Chapter III: Part 3

“There is something ever so much more romantic about it than about my arrival at Dorriford,” she thought. “I really feel as if I were on the brink of something tremendously interesting. I wonder what? I daresay it’s all excitement! I have often had these presentiments before, without their leading to anything. Certainly the thought of tea in the servants’-hall, or possibly in the housekeeper’s room—let me devoutly hope it will be the latter—is enough to damp any attractive anticipations,” and suddenly there came over her a strong yearning to be where she was, in her own character—an instinctive revolt from the position she had placed herself in, however praiseworthy the motive. And as she sat there in silence, these mingled sensations culminated in a vague fear, almost amounting to terror, of what might be before her, of the unknown risks to which she might be exposing herself by the extraordinary step she had taken—risks outside herself, in no way connected with the completeness or incompleteness with which she might carry out her part.

But want of courage was by no means a characteristic of the girl, and with the practical good sense which contrasted curiously with the dash of recklessness in her temperament, she now told herself that, after all, there was no real ground for these mental tremors.

“I am actually mistress of the situation,” she thought. “It _does_ depend upon myself, and I am not afraid of breaking down once I am really started, for I have plenty of imagination. Rather too much, in some ways—if we had been arriving on a bright summer afternoon, with the sun shining and no feeling of mystery and gloom, I should have been quite in high spirits. After all, considering everything, I daresay it is safer for me to be rather depressed.”

Very grave she was, very grave, indeed, as she stood behind Mrs Headfort in the hall a moment or two later. She was intensely eager to judge of the nature of Evelyn’s reception by her new relatives, but for the present she had small opportunity for observing anything. No member of the family was visible—only an irreproachable, grey-haired butler was informing her sister that the ladies were in the drawing-room, ere he turned to show her the way thither, and Evelyn, as she followed him, glanced back for an instant with a half-piteous, half-humorous expression which made Philippa feel as if she must either laugh or cry—which, she could not have decided.

To neither inclination, of course, did she yield; she did not even speak, as, in her turn, she followed a younger man-servant who civilly offered to show her the way to the housekeeper’s room, a new question presenting itself to her mind at the words. What sort of person would the housekeeper turn out to be? A great deal might hang upon this—everything almost, in fact; and as the vision of some housekeepers she had seen, stout and self-satisfied, innately vulgar in their very civility and obsequiousness to their superiors, rose before her mind’s eye, again it came home to Miss Raynsworth that she had been far from realising what she was undertaking.

A door in the somewhat dimly-lighted passage was thrown open, and as the footman stood aside to let her pass in, a pleasant, gentle voice met her ears.

“Good-evening,” it said, quietly; “you must have had rather a cold journey. You have just arrived with Mrs Marmaduke Headfort, have you not? Take a seat by the fire,” and as Philippa murmured her thanks and glanced round her at the neat, comfortable little room, Mrs Shepton, for such was her name, went on with increasing kindliness of tone, as she saw that the girl seemed young, and suspected that she was timid.—“It is long past tea-time, of course, but I have ordered a little for you. I thought you would be glad of it.”

“I shall be very glad of it, indeed,” said Philippa, looking up gratefully, and speaking in the slow, careful way she had determined to adopt, and in the housekeeper’s face she read nothing to modify the first instinct of confidence and satisfaction drawn forth by the tone of her voice.

Mrs Shepton was an elderly woman, with a pleasant though somewhat careworn face. She had “known trouble” in her time, and many details of her sad, though by no means uncommon little history were confided to Philippa’s sympathising ears before her stay at Wyverston came to an end. And with some natures sorrow elevates as well as softens; though not in any conventional sense superior to her class, the good housekeeper was one whom no true woman, of whatever position, need have hesitated to call a friend. And Philippa’s instincts were quick and keen.

“She is nice, and good, and kind,” she decided at once. “It will make the greatest possible difference to me to have to do with such a woman. I feel as if she were a superior sort of Dorcas.”

The sweet expression on the girl’s face went straight to Mrs Shepton’s heart.

“There’s nothing like a cup of tea to refresh one after travelling,” she said in her homely way—there were occasions on which the housekeeper could be correctly dignified and “stand-off” even to the most superior of ladies’ maids—but just now her one thought was to set this shy young creature at her ease. “You have come from Mrs Marmaduke’s home, I suppose?” she went on, as she handed the tea to Philippa. “I don’t remember rightly where it is, but it’s at several hours’ distance from here, I know.”

“It is in —shire, close to Marlby,” Philippa replied. “We left the house about eleven o’clock this morning.”

“Have you been long with your lady?” pursued Mrs Shepton. “You look so young. You couldn’t have been out in India with her, surely?”

“Oh, no, I was scarcely grown-up then. I have only just entered Mrs Headfort’s service, but,” she added, after an instant’s consideration, “she has known me a long time.”

Mrs Shepton nodded, approvingly.

“Been in the young lady’s Sunday-school class, I daresay,” she thought to herself, and aloud she added, though without any suggestion of inquisitiveness, “That is very nice; your mother must be pleased for you not to be with strangers, that is to say if—” for the seriousness of the girl’s face, and her absolutely black attire, hinted at the possibility of her having recently lost some near relation.

Philippa understood the hesitation and answered at once, speaking more quickly and brightly than hitherto.

“Oh, yes, I have a mother, and father too!”

