism of his words, of the entire absence of any nobility of
self-forgetfulness, any touch of impassioned feeling in his manner. Her
own generosity of character failed to realise its absence in him; her
one uppermost impulse was to prevent him in the slightest degree from
acting in the dark.
“Stop, Mr Gresham,” she said, hurriedly; “before you say any more I
have something to say to you.”
She gave a little gasp; she _felt_ herself growing pale. Something made
her look up. Instead of the expression of surprise which she had
unconsciously expected to meet in his face, her quick instincts
perceived a slight stiffening, a sort of indescribable drawing-back
instead of eager protest that nothing she could say would alter his
longing for her to hear him out.
And could she have seen into her companion’s mind at that moment, she
would scarcely have believed the reflections she would there have read.
“She _has_ something to tell,” he was thinking to himself. “I have not
been too cautious.”
And aloud he said, quietly:
“As you wish, of course, Miss Raynsworth.”
She plunged into it.
“You may remember,” she began, “a little incident at Cannes which
annoyed you at the time—naturally so—and annoyed you still more, I
imagine, afterwards, when I refused to let you resent the impertinence
I had been subjected to. I could not have done otherwise, as you will
hear. I had promised my mother before leaving home to tell no one what
I am now going to tell you, without her leave.”
As she spoke there was an imperceptible lightening of Mr Gresham’s
expression.
“Your mother knew!” he ejaculated.
“Of course,” she exclaimed, too bent upon her recital to feel surprise
at his words. “This was how it all happened.” And forcing herself to
speak with perfect calmness, she began at the beginning of the story
and told it all, simply and without comment, only omitting the names of
any not immediately concerned in the little drama—such as those of
Michael Gresham and Mrs Shepton—and carefully exonerating from all
shadow of blame in the matter her sister and her parents.
When she had finished there fell a dead silence. With all her
self-control Philippa could not bring herself to raise her eyes—the
conflicting feelings in her mind made her almost physically giddy.
Then as the silence continued, a new element began to make itself felt.
Her pride awoke and she reared her head half defiantly.
“Does he think I am going tamely to await his judgment upon me?” she
thought to herself. “If so, he shall—”
But at that moment Mr Gresham’s voice at last made itself heard.
“I have to thank you, Miss Raynsworth,” he said, gently, “for giving me
your confidence. You will find it has not been misplaced. You have done
the best thing possible in telling me what you have done. Though—” he
hesitated, “it is best to be perfectly candid,” he went on, “I cannot
but own that it is—a terrible disappointment to me to have to associate
anything of so extraordinary a kind with one whom—”
Philippa turned upon him abruptly, her face crimsoning. Something in
his measured tone, more than in his actual words, began slowly to
insinuate into her a strange, chill misgiving. And why at that moment
did there recur to her memory, in advantageous contrast to Mr Gresham’s
carefully considered and gently expressed disapproval, his cousin
Michael’s stern, almost rough censure of what she had done?
Before she had time to open her lips, her companion began again.
“Excuse me,” he said, “for interrupting you—I think you were going to
speak. I must ask you to listen to me first. I will be perfectly frank.
I was not _wholly_ unprepared for this strange disclosure. The incident
at Cannes never quite left my memory, and it was followed up by certain
remarks or hints as to something peculiar in which you had been mixed
up, which came to my ears more recently.”
“How? and where?” demanded Philippa. For one half instant the thought
crossed her brain—could Michael Gresham have been faithless to his
trust?—but it was as quickly dismissed. Rough and rugged he might be,
but _true_, she felt certain he was.
“I scarcely know that I have any right to reply to your question,” said
Mr Gresham, “and no purpose would be fulfilled by my doing so. All that
was said to me was very vague, so vague that I have allowed myself to
be buoyed up by hopes—now alas! shattered—that the warn—hints I should
say, rested on no real foundation. But do not mistake me, Miss
Raynsworth,” as Philippa again seemed on the point of speaking.
