Chapter II: Part 2

But Mrs Raynsworth still looked annoyed. She was feeling really anxious and concerned about her elder daughter, and was in consequence less calm than usual.

“Evelyn,” said Philippa, “do come up to bed. I’ll stay with you while you undress.”

Mrs Headfort got up slowly.

“Philippa is queer this evening,” she thought to herself. “She’s not very nice to mamma.”

“I will come down again in a few minutes,” said Philippa, as they left the room. “I only want to make sure of Evelyn taking her medicine, and to prevent her going into the nursery again to-night.—What will you do without me to look after you,” she added, turning to her sister.

“There will be no nursery for me to wander into,” said Evelyn, with a sigh, “when I feel dull or lonely, as there is here.”

Philippa turned quickly.

“But you never do feel dull or lonely—at least not _lonely_, here with mamma and me, surely?” she said, with a touch of reproach.

“Oh, well, no, not in the same way, of course. But there must be times when I feel lonely without Duke, even though I love so being at home with all of you. It wouldn’t be natural if I didn’t miss him.”

“No, I suppose not,” said Philippa, half absently, for in her own mind she was thinking, “How strange it must be to care for anybody _more_ than for one’s own people! I cannot picture it to myself at all.”

The few minutes she had spoken of to her mother turned out thirty at least, for more than half an hour had passed before her younger daughter rejoined Mrs Raynsworth in the drawing-room. And even then Philippa seemed so carried away and preoccupied that her mother felt again slightly irritated by her manner.

“Are you very tired this evening, Philippa?” she said at last; “or is there anything the matter? You don’t seem like yourself.”

Philippa gave a little start.

“I’m quite well—not the least tired, I mean,” she said, quickly. “I am thinking about Evelyn; there is nothing else the matter.”

“You mean about her going to-morrow alone?” said Mrs Raynsworth; “I am not at all happy about it myself. She looks so fragile, poor little thing. She is not nearly as strong as you, Philippa, in any way. But it is always a satisfaction to me to see how fond you are of each other; she clings to you so. And to tell you the truth, before she and the children came to us, I had some misgiving as to how it would be, for you were practically a child when she married, and those two or three years made all the difference. You had come to be so thoroughly the daughter at home—helping your father and me. I have perhaps never said to you before in so many words that I have been very pleased, very gratified by your whole tone towards and about Evey. You have been unselfish and self-forgetting all through.”

The young girl’s eyes glistened with pleasure. It was not often that Mrs Raynsworth—as a rule a somewhat silent and undemonstrative woman—expressed herself so unreservedly.

“Dear mamma,” said Philippa, “there isn’t _anything_ I wouldn’t do for Evelyn. And I am so glad, so particularly glad, that you understand it. Thank you so much for what you’ve said. Now, I think I will go to bed if you don’t mind,” and she kissed her mother warmly.

“She must be tired, though she won’t own to it,” thought Mrs Raynsworth as Philippa left the room. “It is generally so difficult to get her to go to bed early,” and again the feeling came over her of there being something slightly unusual about her younger daughter that evening.

She would have been still more perplexed and surprised could she have seen Philippa an hour or two later in her own room. For long after the whole household was asleep, the girl was busily sewing at various articles of her attire, altering them and modifying them with the help of some small purchases she had made that afternoon. And when at last all was completed to her satisfaction, she drew out a small light trunk, already partially packed, which she proceeded to fill.

“I think that will do,” she said to herself, as she stood up and surveyed it with satisfaction. “With this and a hand-bag, and the things I’ll manage to get into Evelyn’s roll of rugs, I am sure I shall have all I need. Now I’ve only to write my letter of explanation to mamma. Dorcas must give it to her when it is quite certainly too late to overtake me.”

And half an hour later she was in bed and fast asleep, her mother’s words having removed any misgivings she had felt as to what she was about to do.

Mrs Headfort looked a little better the next morning, thanks to a good night’s rest; thanks also, perhaps, to the not unnatural excitement she was feeling about her journey and its results. Between her anticipations and her regret at leaving her children, she was sufficiently distracted not to notice that Philippa had slipped away in some mysterious fashion quite an hour before the time fixed for her own departure. It was actually not till she was standing at the hall door, waiting till the luggage should be safely established on the top of the fly before getting in herself, that she suddenly exclaimed:

“Where can Philippa be, mamma? I haven’t seen her since breakfast.”

Mrs Raynsworth glanced round with an air of annoyance.

“I have no idea,” she said. “She is certainly not with your father. What was it she was saying last night about not going to the station with you?”

“Oh, just that she couldn’t go; she has some mysterious engagement. But she might at least have said good-bye first.”

“It is so unlike her,” replied the mother. “And somehow I didn’t take it in, otherwise I would have got ready to see you off myself.”

“Oh, I don’t mind that part of it in the least,” said Evelyn. “It’s not as if it were a big crowded station. But tell Philippa, all the same, that I don’t understand her going off like that. Now, good-bye, dear mamma, and don’t worry about me. I shall be all right if I get good news of the children, and you or Phil will write every day, I’m sure—a mere word would be enough.”

“Yes, dear, of course we shall,” replied Mrs Raynsworth, reassuringly, though her face had a more anxious expression than usual. “I won’t ask _you_ to write every day,” she went on, “for I know how tiresome it is to feel bound to do so when one is staying with people. Only let us know of your arrival as soon as you can, and say how you are.”