“I am glad to hear it,” rejoined Mrs Shepton, “but, by-the-by, my dear,”—the expression denoting that the new-comer had made a marvellously rapid stride in her good graces—“you’ve not yet told me your name!”

For the first time, strange to say, it struck Philippa that this—her surname, that is to say—was as yet an unknown quantity. She was fortunately not one of those people who change colour on small provocation.

“Mrs Headfort calls me Phillis,” she said, slowly.

The housekeeper looked rather surprised.

“Phillis,” she repeated; “that is a first name. I suppose it’s with her having known you so long; but it was your surname I meant. It wouldn’t do for the servants here to call you by your first name. Of course in a big house like this we have to be very particular.”

“Of course,” said Philippa, rather coldly. Then recollecting herself—“My last name,” she said, “is ‘Ray’—‘Phillis Ray,’” and she smiled slightly in spite of herself.

“Then ‘Miss Ray’ you must be to every one here but myself,” said Mrs Shepton. “There are not so many visitors among us just now as sometimes. There’s only Mrs Worthing’s maid—a very experienced person, much older than you; and Mr Gresham’s valet, Mr Furze, a quiet young man, and of course he’s so often here with his master that he’s scarcely like a stranger. But when we are by ourselves as just now, my dear, I should like to call you Phillis; I had a sister once of that name—long ago.”

“Yes, please do,” said Philippa, heartily.—“Mr Gresham, did you say,” she continued. “Is that a gentleman with a dog? I saw the name on some luggage at the station, which must have belonged to him. They travelled part of the way in our train—in the carriage I was in—second-class, but I didn’t see any valet.”

There was a touch of curiosity in her tone, which rather surprised and possibly disappointed the housekeeper.

“The Mr Gresham I alluded to,” she said, somewhat stiffly, “has been staying here some time. The young gentleman who came down to-day is Mr Michael, his cousin. You must excuse me, my dear, if I remind you not to speak of your lady as Mrs Headfort, but as Mrs Marmaduke,” she went on. “She is, of course, Mrs Headfort next to my lady, but still—”

“Certainly,” interrupted Philippa, heartily, “I will be careful about it. Thank you for reminding me, Mrs Shepton. And indeed,” she continued, “I should be very much obliged to you if you will tell me—me myself—of anything you think I require advice about. I am not very experienced, as you can see;” and in her own mind she thought, “this is an excellent precaution to take. It will prevent any gossip about me which might not otherwise come to my ears. For I am sure this good woman is thoroughly to be trusted. And if the Mr Gresham here really proves to be the one I met at Dorriford, I must be doubly on the alert. It is really too strange a coincidence.”

Philippa’s last words quite gained Mrs Shepton’s heart, and made her slight sensation of disapproval of the young girl’s apparent lapse into gossip concerning any of the visitors at Wyverston disappear. Her eyes had the kindliest light in them as she replied:

“It will please me very much indeed, my dear, if you will look upon me while you’re here as if I were in a mother’s place to you; and now, I daresay, I had better take you to your room—the sooner you take your things off the better, as the dressing-gong will be sounding soon. Take care,” as Philippa wavered a little on first getting up; “are you so very short-sighted?”

“Oh, no,” said Philippa, “I wear spectacles as a precaution;” the truth being that her unaccustomedness to the glasses, and the reflection of the firelight upon them, had dazzled her a little.

“Oh,” said Mrs Shepton, tranquilly. “It is best to err on the safe side if your eyes are at all weakly. But I should have been sorry if you had really feeble sight, it stands so much in a maid’s way.”

So saying, she opened the door of the room and led the way along the passage to a staircase at the farther end.

Chapter Seven. A Successful Début.

In all large country-houses of a certain importance, there is more or less resemblance in the internal aspect of things. And this Philippa felt conscious of as she followed Mrs Shepton up-stairs—across landings, down passages, and up-stairs again.

“I could fancy myself back at Dorriford,” she said to herself, with mingled sensations. “It is barely a week since I left it. What _would_ Maida Lermont think if she could see me now? What would I have thought myself, if I had had a vision of the present state of things? Yet Dorriford is as different as possible from this place—all bright and fresh there, and this old house seems to _breathe_ stiffness and formality. I am sure Evey will be frightened if they put her into one of the state bedrooms. I do hope my room won’t be far from hers.”

She was learning prudence, however, and said nothing till surer of her ground. And her reticence was rewarded. For just as, with some dismay, she caught sight of another staircase, evidently leading to some very upper regions indeed, the housekeeper stopped short, turning down a small and almost dark passage on the floor where they were.

“Our own maidservants’ rooms are up that staircase,” said the housekeeper, “and also two or three for visitors’ ladies’ maids. But there is a little room close beside Mrs Marmaduke’s, which my lady thought would be best for you. It opens into her dressing-room by another door—this is therefore a sort of back-way to her rooms. My ladies thought she might feel strange, this being her first visit, and with her not being very strong, as I understand.”

The good woman did not add that the suggestion had in great measure emanated from herself, however readily it had been adopted by her mistress.

“Oh, I _am_ glad, said Philippa, eagerly. I don’t mind anything as long as I am near her,” for as Mrs Shepton opened the door of the small apartment intended for Mrs Marmaduke Headfort’s maid, she murmured something, almost in a tone of apology, about its very restricted size.

The housekeeper glanced at her with kindly approval, not unmixed, however, perhaps, with a little amusement. Philippa had spoken impulsively and more in her own character than she realised.