“Your confidence, I repeat, has not been misplaced. I do not think—no,
deliberately speaking—I do not think any lasting annoyance or
ill-results need be anticipated—especially when—” But here even _his_
self-assurance shrank from completing the sentence. “I want to say,” he
went on, “that notwithstanding all the pain and regret which I cannot
deny I am feeling, my attitude towards you is not radically shaken. In
time, I trust and believe, the whole miserable episode will be
forgotten—not only by the few outsiders who may have suspected any
mystery, but by myself.”
He glanced at Philippa as he spoke, expecting to detect a flush of
grateful relief on her face. What he did see there, was less easy to
interpret. She was no longer red, though, on the other hand, but
slightly paler than usual, and she turned her eyes fully upon him
without uttering a word.
“I must express myself still more plainly,” he said, almost as if
addressing a child, “as _my wife_, there will, I feel sure, be nothing,
comparatively speaking, to dread in the future. Your candour has
disarmed my scruples, for I know I can trust that never, under any
conceivable circumstances, could you again be tempted so to set
propriety and—and dignity at nought.”
Still she did not speak.
“Miss Raynsworth,” he said at last, “Miss Raynsworth—Philippa,” he
exclaimed. “Do you not understand me?” and for the first time a very
shadowy apprehension that possibly, just possibly he had appeared too
sure of his ground suggested itself. “I—the circumstances have been so
exceptional—I have had no opportunity so far of assuring you of the
depth and sincerity of my feelings towards you—of my devotion. You must
allow they have been well tested. And they have stood the test! I ask
you now to be my wife—my happiness is in your hands.”
“And I, Mr Gresham,” Philippa said at last, her dark eyes turned full
upon him, “decline, distinctly and definitely decline, the honour you
have done me.” He grew scarlet.
“What do you mean?” he said, for once almost rudely. “What has all this
conversation been about, if this was what you intended? What was your
motive for telling me all you have done? Have I offended you, and how?
Your pride has taken fire in some unreasonable way. How can I assure
you that the thing will not weigh further with me—that—that—I shall do
my best to forget it? Where would you be so protected as in the
position of my wife?”
“I understand you perfectly, Mr Gresham,” Philippa replied in a calm
even voice, “though at the same time I confess that previously to this
conversation I had lamentably failed to do so. On my side, I thank you
for your candour, and I repeat, as decidedly as words can convey my
meaning, that I decline the proposal you have made me.”
He still seemed unable to believe her.
“Have you been playing with me all this time?” he said, harshly. “It is
inconceivable. But what can be your reason for changing so suddenly? I
have a right to ask, and a right to know.”
“Yes,” she said, “perhaps you have, though I do not know that my reason
will much enlighten you. It is simply this. I am entirely convinced
that we are utterly unsuited to each other, and that in marrying you I
should be entering upon what would prove a tremendous mistake. You do
not, and never would, understand me; surely that should suffice.”
He smiled, bitterly enough. Something in her manner carried conviction
home to him, through all the thick folds of his self-esteem.
“And may I inquire further,” he said, “what has thus magically caused
the scales to fall from your eyes as regards my poor desserts? For you
allow, you could not indeed do otherwise, that the change, however
complete, is a very sudden one?”
She turned and looked at him. There was a strange wistfulness in her
expression.
“No,” she said, sadly; “I am sorry if I have caused you any pain, but I
cannot explain anything more. You would not understand. I am very
tired,” she continued, “I do not want to go farther. Would you mind
walking back to meet my brother-in-law and tell him I have gone
straight home to Palden? I can find my way from here.”
He bowed without speaking and turned away, too absorbed by his own
intense mortification to give much heed to her last words, or to feel
any compassion for the suffering too plainly betrayed by her white face
and faltering voice.
The sound of his retreating footsteps on the crisp, dry path died
rapidly away, and Philippa was alone.
Chapter Twenty Three.
Ended.
For a few moments the withdrawal of the intense restraint she had put
upon herself caused all other feelings to be merged in that of relief.
Philippa glanced round her, and seeing a moss-covered tree stump a few
paces off, she made her way to it and sat down.
Then slowly, but all too surely, crept up, one by one, the reflections
she could not but face.
It seemed to her that years had passed since Evelyn and her husband had
turned back, leaving her and her late companion by themselves.