She stood watching the fly as it made its way down the short drive, waving her hand in response to Evelyn’s last smile and nod. Then she went slowly back into the house.

“I couldn’t have said anything to disturb Evelyn just as she was starting,” she thought to herself, “but I really do think Philippa is behaving most extraordinarily. I hope these very independent ways of hers are not the result of her visit to Dorriford. I wonder, by-the-by, if Dorcas knows where she is gone.”

But, strange to say, Dorcas was not to be found in any of her usual haunts, though one of the under-servants said she had seen her not five minutes before, up-stairs in Miss Philippa’s room. Tired and somewhat depressed, though she scarcely knew why, Mrs Raynsworth sat down in the drawing-room with a vague intention of writing a letter or otherwise employing herself usefully, but contrary to her usual habits, more than an hour passed before she exerted herself to do anything but gaze dreamily out of the window, where the now fast-falling leaves were whirling about fantastically in the breeze.

“I feel as if I were waiting for something, though for what I don’t know,” she thought, and it was with a start of surprise that the clock, striking one, caught her ear. “Dear me, how idle I have been—one o’clock! Evelyn must be well on her way by this. I wonder when Philippa intends to come in?”

Just then the door opened and Dorcas appeared. She carried a salver in her hand, and on it lay a letter.

“If you please, ma’am,” the old servant began, “Miss Philippa wished me to give you this at one o’clock, but not before. I don’t know what it’s about, I don’t, indeed,” she added, anxiously, “but I do hope there’s nothing wrong.”

Her words were well intended, but they only served to sharpen the uneasiness which Mrs Raynsworth was already feeling. Her face grew pale, and her heart beat painfully fast as she took hold of the envelope.

“A letter, and from Philippa!” she exclaimed; “what can it mean? No, don’t go away, Dorcas,” though the old servant had shown no sign of doing so. “If—if there is anything wrong,”—though what could have been wrong she would have been at a loss to say—“I must keep calm. Don’t go till I see what it is.” And with trembling fingers she opened the letter.

For Philippa _had_ been preoccupied and unlike herself the night before, and even this very morning, there was no denying.

Chapter Four. Fellow-Travellers.

In the meantime all had progressed smoothly with Mrs Headfort.

The train was already in the station when she and her boxes found themselves on the platform, for Marlby was a terminus in its small way. It lay about an hour off the main line, and as express trains do not _always_ wait the arrival of small local ones, departures from Marlby for the junction were characterised by most praiseworthy punctuality, any wafting that might occur being pretty sure to take place at Wrexhill junction itself.

But to-day the express proved worthy of its name, barely five minutes having been passed at the big station before Evelyn found herself re-established in her favourite corner of a first-class compartment, otherwise empty, of the train.

“Now I shall feel settled,” she said to herself, with satisfaction, “no more changes till I get almost to my journey’s end. I do hope nobody will get in. I wish I could go to sleep and then I should feel fresh on arriving, and I never like to shut my eyes with strangers in the carriage—for one thing, one looks so silly; I’ve often laughed at other people. I wish the train would start—oh, dear,”—as at that moment the door opened to admit a new-comer—“what a bother!” and as she made this mental ejaculation the train began to move.

“How rash of her!” thought Mrs Headfort, glancing at the intruder, whose back for the moment was turned towards her.

She was a tall, slender woman, neatly but simply dressed in black, young too, as far as Mrs Headfort’s present chances of observation could decide. “She looks like a maid—she must have got in first-class by mistake sorely,” but at this point in her reflections the black-robed figure turned, calmly seating herself opposite Evelyn, and lifting the thick veil she wore, disclosed to the gazer’s astonished eyes the face of her sister Philippa!

Mrs Headfort grew pale—more than pale indeed, perfectly white—and uttered a faint scream. For the moment, in the confusion of ideas always engendered by the utterly unexpected, she really felt as if she had seen a ghost. It was impossible for her at once to grasp the fact that before her was indeed her sister, a flesh-and-blood Philippa. She could scarcely have been more amazed had the figure in front of her proceeded to dissolve into thin air and disappear! And the effect on the girl herself of her sister’s agitation was for an instant paralysing. Any enjoyment she had anticipated in this _coup d’état_, any thought of “fun” completely faded. She felt so terrified and startled at the effect upon Evelyn of what she had imagined would cause at the most but a start of surprise, and probably some vehement remonstrance, that she was utterly unable to speak. Only, when at length—or what seemed at length, for in reality not twenty seconds had passed since the new-comer had revealed herself—Evelyn’s pale lips murmured with a gasp, “Philippa!” did her own power of utterance return to her.

“Evey, Evey,” she exclaimed, “don’t look like that I never thought you would be so frightened. I—I thought that on the whole you’d be pleased.”

The distress in Philippa’s face touched her sister. She tried to smile, and the effort brought some colour back again to her pale face.

“It was silly of me,” she said at last, “but I don’t understand! Did you mean to come with me to Wrexhill? Oh, no, I forgot, we have passed it; we shall not stop again till Crowminster, ever so far away. Philippa, what are you thinking of?” and again her face grew very troubled.

“Of course I know we don’t stop for ever so long,” said Philippa, trying to speak easily. “I looked it all out in the railway guide; that was why I wouldn’t let you know I was in the train till after we had passed the junction. It’s too late to send me back now, Evey; the trains don’t match in the least I should have hours to wait at Crowminster, and again at the junction. I shouldn’t get home till who knows when, and what is still more to the purpose,” she added, but in a lower voice, “I wouldn’t go back if you told me to—nothing in the world would make me go back.”