“How devoted she is to her lady,” thought the elder woman. “She will be laughed at for it, I daresay, by other servants, and perhaps it may be well for her not to express it quite so warmly. But it reflects credit on them both. Mrs Marmaduke must be a sweet young lady. It will be very nice if my ladies take a fancy to her, and then some day, perhaps, we shall be having the dear little boy here.”

For the premature death of the two sons of the house, and the failure of an heir to Wyverston, had been felt scarcely less acutely by the attached old servants than by the Headforts themselves. And Mrs Shepton had been full of eager interest in the overtures at last, though somewhat tardily made, to her master’s cousin, now the next in succession.

Philippa’s modest luggage was already standing unstrapped in her room. It was evident that all the arrangements at Wyverston were punctual and orderly.

“Through here are Mrs Marmaduke’s rooms,” said Mrs Shepton. “I daresay you will have time to get some unpacking done before she comes up to dress. And you must be sure to tell me of anything she wants, or anything not quite to her mind. There are two bells, you see,” and she went on to explain where they rang to; “it is just as well to have one to up-stairs, even though you are close at hand. For this part of the house is rather shut out from the rest, as you see; it is a sort of little wing apart, and there is another to match it on the north side. My lady chose these south rooms, as so much warmer.”

They were very good rooms, rendered more cheerful than they would otherwise have been by bright fires. For as Philippa had anticipated, they were very stately and somewhat gloomy.

“I am quite certain Evey would have been awfully afraid of sleeping here alone,” she thought, but aloud she thanked the housekeeper for all her care and consideration.

“And where shall I go, when Mrs Marmaduke is dressed and gone down to dinner?” she inquired, half timidly.

Mrs Shepton considered. She felt quite a motherly interest in Phillis Ray.

“You will be busy for some time arranging all your lady’s things,” she said. “I will send up to fetch you in time for supper; it would be pleasanter for you than coming down to the room by yourself.”

“The room?” Philippa repeated, in some perplexity.

“Our room, of course, I mean,” said the housekeeper, smiling. “Supper is at half-past nine. Our second-housemaid is a very nice girl, rather young, perhaps, for the post, but a superior girl in many ways. Her name is Bell—Isabella Bell, a curious first name to choose, isn’t it? The head-housemaid is quite an elderly woman, who has been here for many years. My ladies think very highly of her, and,”—with the slightest touch of hesitation—“she expects to be treated very respectfully by the younger ones.”

Philippa laughed slightly.

“Thank you for warning me, Mrs Shepton,” she said.

As she spoke she was already taking off her bonnet and cloak, and again the housekeeper felt approval of her evident alertness.

“I will leave you now,” she said; “you will need all your time to get things ready,” and so saying, she went away.

As soon as she had the room to herself, Philippa sat down on the little bed with a deep sigh of relief.

“How nice it is to be myself again, even for a moment,” she thought. “How shall I ever be able to endure the not being it for a whole week or more? But how thankful I am that the housekeeper is such a nice, good woman; how _very_ thankful! At the worst, at the very worst, if any really terrible complications arise, I almost think I might confide in her; I am sure she has nice feelings in every way.”

This was something to fall back upon, and indeed she required it; for the realisation of the presence in the house, of a man whom she was almost sure was the same as the “silent Mr Gresham” whom she had met at Dorriford, was undoubtedly appalling.

“I mustn’t frighten Evey about it,” she considered, “but I must find out about him from her without betraying why. His being here and having seen me before, might not, after all, have mattered much; he saw so little of me, and when we were walking about the garden I could scarcely get him to speak. I wonder if he thought me very young? _I_ noticed him, as anybody must have done, because he is so extremely good-looking! But _the_ thing that frightens me is the stupid way in which I drew the other Mr Gresham’s attention upon me in the train. One could not have invented anything so unlucky,” but here the sound of an opening door startled her. “I must be quick,” she thought, with a glance in the looking-glass, and a hasty touch at her somewhat ruffled hair, “or I shall have nothing ready for Evey.” It was not her sister, however, only a housemaid with hot water, as Philippa saw, as she made her way through the dressing-room. A civil “good-evening,” however, was all that the servant stopped to say, being evidently in a hurry.

“Now,” thought Philippa, “comes a part of my rôle that I shall really enjoy. It will be charming to make Evelyn look her prettiest, and I know she will wear exactly what I tell her. I do love nice clothes,” and with great satisfaction she proceeded to lift out her sister’s carefully chosen “trousseau” for the occasion.

She had just finished laying out on the bed the dress she had mentally fixed upon as the most suitable for this first evening—a sort of début it seemed to Philippa, and far from an unimportant one, when again the door opened, this time to admit Evelyn herself, followed, or rather, strictly speaking, preceded by the eldest of the unmarried daughters of the house.

“I do hope you will find everything as you like it, and do ask for anything you want,” said Miss Headfort, as she ushered in the young guest. “Dinner is at eight, so you have nearly an hour still; time to rest a little before dressing.”

The voice was a pleasantly modulated one, and its tone was undoubtedly cordial. From the other side of the room, Philippa glanced round with curiosity to catch sight of the speaker. She was a tall, rather slight woman, in figure and bearing looking perhaps younger than her age, which was quite forty. But her face was not young; there were lines of sorrow upon it, and her dark eyes, though really sweet in expression when one came to see them closely, were wanting in vivacity and light.

