Chapter IV: Part 4

For there before her, as might most naturally have been expected, stood Solomon’s master, Mr Gresham the younger. He was clad in a rough shooting-suit, which, even in that moment of annoyance, struck Philippa as becoming him better than his more civilised attire of the day before.

“He is ugly,” she thought, “but far from insignificant. That square, sturdy sort of figure has something manly about it,” and as at that moment a slight involuntary smile parted his lips, and she caught sight of two rows of perfect teeth, another item in his favour was added to her estimate of the outer man of Michael Gresham.

So swiftly, however, did these impressions pass through her, that almost before she realised them she felt conscious of the vivid colour rushing to her face.

What was he smiling at?—or rather, what was he staring at, now that the smile had faded? Was there anything extraordinary in her appearance? Mechanically she raised her hand to her hair, which had indeed got blown out of the prim neatness which was an important part of her present personification, but it was not the touch of the truant locks which startled her fingers as they touched her face.

“Oh, dear,” she ejaculated, “my spectacles!” For in the exuberance of her enjoyment of the fresh morning air, and her sense of momentary freedom from notice, she had drawn them off and slipped them into her pocket.

It was too late now to undo the mischief, if any, that had been done by their absence. Drawing herself together she glanced up almost defiantly at the young man standing motionless before her, and when she caught sight of the expression of his face, which from that of surprise had darkened into gravity, almost approaching disapproval, it was all she could do to keep silent.

“What business is it of yours whether I wear spectacles or not? What have you to do with me in any possible way, I should like to know?” were the words she would have given worlds to utter in the excess of her annoyance at this new _contretemps_, heightened by her disgust of herself for the blushes which still remained in angry glow upon her cheeks.

Not the least discomposed of the trio was poor Solomon. In his doggy way he had meant to act the friendly part of reintroducing to each other the two who had seemed not uncongenial companions the day before, and now, though no words had passed the lips of either his dearly beloved master or the new and charming friend who had made him so comfortable in the train, he was conscious that something was amiss—very much amiss, indeed. He stood there glancing from one to the other almost, as Philippa afterwards thought to herself, as if there had been tears in his eyes, so profound was his look of distress and mortification. She was on the point of stooping to restore his spirits by a little caress—she could not resist wishing to do so—when with a sudden gruff “Come along, Solomon,” the young man turned on his heel, slightly raising his cap as he did so, and strode off in another direction.

“I must go, I’m very sorry, but I _must_ go! I don’t know what’s making him so cross this morning!” said Solomon’s wistful gaze, as obediently, but most dejectedly, he trotted away—even his tail a different member of society from what it had been a few moments previously.

“Horrid, detestable man,” thought Philippa to herself, feeling more than half inclined to cry, partly from anger, partly from anxiety, a good deal from pity for Solomon.

She replaced the unlucky spectacles and soberly made her way back to the house, her little fit of elation completely over, feeling, indeed, as if all the mischievous imps in creation had conspired to thwart and embarrass her. To her relief, the being late for breakfast was not added to her other misfortunes, for by the big stable-clock, which she glanced at as she hurried in, she saw that it still wanted ten minutes to the hour, and when the bell rang she was ready to leave her room and come down-stairs in orthodox propriety.

Mrs Shepton welcomed her with a kindly “Good-morning,” placing her as near herself as was compatible with the etiquette of precedence so vigorously exacted in such formal society.

The meal passed in silence, for this was one of the rules at Wyverston Manor—talking only being allowed at certain repasts. And here it may be as well to say that the girl’s experiences of the manners and customs of the servants’-hall fell short of what her imagination had pictured. Thanks to Mrs Shepton’s good management, the household was really to a great extent a model one, and so far at least as the upper servants were concerned, Philippa came across nothing of a coarse or jarring nature. The extreme reserve of her own manner she did not attempt to relax, for she thought she saw that the housekeeper approved of it, though she endeavoured to temper it by gentleness and courtesy on all occasions.

“Do tell me,” she said, to Mrs Shepton, a day or two after her arrival, “do you like the way I behave? I was never in the same position before—among a number of others, you know, in a large house like this. There is no need for me to get intimate with any one, is there? Being here only for such a short time; and yet I would not like to seem to hold myself aloof in any stiff and unusual way.”

Mrs Shepton’s own voice had a trifle of stiffness in it as she replied:

“You have no need, my dear, to be either familiar or stand-off; our upper servants are all of a superior class, and, indeed, the younger ones too are most respectably connected.”

Philippa in an instant saw her mistake.

“Oh, pray,” she said, eagerly, “pray don’t think I was hinting at anything of that kind. I mean,”—and she could not help reddening as she spoke—“any sort of ‘giving myself airs’ as it is called. I really want your advice and opinion as to my behaviour.”

The housekeeper softened in a moment.