The sense of her last words did not reach her sister’s brain. She sat staring at Philippa with more and more widely opening eyes.

“Why are you dressed like that?” she exclaimed, gradually taking in the fact of her sister’s unusual get-up. “Is it some trick you are playing, Philippa—some silly, practical joke? I _cannot_ understand you, just now, especially, when I wanted to be calm and as easy-minded as possible for this visit!”

The reproach in her tone roused Philippa’s indignation.

“Trick—practical joke!” she repeated. “How can you say such a thing? What do you take me for?” and her voice faltered. “You are very stupid, Evelyn,” she went on, more lightly. “You surely must understand what I mean to do. I am no longer Philippa Raynsworth, I am Mrs Headfort’s maid—a very good, trustworthy girl, though rather young and not very experienced. So I hope, ma’am, I have made things clear.”

Evelyn gasped.

“Phil!” was all she could find breath to say for a moment. “Yes, indeed,” she went on, “I have been fearfully dense and stupid. I might have suspected something from your manner the last day or two, and when you so suddenly gave in about my going alone. But, oh, Phil, you are perfectly mad; such a thing cannot possibly be allowed. Just think if it were found out! What _would_ Duke say?”

“Duke shall never hear of it!” Philippa replied, composedly. “It is my secret, Evelyn; I throw myself upon your honour never to tell _anybody_—do you hear—anybody without my leave. You must _promise_.”

“But papa and mamma?” said Evelyn, bewilderedly. “Papa and mamma,” repeated Philippa again, forgetting good manners in her excitement. “_They_ know, of course. I mean,”—catching the increasing amazement on her sister’s face—“I mean they will know by this time. I left a letter for Dorcas to give mamma as soon as it was quite too late to stop me. In her heart I do believe mamma will be thankful to know I am with you, to take care of you, my poor little sweet, with your troubled white face. Oh, darling, do cheer up and see the bright side of it. _Its going to be_—nothing would make me give it up—do understand that, and let yourself be comfortable. Think how beautifully I can do your hair, and dress you, and everything, and what nice talks we can have when you are tired and come up to your room for a little rest. I can be ever so much more use to you even for talking and consulting, than if I were going with you as your sister. And think, if you feel ill or very depressed, how glad you will be to know I am at hand. And how glad mamma will be—why, I can write to her every day and keep her mind at rest.”

Evelyn’s face relaxed a little.

“But, Phil,” she began, and by the tone of her voice, in spite of the remonstrating, “but,” Philippa knew the battle was won, “but, Phil, the life for you—among the _servants_—you, my sister! Oh, no, it—”

“It will be such a chance for studying one part of the other side of things as falls to very few,” she interrupted. “Just what I shall enjoy. Why, if ever I come to write stories, as papa says I may do some day, think how valuable it will be to me to have actually made one at the ‘second table’ myself. It will be something like a night-in-a-casual-ward experience.”

Evelyn shuddered.

“Don’t say such things, Philippa, it makes it worse and worse. At least the servants will be _clean_.”

“It is to be hoped so,” said her sister, coolly.

“But the men-servants,” continued Mrs Headfort; “fancy you sitting down between the butler and the valet! Oh, Philippa, when papa hears of it I believe he will come off by the first train to fetch you himself.”

“He will do nothing of the kind,” returned Philippa. “He will shrug his shoulders and say it will be a good lesson for me, and in his heart he will enjoy the humour of it. You can certainly trust me to keep all the butlers and valets in the world in their place, even though I’m only a lady’s-maid,” and she drew up her head proudly. “But seriously, Evey,” she went on, “I’m sure there will be nothing of the kind required at Wyverston; you may be pretty certain the servants will be a most decorous, old-fashioned set. I shall not be expected to do more than ‘speak when I’m spoken to’ and ‘mend _your_ clothes’ if you tear them.”

Philippa knew what she was about. She went on talking in the same strain till she succeeded in making Evelyn smile and even laugh, taking care to treat the whole affair as irrevocable—a _fait accompli_—knowing Mrs Headfort’s mind to be so constituted that taking her acceptance for granted was in nine cases out of ten to insure it.

An hour and more passed, Evelyn’s intended opposition to the extraordinary drama arranged by Philippa, growing, half unconsciously to herself, feebler and fainter. She was feeling very tired, too, as the result of the agitation she had gone through, and in such conditions it came naturally to her to cling with childlike appeal to those around her. And Philippa’s stronger personality made her a very rock of support to poor Evey.

Suddenly a thought struck her.

“Phil,” she said, “how is it you are travelling in here? Did you take a first-class ticket?”

Miss Raynsworth shook her head.

“Oh, no,” she replied; “I am going to get out at Crowminster. There is a second-class compartment next door. I don’t suppose there will be any difficulty about my having come this bit of the way with you, but if there should be, I can pay the difference. It is much better for me not to stay with you: we shall get into our rôle more quickly if we start at once. I will look in at every station to see if you want anything. We must be getting near Crowminster now.”

Evelyn did not speak for a moment or two.

“There is just one little thing to be settled,” Philippa went on, with a touch of hesitation. “What will you call me, Evey?”

Evey glanced at her.