“Why,” thought Philippa to herself, “she looks a hundred times more melancholy than Maida, and yet her life _cannot_ have been as hard—except, of course, for the brothers’ deaths,”—with a little pang of self-reproach at her momentary forgetfulness, “but I do think she seems nice and kind to Evey,” and this agreeable impression was confirmed by the sound of her sister’s voice in reply.

“Thank you; I am sure I shall be as comfortable as possible,” said Evelyn. “Will you call for me on your way down-stairs?” she added, with the touch of appeal which to her sister’s discerning ears told at once of her having “taken to” this new relative.

“Certainly, if you like,” was the reply, and the little touch Miss Headfort gave to Evelyn’s shoulder as she left the room told of evident gratification.

For a moment or two after the door closed, Philippa remained stooping over a trunk without speaking. It was not till Evelyn flung herself on the sofa and called out to her half petulantly, that she thought it safe to reply.

“Why don’t you speak, Phil?” she said. “You surely don’t intend to keep up the farce when we are safely alone by ourselves?”

“It would really be better to do so,” replied Philippa, cautiously, glancing round at both doors before she finally emerged from the shelter of the big trunk, “but, of course, I won’t do anything to worry you, Evey. I suppose there is no fear of any one coming to this room before Miss Headfort returns?”

She crossed the floor to the sofa where her sister lay, as she spoke.

Evelyn in her turn glanced round half-nervously.

“You will make me too fidgety for anything,” she said. “No, I don’t think it is the least likely that any one will come; the housemaid has brought the hot water, I see, and the trunks are all up. And even if any one did come, they would knock at the door—oh, bother, there are two doors! I hate a room with two doors. I never know which to be most frightened of in the night.”

“This one,” said Philippa, indicating it as she spoke, “leads into a dressing-room, and out of that again, the little room where I sleep. It was very thoughtful of them to put me so near you, but if you would rather lock the doors between us at night, _I_ have no objection.”

She spoke laughingly, but underneath the jesting tone there was a touch of slightly hurt feeling. She had been longing so to see her sister again, even after the one half-hour’s separation; she was so intensely anxious to know what had passed in the drawing-room, and now here was Evelyn, not even affectionate, the very reverse of clinging!

“Nonsense,” said her sister; “of course I’m only too delighted to have you close by. I would like to look at the rooms,” and she half sat up as if with the purpose of doing so, but sank down again. “Oh, I am tired,” she said, wearily. “Get a footstool, Philippa, if there is one, and come and sit on the floor beside me, the way we do at home. Oh, don’t you wish we were at home again? It’s all so strange and—”

“No,” interrupted Philippa, her warm heart going out again with a rush of tenderness the very instant any appeal was made to it. “No, you’re not to say ‘lonely’ just when I am here on purpose to prevent you feeling so.”

She had espied a footstool by this time and drew it forward as her sister wished.

“Now,” she said, “we can talk comfortably for a few minutes; unless, indeed, it would be better for you not to talk at all, and rest entirely till you have to dress.”

Evelyn lay back with closed eyes; she certainly was looking very pale now, but what else could have been expected?

“I _am_ glad I came,” thought her sister, conscious that a momentary feeling almost of jealousy of the new cousin had passed through her. “I _am_ glad I came, and if she does get on well with these people, even to the extent of not seeming to need me, I _won’t_ mind. I shall know it is only on the surface. What she would have done without me, practically speaking, I really don’t know! She is about as fit just now to look out her things and dress herself, as a mouse to draw a train. And what _would_ her hair be like? It’s in a perfect chaos of fluff, and I am certain that the Headforts wear theirs perfectly smooth and have no fringes.”

She smiled at the thought, and as she did so, Evelyn opened her eyes.

“What are you laughing at?” she inquired, languidly, and as her sister told her, she, too, smiled.

“Yes,” she replied, “you are quite right. They have all three got dark hair, as smooth as—oh, I can’t trouble to find a comparison—‘as smoove as smoove’ as Bonny says—dear Bonny! But I do think they mean to be nice, really nice and cordial, Phil, especially Felicia, the one you saw just now; she is the eldest. Perhaps I’d better not talk much—”

“You had better talk in a lower voice,” said Philippa; “it is less tiring, and safer too. All I want to know just now is that you do think you will be able to get on with them without much effort.”

“Ye-es, I do think so,” answered Evelyn. “I must try to be a little more dignified than I am at home, and that is rather a strain.”

“You can be beautifully dignified when you choose,” said Philippa, encouragingly.

“It is not on the daughters’ account I must be so,” continued Evelyn. “I think _they_ would like me the better if I seemed rather childish; there is no affectation of being younger than they are, about either of them. But it is Mrs Headfort; she associates me, I feel instinctively, with the wife of the possible future master of Wyverston, who, she thinks, no doubt, should be as stately as herself.”

“I only hope she _does_ associate with you that personage,” said Philippa, brightly; “it would certainly incline us to like her all the better. I think,” she went on thoughtfully, “there is something beautiful and elevating in that sort of regard for one’s family, if not carried too far. Some people call it only an extended form of selfishness, but at least it is not a low kind. And, after all, doing one’s best for those nearest us is not selfishness; it is simply right.”

“There is something almost beautiful about Mrs Headfort herself,” said Evelyn, “though there is something wanting, too, in her face. It is a little hard, and yet certainly not unfeeling; she has evidently _felt_ tremendously.”