Yes, indeed, to use his own words; “the scales had fallen from her
eyes,” and yet how almost intangible it all seemed! How little some
people would understand the terrible and complete revulsion of feeling
which had overwhelmed her!
“Nothing,” she thought, “nothing can be quite so horrible as to find
that one has been worshipping an idol of clay; a thing which did not
exist except in my own imagination. I have no right to feel resentful.
Taking him for what he is, he did not behave badly. He evidently
_meant_ to be generous and chivalrous. But the pain of it to me is none
the less. It is far, far worse, at least so it seems to me just now,
than to have found out that he did not care for me as I did for him,
and yet to have kept my ideal. ‘Disillusionment’ is horrible.”
The tears slowly welled up into her eyes. She brushed them away
indignantly.
“What a weak fool I am!” she thought. “If I had any strength of
character, I _should_ be, I suppose, glad to have found it out in
time.”
For bitterly as she was suffering, she was spared the misery of any
wavering as to the necessity of her decision. It was done, once for
all, done! But other considerations could not be altogether stifled,
and Philippa was still very young.
“It is so disappointing,” she said, half audibly, “in smaller ways,
too. Poor Evey, I know how she has been wishing for it, and, I am
afraid, mamma! I am only thankful not to have let myself go further,
even in fancy. I shall soon be able to pull myself together,” and a
sort of wave of courage and even relief seemed to sweep over her, to
her own surprise.
How was it that she was not more crushed? After all, she asked herself
in the clearer light of her present vision, _was_ the “disillusionment”
so entirely unexpected? Had she, unconsciously, blinded herself, and
refused to admit the possibility of the “something wanting” in Bernard
Gresham’s character? If not, whence had arisen her constant
self-questionings as to how her confession would be received? Why the
doubts that _were_ there all the time? often as she had repeated to
herself that after all she had done nothing wrong, nothing really
calling for shame or self-abasement.
But her mind was growing too wearied and confused to think out this new
suggestion. She shivered slightly.
“Oh, how I wish I were at home,” she thought, “and could tell mamma
everything! She would understand better than I do myself. It is just as
if a door had shut in front of me and all was blank!”
It was really growing cold, for the evenings were still chilly, with
the chilliness of early spring, and the sun had gone down some time
before. Philippa got up. How long she had sat there she could not tell,
and confidently as she had spoken of knowing her way to Palden, she was
really slightly at a loss, though familiar with the general direction
she should keep to. She retraced her steps for some little distance
till she came to a point whence another path should lead to the
high-road. She came upon this side-path more quickly than she had
expected, but turned into it without misgiving, and satisfied that she
would come out at the right place, she walked on, allowing her thoughts
to re-absorb her. In spite of herself her imagination persisted in
re-enacting, mistily yet painfully, the events of the afternoon, till
she almost felt that she could bear it no longer. But there came a
diversion. Suddenly it struck her that the distance to the high-road
was strangely long. She stopped short and looked about her. There was
no sign of the wood coming to an end; on the contrary, the trees seemed
thicker than before.
“I must have taken the wrong path,” she thought, drearily. “Indeed,
this is scarcely like a path at all. I had better go back again, I
suppose; I may come across the other.”
She turned and went on, looking about her attentively. Some twenty
yards or so farther back, the footpath she was on joined another.
“I must have gone wrong here,” she said, and, though with some little
hesitation, she turned again.
But it was no use; she only seemed to plunge deeper into the wood,
though she tried more than one intercepting path. She was growing very
tired, and a feeling of irritation at herself added to her discomfort.
“I really need not have brought this upon myself,” she thought, “If I
don’t find my way home soon, there will be a hue and cry after me;
nothing could be more odious.”
It was with a feeling of relief that at last she heard the sound of
some one approaching. Scarcely of footsteps; it was more a rustle among
the still thickly strewn dead leaves of the previous autumn, which by
degrees grew into a patter of little feet.
“Solomon!” she exclaimed, as the dog rushed at her in effusive
greeting.
But Solomon’s appearance meant that of his master as well.
“I must make the best of it,” thought Philippa, as she realised this.