“Oh, Phil,” she exclaimed, “it is altogether impossible. I shall never be able to keep it up.”

“Nonsense,” said her sister, with a touch of asperity. “_You_ will have no keeping up, as you call it, to do, and as for my part of it, you can safely leave that to me.”

“I shall never be able to call you anything but Phil,” said Mrs Headfort, plaintively.

“I’ve thought of that,” replied the young girl. “We had better choose a name which would not clash—I mean, so that if you _did_ call me ‘Phil’ by mistake, people would either not notice it or think you had interrupted yourself. What do you say to ‘Phillis’? It would do very well, I think?”

“I daresay it would,” said Mrs Headfort, with a curious kind of resignation in her voice.

“Of course it is a _perfect_ name for a maid,” said Philippa, “if people didn’t always use surnames. But you can truthfully say, if any one remarks upon it, that you’ve known me all my life, though I’ve only lately entered your service.”

“I cannot go into any explanations of the kind, whatever people say, I warn you, Philippa. I haven’t the nerve for it. Even if my _words_ were true, I should feel as if I were telling stories.”

“Oh, well, say nothing, then,” her sister replied, tranquilly. “On the whole it will be as well, or perhaps better. But now, Evey, we are getting near Crowminster, and I must go back to my own carriage. There’s only just one thing more I want to prepare you for.—Shut your eyes for a minute.”

Evey meekly obeyed; she was past the stage of any attempt at restiveness by this time.

“Now,” said Philippa, and Evelyn, looking up, gave a slight exclamation.

“Who would have thought it would change you so? Where in the world did you get them?”

The “it” and the “them” referred to a pair of bluish-tinted spectacles which Philippa had composedly donned.

“Aren’t they splendid?” she said. “Don’t you remember them? They’re a pair mamma had that summer ages ago, when she went to Switzerland with papa, to shade her eyes from the glare. Of course they’re only plain glass, and very dark blue ones wouldn’t have done; they look so like a disguise. At least, in all the sensational stories, they are always used for that. And real spectacles would have dazed me, for my sight’s as keen as—”

“A hawk’s!” said Mrs Headfort, with a spark of reviving vivacity. “But, oh, Phil, the train is slackening. I wish you could have stayed with me.”

“It is much better not,” said Philippa, philosophically. “Very much better not. We should have gone on talking and forgetting the new state of things. My being in another compartment is the first act in the play—it will help us to realise it. And now, ma’am,” she continued, rising as she spoke, for by this time the train had stopped, “I had better leave you. I will come to see if you desire me for anything at the next station we stop at.”

Without the undue effort or constraint, which would have accompanied any complete change of tone for a prolonged period, she had managed slightly to modify her usual inflection of voice and manner of speaking. It was slower and more monotonous than its wont, with a slight suggestion of choosing her words, as might be done by an intelligent girl of a lower class with enough education to make her aspire to perfect correctness.

“All right, Phillis,” Mrs Headfort replied, with a somewhat pitiful and not very successful attempt at following her sister’s lead. “No,” she continued, with a sudden change of tone, “don’t speak to me. I can’t stand it! I will do my best to brace myself up to it, but it won’t be easy. Perhaps it _is_ better for you to leave me alone.”

Philippa did not reply, except by a smile and a nod, feeling, to tell the truth, far less easy-minded than she looked. She was becoming conscious that till now she had not sufficiently taken into account Evelyn’s peculiar unfitness for acting a part of any kind; all she had directed her attention to having been the mere obtaining of her sister’s consent to her scheme.

“Yet, after all,” she thought to herself, as she stepped into the second-class compartment next door, “after all, all she will have to do will be very easy; there will be no acting involved. We shall hardly ever be seen together, and if her manner is constrained and peculiar, it will only be thought to be her way with servants. It isn’t as if we were going among people who had ever seen her before.”

With these reflections she did her best to quell her misgivings, and feeling that it would be better not to let her mind dwell too long on her own concerns, she looked about her for a little diversion.

There were two or three other occupants of the compartment, and her glance fell almost immediately on one of them who at once riveted her attention. This was a long-nosed, melancholy-eyed dachshund, whom Philippa’s judgment, experienced in matters pertaining to his family, straightway mentally labelled as a “perfect beauty.” In other words, as consistently and entirely ugly as the strictest connoisseur could demand.

Philippa loved dogs, and in general her amiable feelings towards them were reciprocated. She had a very tender association with dachshunds, the tragic death of one such pet having been literally the sorest grief of her childhood, and as she gazed on her four-footed fellow-traveller, whose soft eyes gazed back at her in return from the seat exactly opposite hers, where he was comfortably established in a corner, it was perhaps well for her that the blue-tinted spectacles hid the tears which involuntarily dimmed their surface.

_Never_ since that terrible day—now, what the young girl would have called “so many, many years ago,” when the broken-hearted child had sobbed itself to sleep for the loss of her darling—never had she seen another dog so exactly like “Valentine.”

“Oh, you dear, dear dog,” she said, under her breath, “I feel as if you must know me.”

The words were quite inaudible, but some doggie instinct must have carried their meaning to the brain of poor Valentine’s double, for with something between a smile and a sigh—literally speaking, a yawn of regret at the interruption of his comfortable repose—the dachshund, at the cost of considerable self-denial, slowly lifted himself, and with something between a spring and a stretch, landed his lengthy person on Philippa’s knee. Thence he lifted his reddy-brown eyes, gleaming with mingled pathos and humour, to her face for approval.