“Any one could see,” she said, “that you have been brought up in a superior way. It is not giving yourself airs to be what you have naturally come to be, and no one of this house will like you the less for the advantages it’s plain you’ve had—” She hesitated and stopped. The good woman was as little of a gossip as it was possible for one in her position to be, but she had begun to look for some kind of confidence on the young girl’s part, some allusion to her home and childhood, to her parents and bringing up, in return for what she herself had already related to “Phillis Ray” of her own past history. For something about Philippa had almost at once appealed to her sympathy, and this want of response was just a trifle disappointing. Mrs Shepton glanced at her again. Philippa’s eyes were cast down; indeed, the spectacles at all times made it rather difficult to judge of their expression. More than once the housekeeper had been on the point of begging her to lay them aside for a little, that she might see “how she looked without them.” Just now, however, it was impossible not to notice by her whole attitude and bearing that she was somewhat anxious and depressed, and the elder woman’s kind heart was touched; there might be reasons why the girl _could_ not tell her more.

“I think, perhaps,” she went on after the little pause of half expectation, “as you wish me to speak frankly, that you might join rather more in the conversation—at supper especially. There’s that maid of Mrs Worthing’s—I don’t know her well, she’s never been here before—has not looked at you very pleasantly sometimes, and it doesn’t do in this world to make enemies if you can help it.”

Philippa started slightly.

“Do you mean the one they call Miss Bailey?” she said. “I really have scarcely noticed her. I—”

“That’s just it,” interrupted Mrs Shepton; “not being noticed offends some people more than anything you could say to them.”

Philippa looked grave.

“Thank you for warning me,” she said. “I will try to be more am—more friendly to Miss Bailey in future.”

But unfortunately the mischief was already done.

“Mrs Shepton,” Philippa began again, after a moment’s pause, lifting her head impulsively, “Mrs Shepton, I know what you are thinking—that I might tell you more about myself, and I cannot tell you how much I wish I could. But there are reasons which make it quite impossible—I can tell you one of them—it would displease my—Mrs Marmaduke, exceedingly, if I explained to you how I came to enter her service.”

“Say no more, my dear,” interposed the housekeeper, cordially. “Saying what you have shows your confidence in me, and that is enough. I have seen too much of life, and in my position one comes across stranger stories than you would believe, not to know that the most candid and straightforward people are sometimes forced, by no fault of their own, into positions where they can’t be outspoken.”

“Yes,” said Philippa, feeling rather guilty, though to the housekeeper her tone only sounded sad, “yes; that must be the case sometimes. I—honestly, I may say for myself that I am naturally _very_ frank. I would give anything at the present moment, dear Mrs Shepton, to tell you all about myself and my friends.” She raised her charming eyes to the kind woman’s face—charming they were, and not only so in respect of their undeniable beauty, but also, and in perhaps still greater measure, from their candid and true expression. And in spite of the intervening spectacles, Mrs Shepton read them aright.

“I will not distrust her in any way,” she thought, “whether I ever come to understand her or not.—There is just one thing I should like to say,” she began again, after a little pause, “something I should like you to promise me—if you are in any trouble or difficulty while you are here, something, perhaps, that you would not like to worry your lady about, don’t be afraid of telling me. I will give you the best advice I can.”

“Thank you,” said Philippa, heartily. “I will certainly promise you what you so kindly ask, and I suppose it is possible, with my being so inexperienced, that I might make mistakes. But you don’t think, I hope,” she continued, with a touch of anxiety, “that Mrs Worthing’s maid has taken a dislike to me? I should not like to get anybody’s ill-will.”

That she had some reason for fear was evident, and it added to the housekeeper’s sympathy for her, little as she could understand it.

Her reply was not altogether reassuring; she was too honest to make it so.

”‘Ill-will’ is a strong word,” she said, “but I can’t say that I think Miss Bailey likes you; that was why I gave you the little warning about seeming so stand-off,” “I will be very careful,” said Philippa.

And as the days went on, Miss Raynsworth felt more and more glad to have had this conversation with the housekeeper, for, as she realised increasingly the complications to which by her rash action she was exposing herself and her sister, she grew conscious of many little awkwardnesses which she had never thought of or in the least foreseen, and which might have aroused the suspicion of a commoner-minded woman than the good old housekeeper. Among these was the fact of her apparently receiving no letters, the importance of which she perhaps exaggerated, from Bailey’s drawing attention to it once or twice when the servants’-hall correspondence was distributed at table. In reality the letters she had received, under cover to Evelyn, had enormously added to her anxiety and caused her the greatest distress—distress which was all the more hard to bear as she had to endure it alone, for her parents charged her on no account to upset Evelyn, under the circumstances of her present surroundings especially, by telling her of their very grave displeasure.

“I cannot conceive,” wrote her mother, “how you ventured to do such a thing, so utterly to set at nought all your father and I _could_ not but feel at a daughter of ours placing herself in such a position. Your father was on the point at first of setting off, at all costs, to bring you back again, and it was only with the greatest difficulty that I persuaded him to give up doing so, by reminding him on whom the ‘costs’ in this case would fall—I mean poor Evelyn and her husband. Such an _esclandre_ would certainly have been utterly fatal to the Headforts thinking well of Duke’s wife or her family. We are very annoyed with Evelyn herself, too, for not _insisting_ on your returning the moment she found you were in the train, and to prevent her doing so you must have made an unjustifiable use of your greater strength of character and determination to carry out your own way. I shall say as little as possible to your sister till you are both home again. I am counting every day—indeed every hour, till this visit is over, and I only pray that no terribly disastrous consequences may follow on what you have done.”