“But troubles do harden some people,” said Philippa, “though often more on the surface than lower down. They get afraid of ever loosening their armour, as it were, for fear of breaking down.”

“How wise you are, Phil!” said Evelyn, admiringly. “I never thought of things in that way when I was your age. I shouldn’t wonder,” she went on, reflectively, as if she had made a great discovery, “if it were partly Mrs Headfort’s hair that makes her look hard. It is quite dark, did I tell you? And when people get old, I think grey or white hair is so much prettier. I do hope mine will get white—mamma’s is so nice,” and she put up her hand to her own wavy locks as if to feel if the desired transformation had already taken place.

“Now, Evelyn,” said Philippa, seriously, “leave off chattering. You may go to sleep for twenty minutes still; I will undertake to get you perfectly ready in the time that remains. I have got out nearly everything you will want, and you are to wear exactly what I have chosen.”

Evelyn smiled submissively.

“I must just say one thing, Phil,” she began again, “and that is for your satisfaction. I do believe the Headforts would have been perfectly aghast if I had come without a maid. And that reminds me—how do you think you are going to bear it? Will it be endurable?”

“Much better than endurable,” said Philippa, “but I will tell you about it afterwards. The housekeeper is a dear old woman. And on your side you must notice everything, to amuse me. I shall want to know all about the other people staying in the house.”

Then she resolutely turned away, and busied herself afresh with completing the preparations for her sister’s evening toilet.

At the appointed time came Miss Headfort’s tap at the door, and in response to Evelyn’s “come in,” the eldest daughter of the house made her appearance. Philippa looked at her with considerable interest—a double interest, indeed; she was both curious to have a better view of Miss Headfort herself, and also most anxious to observe the effect upon her of the charming personality before her. Mingled with her sisterly pride in Evelyn, there was now what one may almost call the pride of the artist in his handiwork, and for both there was good cause.

Evelyn had left herself entirely to her sister’s mercies, and the result was such that even Felicia Headfort’s melancholy eyes lighted up with pleasure at the sight of her cousin’s wife, whose lovely fairness was shown to great advantage by the pale, blush-rose tint of her dress. Her naturally beautiful hair owed much also to Philippa’s careful manipulation, all the more deft and clever in that there was not the slightest appearance of studied art about it—the little bow of pink velvet to match her dress really looking as if it had flown down of itself to nestle among the wavy coils. Evelyn’s stock of jewellery was limited; for this important occasion she wore the one good ornament which her Duke had, with much unsuspected self-denial, gathered together enough money to procure for her—a string of fair-sized pearls.

“You will bewitch my father, I am sure.”

“My dear,” said Miss Headfort, impulsively, “your dress is quite charming, and you do not look the least tired now. You will quite bewitch my father, I am sure.” Evelyn smiled.

“How nice you look yourself,” she said to her cousin, gently stroking the sleeve of Felicia’s soft, grey velvet bodice, for though far more than the orthodox term of black attire for the loss of their two brothers had passed, the Headfort sisters had not yet—if indeed they ever would discard it—worn anything but half-mourning.

Miss Headfort looked very handsome in her velvet and rich old lace; handsomer than Philippa had expected from her former glimpse of her. And the two figures together harmonised from their very dissimilarity. The sight was gratifying to the girl’s sensitive perceptions of beauty; but as she stood there in the background in her plain, black dress and disfiguring spectacles, unnoticed, and in a sense unthought of, even by her sister, it would be untrue to human nature, to girl nature especially, to say that no shadow of mortification passed over her as she again realised, and this time more fully than hitherto, the abnormal position she had placed herself in.

But almost simultaneously her vigorous resolution of character, greatly assisted in the present case by her vivid sense of humour, reasserted itself. There was a considerable amount of triumph, too, in the success of her plan.

“I do believe,” she thought, “that I shall be able to carry it through perfectly to the—no, I won’t say ‘bitter end’—but till the curtain drops for ever, I hope, for I am quite sure I shall have had enough of my rôle by then, as ‘Phillis Ray, lady’s-maid.’ Though but for her, goodness only knows what Mrs Marmaduke Headfort would have been looking like at the present moment—as to her headgear above all!”

A glance of affectionate gratitude from Evelyn as she followed her conductress out of the room, added to Philippa’s self-congratulation. Still more so, a word or two from Miss Headfort which caught her ears as, suddenly discovering that her sister’s fan was still reposing on the dressing-table, she ran after her with it, a few steps down the passage—“very clever maid yours seems to be; she must—” But the rest of the sentence was deferred, as Evelyn turned to take the fan held out to her.

“Poor Phil,” thought Mrs Marmaduke, as she entered the drawing-room, with a curious mingling of pride in her sister, and regret almost amounting to irritation at the state of things she had brought about, “I really can’t bear to think of her up there alone! For I do feel as if it were all going to be very nice, and that, but for her, I could really enjoy myself. So I must just try not to think of her for the time. I am sure it is what she would wish.”

And acting on this comfortable determination, she was able to respond with unembarrassed graciousness to the cordial, though somewhat formal, greeting of her host, who came forward to meet them as soon as he caught sight of his elder daughter’s entrance into the room.

And, as Felicia had predicted, the charm of Evelyn’s half-appealing yet dignified manner, added to her extreme prettiness, did its work. From that moment the old man’s subjugation was complete.