“I beg your pardon; I never saw Solomon take such liberties before.”

“You dear little man, good doggie,” exclaimed Miss Raynsworth, too delighted to remember her rôle, “how sweet of you to come to me! How did you find out I wanted you?”

Suddenly a voice interrupted her. Till this moment, absorbed by the dog, his owner had not attracted her attention. She was vaguely conscious of two elderly women at the other end of the carriage, and a man of some kind on the same side as the dachs, but that was all.

Now, glancing up quickly at the preliminary “I beg your pardon,” she became aware of a pair of eyes, reddy-brown eyes, which might have been the dog’s own transferred to a human face, looking at her with an expression in which, however, there was nothing pathetic, only kindly and good-humoured surprise.

“I beg your pardon,” their owner repeated; “I never saw Solomon take such liberties before.—Down, Solomon; down, sir.”

But Solomon demurred.

“She likes having me,” he said, as plainly as dog language can speak, with a deprecatory wag of his tail, and Philippa passed her arm round him.

“I love him,” she said, eagerly; “he is so like—one I had,” her voice dropping a little. “Do let him stay with me. ‘Solomon’—what a nice name!”

Solomon wagged his tail more energetically. For him the situation was quite agreeably clear; not so for his master. As Philippa glanced again at the young man the expression of surprise, almost of perplexity, on his face came home to her, bringing with it the remembrance of her assumed personality. The colour rushed into her face as she realised how imperfect was her preparation for carrying out her part.

“The very first time I have had to speak to any one,” she thought to herself, “I have completely forgotten it all! Dear me, how shall I ever get on? It was all your fault, Solomon,” giving him an affectionate little hug.

Solomon’s master, meanwhile, was increasingly perplexed. The discrepancy between the young girl’s easy manner and well-bred tone of voice, and the rigorous simplicity of her dress, which even his masculine eyes perceived to be not that of a lady, struck him more and more.

“What was there to make her get so red about?” he said to himself, and he was turning away, out of pity for her embarrassment, when she again addressed him.

“I am so fond of dogs, sir,” she said, slowly. “I am quite accustomed to taking care of them.”

“Certainly, if you like to be troubled with him,” the young man replied, somewhat inconsequently. He spoke with perfect civility, yet there was an impalpable change in his tone at once perceptible to Philippa’s quick ears—her last sentences had succeeded in their object. Yet the consciousness of this was accompanied to her by an altogether unreasonable touch of annoyance.

“He is quite satisfied already that I am a servant,” she reflected. “Really, if beauty is but skin deep, social distinctions, or the outward signs of them, are far less so,” and again the blood mounted to her cheeks, this time, however, without attracting the notice of her fellow-traveller, who had now opened a magazine and was absorbed in its contents.

Chapter Five. “Solomon.”

Philippa sat quietly in her corner, one arm thrown comfortably round Solomon’s plump little person, perfectly to that philosopher’s content. Among the various preparations for her journey, it had not occurred to the young girl to provide herself with any literature. Her eyes were consequently at leisure to occupy themselves with anything of interest that might come in their way. But the country through which the train was just then passing was flat and monotonous; she soon grew tired of staring out of the window, and she dared not amuse herself with Solomon for fear of attracting his master’s attention.

Furthermore, the dachs, by this time was contentedly asleep.

Philippa’s eyes strayed to the end of the carriage. One of the elderly ladies had already followed Solomon’s example; her sister, for sisters they unmistakably were, returned Philippa’s slight glance in her direction with a somewhat severe look of doubtful approval.

“What a forward girl!” she had been saying to herself, and Philippa almost felt the words.

She only smiled to herself, however.

“I am really going through excellent training already,” she thought, and again she turned to the window.

A moment or two later, however, some instinct, possibly merely a sensation of suppressed restlessness, led her to glance at Solomon’s master, and this time she was able to do so unobserved, for maiden-lady number two had also closed her eyes in peaceful repose.

“How ugly he is!” was Miss Raynsworth’s first idea, and the adjective was in some sense justified, for the charm of the young man’s face doubtless lay in his pleasant eyes, at present lowered so as he read. But there is ugliness and ugliness, and in the face under Miss Raynsworth’s scrutiny, in spite of its somewhat rugged features, there was nothing in the very slightest degree repellent or hard. The mouth was excellent, the rest of the features in no way remarkable, and yet not commonplace or in any sense weak, and a good mouth means a great deal. On the whole the face was interesting, and the longer Philippa observed him the more inclined she felt to modify her first somewhat wholesale opinion.

“I wonder how old he is,” she said to herself; “he might be almost any age between twenty-four and thirty-four.”

Then as he turned a leaf of his magazine, she hastily glanced away for fear of detection. There was another motive, besides that of an ever ready interest in her fellow-creatures, strongly developed in the girl; the face before her reminded her of some other that she had seen lately, though when or where she could not for some time recall. She glanced up furtively, and at last it flashed upon her, so much to her satisfaction, that she could scarcely suppress an exclamation of triumph.

“I know whom he is like, and yet they are as different as possible; it is that Mr Gresham whom I saw at Dorriford, that very silent man. And yet he was _so_ handsome, and this man is just the opposite. What curious things likenesses are!”