“He will at any rate be able to show me the way to Palden, and if he
has not met his cousin he need not suspect anything. I will just tell
him I have lost my way.”
A second or two later, Michael Gresham came within view. He started in
astonishment as he caught sight of the girl.
“Miss Raynsworth!” he exclaimed, naturally quite forgetful of the fact
that this was the first time he had met her in her own character.
“How—why—are you alone?”
She looked up at him. It was evident, to her relief, that his first
sensation at seeing her was that of pure surprise. But as his glance
fell on her white, almost drawn face, and her unmistakable look of
exhaustion, his expression warmed into one of deep concern.
“Something has happened,” he thought to himself. “That mean-spirited
fellow. Can I have made mischief when I meant to shield her? His clumsy
vanity has done it, no doubt.”
But it was with matter-of-fact kindliness only that he went on to speak
to her.
“You are looking so dreadfully tired,” he said. “Where are the others?
I thought you all started together. Have you lost your way?”
“Yes,” said Philippa, with a kind of gasp. “Evelyn, my sister, got
tired, and they turned back. I—I thought I could find the road to
Palden by myself.”
The very incoherence of her explanation enlightened him.
“Get off, Solomon,” he exclaimed, in a gruffer tone than the dachshund,
still leaping and jumping about Philippa, was accustomed to. “He has
not forgotten you, you see,” Michael went on, eager to say something or
anything to hide his own suspicion of the situation. Then the colour
rose quickly to his face as he realised the awkwardness of the
allusion.
“I should say—” he began again, but Philippa, oblivious of any cause
for embarrassment in his words, answered, quietly:
“No, the dear dog, and I have never forgotten him. But will you put me
on my road home? I _am very_ tired,” she added, faintly, though trying
to smile.
It seemed to Michael that her white face grew still whiter as she
spoke. He half started forward fearing she was going to fall, but she
pulled herself together again with a strong effort, and he,
instinctively divining that she was just the sort of girl to detest
anything approaching to a “scene,” drew back quickly and went on
speaking as if he had not noticed the passing weakness which had come
over her.
“You have not wandered so very far after all,” he said. “Every turn in
these woods has been familiar to me since I was a child, so I can soon
set you right. But,”—and here he was forced to allude to her exhausted
condition—“do you think you can possibly walk back all the way to
Palden?”
He did not in the least allude to her returning to Merle, there to join
her friends, as would have seemed natural under the circumstances. At
the moment Philippa scarcely realised the tact which prompted this
omission, or rather in some unconscious way she took it for granted, as
indeed, on looking back afterwards, she saw that she had accepted with
tacit confidence the strong and kind support of his presence.
A few minutes dexterous steering among the trees brought them out on to
the path she had originally meant to follow, which led directly to the
high-road.
Arrived there, Michael stopped short and looked at her consideringly. A
little colour, he was glad to see, had returned to her cheeks; there
was no longer the ghastly pallor which had made her look as if on the
point of fainting.
“She is a strong girl,” he thought to himself, “physically and morally,
but she has been through a bad bit of experience. Disillusionment, if
it has been that, goes hard with such as she.”
And disillusionment he had reason to suspect it had been.
“Bernard would never have left her alone in this way, selfish as he is,
unless he had been made to feel himself very small. As things are, I
must risk annoying her by my officiousness; she is not fit to walk
farther alone.”
Philippa was unconscious of his scrutiny. She was gazing up and down
the road half vaguely.
“Which way—” she was beginning, but Michael interrupted her.
“Miss Raynsworth,” he said, “you mustn’t mind my saying that I really
can’t let you go all the way home alone. It is getting dusk, and you
own to being very tired.”
“Very well,” said Philippa, simply. “I mean—I should say ‘thank you,’”
and again she smiled, and to Michael there was something more pathetic
in her smile than if there had been tears in her eyes. “How far is it
to Palden? Somehow I am really not as tired as when you first met me.”
“If you don’t mind cross-cuts and skirting one or two ploughed fields,”
he said, more lightly, “it need not be more than a mile and a half.”
“I should like to get back as soon as my sister, if possible,” said
Philippa. “I don’t want them to be frightened about me.”