That it was so, was from the first a source of satisfaction to his wife and daughters. For they were not only good, high-principled women—they were personally unselfish, and superior to all petty, feminine jealousies, and with much latent tenderness of nature, unsuspected by those who only judged them by the surface stiffness of manner.

Christine, the second Miss Headfort, though some years younger than her sister, scarcely appeared so. She was less handsome in features, but so much brighter in complexion and colouring that at first sight she was the most striking; but in spite of Wyverston Manor and its traditions, there was a touch of the “advanced woman” about her, which showed itself unpleasingly in a rather obtrusive “superiority” to her dress and general appearance.

“I am plain-looking,” she was wont to inform her friends, with a certain pride, “and no longer young, and I am not going to pretend to be otherwise. And I am splendidly strong, and intend to keep my health at all costs, so I do not care in the least about my complexion or my figure. I go out in all weathers, and ignore the existence of whalebone and steel.”

But she was a very agreeable woman, nevertheless—her bark infinitely worse than her bite—full of real kindness of heart. And if a trifle dictatorial in her way of showing this, and perhaps irritatingly convinced that a Miss Headfort of Wyverston could “do no wrong,” it was easy to forgive and even forget those foibles in one so ready to put herself aside whenever called upon to do so for the sake of others; so genuinely compassionate to the suffering or oppressed. She loved all animals, and was loved by them in return; she would have loved little children had she known more about them; thus with her, too, Evelyn’s fragile and almost childlike appearance only prepossessed her in the young wife’s favour.

Chapter Eight. A Morning Ramble.

The party this evening was not a very large one; still, a comparatively small number of people is enough to be somewhat confusing to a new-comer, to whom they are all absolute strangers. More especially when the new-comer in question is in such a position as was Evelyn Headfort on this occasion in the Wyverston drawing-room, where, as a recognised member of the family, to whom honour was due, it behoved her host and hostess to introduce with considerable formality all the other guests.

To all appearance she stood this little ordeal well, considerably to Mrs Headfort’s satisfaction.

“Though she looks so young,” thought the elder woman, “she has plenty of self-possession as well as charming manners.”

But inwardly Evelyn had been feeling considerable trepidation, and it was not without some relief that she found herself and the man allotted to her safely on their way to the dining-room. _His_ name her memory had retained, though she was in a state of mystification as to those of most of the others. She glanced up at her cavalier. She was not peculiarly small, but he seemed to tower above her, and had to bend his head to catch some little commonplace remark which she felt it due to herself to volunteer, “for fear,” as she afterwards confessed to Philippa, “he should have thought me shy.”

“Certainly,” was the reply; “quite so,” but that was all, and Evelyn’s little feeler, which she had sent out in hopes of its breaking the ice, had no effect beyond that of making her wish she had left the sentence unsaid.

Seated at table, however, where she found herself, to her alarm, at her host’s left hand, she hazarded a second observation—anything, the silliest speech in the world was better than for her new relations to think her in any sense unequal to the occasion.

“I beg your pardon,” said Mr Gresham, for such was his name; and as he bent slightly towards her, she was struck for the first time by his really remarkable good looks, enhanced by a gentleness of expression which tended to reassure her. She laughed and coloured slightly as she repeated her very commonplace, little observation.

“I was only saying that it feels ever so much colder here than farther south!” she said.

“You’ve come from the south,” he responded, with some appearance of interest. “Have you travelled far to-day?”

“Oh, no, not really very far,” she replied. “After all, one can’t travel very far in England; but any cross-country journey makes you feel as if you had—it wastes so much time, though we fitted in our trains pretty well.”

“Is your husband with you?” her companion rejoined, in reality for the sake of drawing her out, for he knew perfectly well that Duke Headfort was still in India, and likely to be there for some time. For, as the housekeeper had mentioned to Philippa, the elder Mr Gresham was a very frequent visitor at Wyverston, and intimately acquainted with the ins and outs of the Headfort family affairs.

Evelyn started slightly.

“I shouldn’t have said ‘we,’” she thought to herself. “Oh, no,” she said, aloud, “I’m quite alone here, and it is my first visit to this part of the country. It is considered very—well, I don’t exactly know what to say—not picturesque, I suppose, but not commonplace?”

“Far from commonplace. It is bleak in some directions—bleak and bare; but the moors are very fine, and at some seasons their colouring is wonderful. And the stretch of the Wildering Hills to the west is very imposing. You will think it so, I have no doubt, as you come from—” He stopped, and went on again:

“Did I not understand you to say that you live in a flat country?”

“Well, yes,” said Evelyn, though she did not remember having volunteered any information of the kind. ”—shire _is_ flat, certainly, and where we live there is no beauty except good trees. My sister,” she continued, feeling as if she were talking very inanely, and with a nervous dread of letting the conversation drop, “was staying lately in Westshire. She was delighted with it. She said part of the route coming back was as pretty as—as Switzerland.”—“How idiotic that sounds!” she said to herself.

But her companion appeared rather to appreciate her remarks.

“Westshire,” he repeated. “Yes, some parts of Westshire are charmingly picturesque. May I ask what part of the country your sister was staying in?”

“I don’t know what part it was that she thought so pretty,” said Evelyn, gratified by his interest. “The place she was staying at was Dorriford. It belongs to the Lermonts—cousins of ours.”

“Oh, indeed,” said Mr Gresham, thawing more and more; “I know Dorriford—at least I was there the other day. I drove over with some friends in the neighbourhood. Your sister’s name is?” and he glanced at her questioningly.