At this point in her reflections she must have got a little drowsy, for which Solomon’s gentle, monotonous breathing close to her ear may possibly to some extent have been accountable. Whether this was the case or not, she knew nothing more till she was roused by the slackening of the train, quickly followed by preparations on the part of the two elderly ladies for leaving the carriage, which they did with their various rugs and bags as soon as it drew up at a large important station, one of the two or three at which the express stopped on its northward route.

Solomon yawned and looked about him, then fixed his gaze inquiringly on his master as if to ask: “Do _we_ get out here too?” But to this inarticulate question the young man vouchsafed no reply, and Solomon settled himself down again.

“Are you not getting tired of having him?” he said to Philippa, when he had courteously helped the old ladies and their belongings on to the platform.

“Oh, no, no, thank you, sir,” she replied, “not at all; but,” getting up from her seat, “I must go to see if my lady wants anything. She is in the next carriage.”

“You had better be quick,” said her fellow-traveller, warningly; “we are going on again almost immediately, and I fancy we are a little behind time.”

Philippa managed, however, to peep in next door where Evelyn was still alone, apparently very comfortable and rather sleepy.

“I am all right, thank you, quite right,” she volunteered, before her sister had time to make any inquiry. “I think I must have been asleep a little, but I don’t mind when there is nobody in the carriage.”

“The best thing you could have done,” said Philippa, approvingly. “I don’t think we stop again now till Great Malden, where we change, you know, for the local line,” and nodding cheerfully she turned away, but not till some last words from Evelyn reached her.

“It is nice to know you’re next door, Phil.”

The girl sprang up into her own compartment just as the train began to move. Her former fellow-traveller, who was near the door, caught her arm to help her in.

“You really should be more careful,” he said; “there is nothing so risky as waiting till the last moment.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Philippa, feeling guilty; “it was careless of me.”

She ensconced herself in her corner again, but with a sensation of annoyance, which even Solomon’s unmistakable satisfaction at her reappearance did not allay.

“How stupid I am,” she thought to herself, “always doing something or other to attract notice when I should be quite unobserved!” and her face, as she sat staring out of the window, had lost its former cheerful expression.

So, at least, it seemed to Solomon’s master, as in spite of himself he glanced at her more than once.

“There’s something uncommon about the girl,” he thought to himself, “hyper-sensitive, I should say, for her position—possibly she was born in a better one. I don’t see that there was anything to hurt her feelings in what I said just now.”

But he was essentially kind-hearted, and the worried look on the girl’s countenance, and the absent way in which she returned the little dog’s friendly demonstrations, made him feel sorry for her.

“Perhaps her mistress is down upon her, poor girl,” he thought; “some women must be terribly tyrannical to their servants.”

They travelled on in silence, however, for a considerable time. By degrees the aspect of the country through which they were passing changed for the better—a little exclamation of pleasure escaped Philippa involuntarily as a charming view burst upon them. It was that of a small lake, its shores beautifully wooded, with rising ground on the farther side.

“Oh, how pretty!” she said, quickly, though instantly checking herself as she remembered that she was not alone. Rather to her surprise her fellow-traveller responded to her exclamation.

“Yes,” he said, “the part of the country we are coming to now is worth looking at, if you’ve never been here before. It’s rather like the prettiest part of Nethershire.”

“Oh,” said Philippa, impulsively, interested at once; “isn’t Merle-in-the-Wold in Nethershire? I passed that way last week—it was charming.”

Again the change in her tone and way of speaking struck her companion curiously. There was a coincidence, too, in the name she had just mentioned.

“Yes,” he replied; “it is that part I was thinking of; I know it well.”

But already Philippa had had time to repent her impulsiveness, and a slight feeling of alarm added to her discomfort—alarm at her own indiscretion.

“I shall be telling where my own home is next,” she thought to herself; “I really am too foolish for words.”

It was too late, however, to do away with the impression her inconsistency had produced. The young man went on speaking.

“Have you seen the ruins of the old abbey at Merle-in-the-Wold?” he said.

“Oh, no, sir, I have never stayed there,” Philippa replied, but she felt that she was not playing her part as she should. For something in his manner, quiet as it was, convinced her that her companion’s curiosity was aroused.

“Oh, I thought that you knew that part of Nethershire?” he said, more for the sake of saying something to cause her to reply than from any definite motive in the inquiry.

“N-no,” said Philippa, “I have only passed that way. I never heard of the ruins.”—“How I wish I had a book!” she thought to herself; “though he is perfectly nice, he is evidently trying to make me out I am afraid to speak, and I am afraid not to speak. I wish to goodness he hadn’t had a dog with him, though you _are_ such a darling,” this last with reference to Solomon, who, seeming to read her thoughts, poked his long nose affectionately right up into her face.

Something in her manner made the young man conscious that his speaking to her caused her annoyance, and he turned his attention again to his magazine, greatly to Philippa’s relief.

“I suppose it is really a very good thing,” she thought again, “that I have had this experiment. I had no idea I should be so utterly silly and without presence of mind; I really must drill myself!”

For the present, however, there was no further opportunity of doing so, her fellow-traveller leaving her and his dog to their own devices for the rest of the time that had to pass till they reached Great Malden. At this station the sisters were to leave the main line for a branch one, by which an hour’s much slower travelling would bring them to their journey’s end.

As they entered the large station, Philippa collected her few belongings preparatory to getting out and rejoining Mrs Headfort.

“Good-bye, poor doggie,” she said, softly, as she patted Solomon’s sleek head; and, short as their acquaintance had been, a curious feeling of sadness stole over her as she caught sight of the unmistakable regret in the dachs’ wistful eyes. His master read on till after Philippa had left the compartment, apparently unconscious of the farewell and of the girl’s departure.

Evelyn, by this time more or less in a fluster as to catching the other train without leaving her luggage behind her, or similar catastrophes, welcomed her sister joyfully.

“Really,” she said, when she found herself once more comfortably established for the third and last time with nothing missing or left behind, “really, Phil, what a splendid courier you are! I have got quite out of things with India, and leading such a stay-at-home life since I came back, and you never seem to lose your head in the least,” she concluded, admiringly.

“I have always been stronger than you, you know, Evey,” said Philippa, glancing affectionately at her sister, whose pretty face had just now the added charm of a soft flush of excitement. “And really,” she added, “there has been nothing whatever just now to lose one’s head about. To all appearance this little train might have been peacefully waiting for us all day, and, now we are here, it shows no signs of intending to move.” Then, with a sudden change of tone—“Oh, I declare,” she exclaimed, as at that moment a dog, catching sight of her as she stood at the door of Mrs Headfort’s carriage, rushed up and sprang at her with the liveliest delight.

It was Solomon.

“Down, down, good doggie, be quiet,” said Philippa, hastily, afraid of startling Evelyn. But that small piece of mischief was already accomplished. Mrs Headfort jumped up in alarm.

“Phil, Phil,” she cried, “do send him away! A strange dog dashing at you like that; he must be mad!”

“Nonsense,” said Philippa: “look at him; he’s a perfect dear—just like Valentine; as gentle as he can be. Don’t be so silly, Evey.”

But as she said the last words, looking round, to her horror, she caught sight of Solomon’s owner standing, as might have been expected under the circumstances, but a few paces off.

Could he have heard her! Philippa trembled at the thought.

“And I, who had imagined he was safely whizzing off northwards in the express!” she reflected.

Nerving herself she turned round so as to face him. His expression of countenance was entirely imperturbable; it told her nothing. Coolly whistling the dog off, he walked along the platform to the farther end of the train—whether to get into it, or to pass the time while waiting for some other, Philippa could not discover—Solomon obediently, though reluctantly, following him.

“The dog’s gone,” said Miss Raynsworth, turning to her sister with a touch of sharpness in her voice. “He was all right, I assure you. He knew me again, because he travelled in the same compartment with me from Crowminster.”

“Well, you might have said so,” said her sister, half ashamed of her fright. “I wish you’d get into your carriage, Philippa; we are sure to start immediately.”

“I’m going,” the girl replied. “But _isn’t_ he like Valentine, Evey?”

She moved away, however, without waiting for a reply.

The rest of the journey passed without incident. She spent the time in taking herself to task for having again lapsed into her ordinary tone to Evelyn, too confident of not being overheard, and in mentally drilling herself for the future.

“It was all Solomon’s fault,” she said to herself, “both just now and in the other train. I do hope he and his master are safely off in a different direction. But even if they are in the train, there is no reason why they should be going on to Wyverston station. I shall look out every time we stop on the chance of seeing: them.”

She had plenty of opportunities for so doing. Never had a train gone on its way more deliberately, or come to a standstill more frequently. But on none of the small platforms alongside of which they drew up did Philippa perceive the pair of travellers for whom she was on the outlook. Her hopes began to rise.

“I really think,” she said to herself, “that they can’t have come by this train. I daresay I am silly, but the very idea of that man’s being in the neighbourhood makes me nervous. I am so certain he was curious about me.”

This satisfaction at her fellow-travellers’ disappearance proved, however, premature. A station or two before that of the sisters’ destination, lo and behold! on a deserted-looking roadside platform, there stood, having evidently just emerged from the train, the dachshund and his master!

Quick as thought, Philippa, who had been glancing out half carelessly, drew back, retiring to the farther end of her solitary compartment. It might have been fancy, but she felt certain that Solomon was looking out for her. There was an indescribable air of alertness about him, even his long nose was elevated, and one of his pendent ears unmistakably cocked. Philippa felt almost guilty.

“Poor darling,” she thought, “I hate disappointing him, but I dare not risk it. I devoutly hope the pair are not in the habit of country strolls anywhere near Wyverston, for we can’t be far from there now.”

But in what direction they bent their steps, or whether any conveyance was waiting for them, she had no means of discovering. Before the train slowly moved on again they must have left the station; no trace of them remained, not even a little heap of luggage awaiting deliberate removal by a country porter.

Chapter Six. “Miss Ray.”

In the interest of their near approach to their journey’s end, Philippa put her recent fellow-travellers out of her mind. The afternoon was drawing in as she stepped out on to the platform at Wyverston; a fresh, invigorating breeze met her, bringing with it what she could almost have fancied a faint scent of the sea.

“We are not very far from the coast, I know,” she thought to herself, “but I had no idea it was such hilly country. It must be very bleak in winter,” and the thought made her hasten to her sister to ensure her wrapping up before leaving the shelter of her comfortable compartment.

Mrs Headfort was looking out for her.

“Evey,” began Philippa hastily, but in an instant corrected herself. “You must let me undo the rugs, ma’am,” she said in the quiet tone of voice she had adopted to suit her new personality. “It is ever so much colder here than at home.”