“Raynsworth,” said Evelyn, quickly.

“Exactly,” rejoined her companion. “I remember her perfectly. But you are not like each other—Strikingly unlike, even; for Miss Raynsworth is dark—dark and tall. I remember.”

An appalling misgiving seized Evelyn. He “remembered her perfectly;” perhaps, by no means improbably, suggested her sisterly pride, he had been struck by Philippa’s somewhat uncommon style of beauty. Why, in heaven’s name, had she drawn the conversation round to Philippa at all, the very last topic she should have chosen to talk about while at Wyverston? And fearful lest Mr Gresham’s watchful eyes should detect the least trace of confusion, she forced herself to smile and to say lightly:

“What a coincidence! I must remember to mention it to my sister when I go home.” Then, somewhat at random, she plunged suddenly into some of her Indian reminiscences—a subject she usually avoided as hackneyed and commonplace.

Mr Gresham seemed somewhat perplexed, though he listened courteously, but without his former interest.

“I have never been in India,” he said, with a touch of languor, “and I don’t think I want to go. Were you born there? I’ve often noticed that people who were born there have a sort of liking for the place,” as if the great empire of the east were some insignificant village.

“Oh, no,” said Evelyn, “we are all quite English, and I don’t think I do like India. I am not very fond of travelling. I fear I am the lazy one of the family.”

“Your sister certainly struck me as very vigorous,” began Mr Gresham again; “the Lermonts were talking of wonderful expeditions they had been making while she was with them.”

“Oh, why did I say I had a sister,” thought Evelyn, in desperation, “and why did I ever give in to this mad escapade of Philippa’s? I feel certain it is going to land us in some dreadful hobble,” and unconsciously to herself her expression grew so tragic that Mr Gresham began to wonder what in the world was the matter.

Just then, to Evelyn’s enormous relief, came a happy interruption. A voice from the opposite side of the table, which was not a very wide one, addressed her by name.

Evelyn looked up in surprise, forgetting for the moment that as all the guests had been introduced to her, the owner of the voice had every reason to know who she was.

“I hope, Mrs Headfort,” he said, “that my dog did not really frighten you to-day? He is very demonstratively affectionate when he takes a fancy, and he had made great friends with—with your maid.”

”‘Out of the frying-pan into the fire,’” thought the unfortunate Evelyn; “this time I must brave it out.”

“Is your dog a dachs?” she said, quickly. “Oh, yes, I remember seeing him; he tried to jump into the carriage, but I wasn’t really frightened, only startled for a moment. Is he with you here? You must introduce him formally, if so. I love dachshunds—our favourite dog was a dachs. He died—some years ago. We can hardly bear to talk of it even now.”

A perplexed look stole over Michael Gresham’s face at her words. Was he dreaming? or going through one of those strange experiences familiar to us all, in which it seems as if we were living for a second time through some event, or train of events, often of the most trivial, which has already happened?

No; the conviction he now felt that words almost similar to those Mrs Headfort had just uttered had quite recently been addressed to him, was too strong, too unmistakable to have anything of fancy about it.

“By Jove,” he thought, “it was the girl in the railway carriage—her maid—who told me the very same thing about a dachshund she had had. I can’t make it out. They didn’t seem to be talking like mistress and maid when Solomon jumped at them, though I didn’t hear clearly what they were saying. There was something inconsistent about the girl from the first. Well, it’s no business of mine.” Then, conscious that Evelyn’s eyes were still directed towards him, he threw off his hesitation and answered lightly:

“I hope the association will not be too painful to prevent your making friends with my Solomon. Not that I don’t sympathise in the loss of a dog—it’s a terrible thing.”

“Don’t let my cousin get on to dogs, Mrs Headfort, his own dogs especially,” interrupted the elder Gresham; “he’ll go on for hours about that Solomon of his, I warn you.”

Evelyn smiled gently. In her heart she was not very devoted to dogs. Bonny and Vanda were much more adorable pets. Nor was she anxious in any way to grow more familiar with the dachshund’s master.

“He must be rather a stupid young man,” she thought, as she glanced across the table at Michael’s somewhat rugged face. “His cousin evidently thinks him so, and all the better for us if he is not observant. And, oh! how plain-looking he is compared to this one!”

For the moment, however, she had not much opportunity of admiring her neighbour’s clear-cut features. For her host, having done his duty so far by the elderly dowager on his right hand, now felt free to turn his attention to his cousin’s pretty young wife. A kindly question or two about her “Duke” and his doings—even more, some allusion to the incomparable Bonny, set Evelyn perfectly at her ease. The conversation which ensued, though of the liveliest interest to herself and not without charm for the squire himself, naturally left her orthodox companion somewhat out in the cold. For on his other side was placed a certain Miss Worthing, a person whom he would have characterised as a “bread-and-butter miss,” whose timid attempt at breaking the silence met with but faint success, for all the answers that Mr Gresham condescended to make to her were monosyllabic and discouraging in the extreme.

It was not this first evening that young Mrs Headfort discovered how much honour had been done her by her companion’s animation, though as she rose to follow in the file of women on their way to the drawing-room, it did strike her that Mr Gresham’s face looked bored in the extreme.

“How I do wish he could know Philippa and she him!” she thought. “She would be just the person to shake him out of that silent _hauteur_, and I do believe he was struck by her at Dorriford. If only she were here in her proper character!”