“Naturally,” said Evelyn; “we have been coming north all the way. Yes, I suppose we had better get out my fur cloak.”

There was no time to do so in the carriage, however. But when all their belongings were safely collected on the platform, Philippa hastened to extricate the garment in question. She had laid the bundle of rugs on the top of a portmanteau, imagining it to be one of their own boxes; but as she strapped up the roll again, the letters “M.V.G.” on the surface beneath caught her eyes, and glancing round she noticed a gun-case on which was painted in white letters the name “M.V. Gresham.”

“How odd!” she thought; “whose things can these be? No other passenger has got out. And what a strange coincidence that I had said to myself that Solomon’s master somehow reminded me of Mr Gresham at Dorriford!”

“This luggage is not ours,” she went on aloud, to the attendant porter; “has it been put out by mistake?”

“It’s all right, miss,” said a young footman, whom she now observed for the first time; “it’s to go up in the cart along of your lady’s. Mr Gresham—I should say Mr Michael—always gets out at Linley and walks up across the moor.”

Philippa’s heart for a moment seemed to stand still. She saw it all in a flash. The young man, her fellow-traveller, some relation no doubt of his namesake at Dorriford, was evidently an _habitué_ of Wyverston—an expected guest there like her sister Evelyn!

She bit her lips with vexation and dismay. “To think what a fool I have made of myself! Was there ever anything so unlucky?” and her inward feelings gave a stiffness to her manner scarcely judicious under the circumstances, as she turned to the civil-spoken young servant, hardly more than a boy in years.

“Will you see to those things then,” she said, as she turned with the cloak to wrap it round her sister, already shivering with the fresh air, which to Philippa’s stronger frame seemed pleasantly bracing.

“The maid’s far high-and-mightier than the lady,” thought the young fellow to himself, as Evelyn thanked him with her usual pretty graciousness as he arranged a fur carriage-rug round her when she was seated in the brougham. And this first impression was not improbably communicated to his fellow-servants at the Hall.

“Phil,” said Evelyn, eagerly, as they drove off, “I’ve quite made up my mind already that I don’t at all want Duke to succeed to Wyverston. It’s far too bleak and cold. It would kill me; I don’t know how I shall stand even my week here.”

Philippa could not help laughing.

“You really are too absurd, Evey,” she said, “in the way you jump at conclusions. I shouldn’t wonder if the bracing air were to do you a great deal of good, and the house is pretty sure to be warm and comfortable. But there, now, you are tempting me again to forget whom I am. You really mustn’t do it, Evelyn; it makes it so much harder to get into it again each time.”

“We can’t sit looking at each other without speaking, and when we are alone together it would be a perfect absurdity to keep up the farce. Why, you said yourself what a comfort it would be to have a good talk now and then,” remonstrated Mrs Headfort.

“We shall have to be very guarded about it,” said Philippa, gravely, “very guarded indeed. To tell you the truth, I do not think I realised how very difficult _I_ should find it to act my part consistently.”

“Why, you have scarcely begun it yet,” said her sister. “You have had no opportunity of testing yourself.”

Philippa did not reply at once, then she said more lightly:

“All the more reason for beginning it now in good earnest. Don’t let us talk about anything personal just at present; I wish we were in an open carriage, this sort of country is so new to me, such a contrast with home. I like the feeling of the air, a mixture of moor and sea.”

“I think it’s awfully chilly and bleak-looking,” said Evelyn, with a little shiver. “But I always have a sort of cold feeling on arriving at a strange place. It may go off after a little.”

“It is only nervousness,” said Philippa, encouragingly.

“No, no,” said Evelyn, “it is worse than that. If you weren’t here, I should be most terribly homesick already. You don’t know what I suffered, Phil, after I was married, when we went out to India, even though Duke was always so kind. And now, since I came back, I have learnt to lean on _you_ so! I am afraid I am rather contemptibly weak.”

“Poor little Evey,” said her sister, tenderly. “You mustn’t say that of yourself; I understand you perfectly. Physical strength has a great deal to do with moral strength, after all. But, oh, dear! we are falling back worse than ever! Now, I am not going to say another word till we get to the house.”

Evelyn was not attracted by the rather wild scenery through which they were passing. She leant back in her corner and shut her eyes, which her sister did not regret, as anything was better than going on talking as they had been doing. To her the look of the country was full of interest, and from its very novelty invigorating.

“I hope I shall sometimes be able to go a good walk by myself,” she thought. “If only I could make friends with some nice dog who would come with me—dogs generally like me—but, oh, dear! that reminds me of Solomon, he is _sure_ to be there; how shall I be able to keep out of his way? Dogs are so acute. What ill-fate made me get into that unlucky compartment!”

Her reflections and misgivings, however, were brought to an end more quickly than she had expected. They had got over the four miles between the railway station and Wyverston Hall with greater rapidity than she had realised, and she almost started as they suddenly, or so it seemed to her, turned in at lodge gates, exchanging the hard high-road for the pleasant smoothness of a well-kept drive. It had grown much darker, too, for the avenue at Wyverston was bordered by massive trees of too sturdy growth to suffer much from the exposed situation. What manner of trees they were, just now it was impossible to tell—only the faint fragrance of the falling leaves, and their rustle under the wheels passing over them, told that autumn winds were already at work.

Sensitive to every natural influence, however trivial, Philippa peered out into the dusk with a curious sense of enjoyment.