The rest of the evening seemed somewhat long. Evelyn was beginning to feel very tired, for she had really exerted herself to the utmost. Fortunately it was not the Wyverston habit to keep late hours, and it was with a feeling of inexpressible relief that she accepted Felicia’s hint that she must not hesitate to say good-night, even before the two or three guests from the neighbourhood had taken their departure.

“They will be going immediately,” Miss Headfort added; “and,” on second thoughts, “if you like to come away quietly with me, I will explain it to mamma afterwards, and say good-night for you.”

Evelyn thankfully took advantage of this offer, but begged her cousin to let her go up-stairs alone.

“I can find my way quite well, and I know I shall have everything I want in my room.”

“Very well,” said Felicia, kindly. “I think I can trust your maid, from what you say of her, to look after you properly. And our dear old Shepton really does love to make people comfortable, especially if they are relations.”

Nothing could have been more gratifying. And how delightful not to have to wait till she could write home for sympathy in her satisfaction!

“Oh, Phil,” she exclaimed, as she carefully shut the door of her room where her sister was already awaiting her. “Oh, Phil, darling, I am awfully sleepy, I can scarcely keep my eyes open, but I am longing to tell you how well I have got on. Everything has been as nice as possible.”

“I am so glad,” said Philippa, warmly. “But, Evelyn dear, you must not talk to-night. Even I am feeling very tired. I believe I had fallen asleep while I was sitting here waiting for you.”

And Philippa, who could be resolute in little things as well as in big, carried her point. Half an hour later both sisters were in bed and asleep, and though Philippa did not know it, her care of Evelyn had saved herself from a disturbed and perhaps sleepless night. For Mrs Headfort could certainly not have narrated the events of the evening in any detail without repeating her conversation with both the Greshams, and thereby awakening much graver anxiety in Philippa’s mind than what she had felt herself.

As it was, Philippa slept soundly, her dreams being no more than an amusing jumble of the experiences of the day before. When she awoke, it was from a peculiarly absurd one, in which Solomon was seated at the end of the housekeeper’s table, doing the honour in Mrs Shepton’s place, with Philippa’s own spectacles on his nose, assuring her that his master was the same Mr Gresham whom she had met at Dorriford, and that it was only the fact of his travelling second-class which had made her imagine him less good-looking than before.

But though her dreams had been thus concerned with the realities of the preceding day, Miss Raynsworth felt strangely confused when she first awoke. It was daylight, though not yet very clear, for the morning was cloudy—so cloudy, indeed, that in most parts of the country one would have imagined it must be raining. The girl’s eyes strayed round the little room, and for a moment or two she could not imagine where she was. Gradually things took shape in her memory, and she half started up in affright.

“It must be late,” she thought, “and of all things I must be ready early in the morning.”

But her fears were exaggerated; she took her watch to the window and found that it was only half-past six. There was plenty of time to get ready for her own breakfast at eight, and to carry in Evelyn’s early cup of tea.

She peeped cautiously through the door of her sister’s room, as soon as she was dressed, and was pleased to see her still sleeping peacefully.

“She must not get up to breakfast if she is very tired,” thought Philippa. “Mrs Shepton was sure they would not mind her staying in bed, especially this first morning. But if I am to judge her by myself, I rather think she will wake feeling quite rested and invigorated; the air here must be wonderfully bracing.”

She had returned to her own little room, and sat down beside the window which she had already thrown open. It was not cold, though a fresh breeze, to Philippa’s fancy laden with the scents of the surrounding moors, blew on her face gently.

“Only a quarter past seven,” she said to herself. “I know what I’ll do. I will go down-stairs and have a little run, or walk, I suppose—it would never do for a maid to be seen running—before the breakfast-bell rings. I can keep away from the front of the house, for fear of possibly meeting any one who might notice me.” With the impulsiveness so curiously mingled with her habit of careful consideration, this was no sooner said than done. Two minutes later the slight, black-clad figure of young Mrs Headfort’s maid might have been seen making its way through some of the paths thickly strewn with fir “needles,” among the woods, which at one side of the house almost extended to the walls.

“Yes,” she thought. “It is quite charming here, though perhaps in time one would get tired of the monotony of these fir-trees. If only I were free, and not obliged to be in to breakfast till half-past nine, how I would enjoy a rush across the moor beyond! I do hope I shall have some chance of a solitary ramble now and then while I am here. For one thing I will _not_ do, and that is, go out walks with the other ladies’ maids who are staying in the house, who, ten to one, would be inviting the valets to accompany them. All I should want would be a—”

At that instant, as if in reply to her uncompleted sentence, came the rush and scamper of a long-bodied, four-footed creature across the crackly ground.

“Solomon!” exclaimed Philippa, with mingled joy and dismay. “My dear boy, where have you come from? And how did you know I was here?” for that he did recognise her and was full of delight at the meeting, was only too evident! He jumped up on her, he pawed her, he snuffed her, ending by trotting off a few paces and looking back wistfully with unmistakable invitation in his affectionate eyes.

Half thoughtlessly Philippa followed him.

“Where do you want to go to?” she said, laughingly. “Do you think I don’t know the way back to the house?—And, by-the-by, I must be quick,” she added, “or I shall be too late for breakfast.”

But as this misgiving struck her she came to a sudden standstill.

Chapter Nine. Mingled Feelings.