It _was_ hard to bear, feeling conscious, as she did, that at least three-fourths of her motives had been purely unselfish, and only now did Philippa allow to herself that a certain love of adventure—a touch of the reckless impulsiveness and defiance of conventionality which Maida Lermont, though vaguely, had been conscious of in her young cousin—only now did it dawn upon the girl that these less worthy incentives had gone far to make up the remaining balance.

“I have never meant to be wild or headstrong,” she said to herself. “I have always thought I was almost too practical and unimpulsive. I planned all this so carefully and even cautiously. I never dreamt of papa and mamma taking it up so severely; I don’t think they ever have been really angry with me before in my life. And after all,” with a touch of half-humorous defiance, as she dashed away the tears which she dared not indulge in, for fear of her sister’s discovering them, “after all, I do _not_ know what Evelyn would have done without me. I am perfectly certain she would not have got on so well; most assuredly she would not have _looked_ as she has done!”

For Philippa’s rule over her sister had been a very stringent one. Mrs Marmaduke Headfort was not allowed to overtire herself by walking too far or driving too long, by sitting up too late, or spasmodically getting up too early, all of which vagaries she was addicted to when her own mistress. Her tonic was never forgotten, nor her stated hours of resting curtailed. In consequence of all these precautions, Evelyn looked and felt wonderfully invigorated. The credit of this was attributed by her well-pleased hosts, and in part by herself, to the bracing air of Wyverston, and Philippa was too unselfish and generous to feel annoyed at this, though she secretly hugged herself with satisfaction as to what she knew had been her own share in this good state of things.

“I don’t think mamma _can_ be so vexed with me when I tell her about it,” she thought. “She does know that Evelyn is not fit to take care of herself.”

There was really, for the moment, no crumpled rose-leaf in young Mrs Headfort’s path. To her facile nature, in spite of her capacity for “fussing,” it came easy to accept things as she found them. Long before the first week was at an end she had got used to the anomalous position in which her sister, and, to a certain extent through her sister, she herself were placed. Beyond this, she even allowed herself the gratification of claiming Philippa’s admiration for her strong-minded behaviour.

“I really think I have managed beautifully,” she said. “I have not worried about you at all, Phil, and I have determined not to be homesick for Bonny and Vanda, though,” with a sudden realisation of what she owed to her sister, “I’m quite sure my good spirits are principally owing to your being here.”

And Philippa felt rewarded.

By this time Miss Raynsworth had begun to breathe more freely. No further _contretemps_ had as yet occurred. She had been most careful to keep out of the way of the guests in the house, more especially the two Greshams, for, after hearing from Evelyn of her conversation on the night of her arrival with the elder of the cousins, she could no longer deceive herself as to his identity with the handsome, silent man whose personality had somehow impressed her at Dorriford, and she was even more afraid of coming across _him_ than of again meeting Solomon’s master.

To poor Solomon himself she had more than once been obliged to be positively cruel, for whenever she caught sight of his tan-coloured person she was seized with terror lest her other travelling companion should be near at hand. In those days it is to be feared that the dachshund’s belief in the stability of woman’s friendship received some severe shocks. One afternoon in particular he happened to run against Miss Raynsworth in one of the back passages not far from Mrs Shepton’s room, and the girl, thinking herself for once safe from dangerous observation, stooped down and patted him affectionately. No sooner had she done so than she bitterly regretted it, for coming towards her, but a few paces off, she descried his master’s familiar figure. The dog by this time was in a state of frantic delight; at all costs she must get rid of him.

“Down, down,” she said, in a cruelly repressive tone, which poor Solomon would have understood even without the stern “Come here, sir,” from Michael Gresham which followed; and as she hurried along the passage she could not resist glancing back over her shoulder in pity for her four-footed admirer. Mr Gresham was not to be seen—what had become of him?—but Solomon was sitting on the mat outside the housekeeper’s room, looking profoundly miserable and feeling doubly deserted—by his master as well as by his friend. For Michael had shut the door in the dog’s face.

“Poor old boy,” thought Philippa. “I wonder why he has settled himself there.”

For she knew that Mrs Shepton was not specially addicted to dogs. She liked them, she said, in “their proper place;” in other words, when they were entirely out of her sight and with no opportunity of jumping on sofas, eating rugs, or going to sleep on her best eiderdown quilts.

Chapter Ten. “Merle-in-the-Wold.”

Miss Raynsworth would have been considerably surprised had she known the reason of Solomon’s encampment in his present quarters.

“I have left my dog outside,” his master was at that moment saying to the housekeeper, “so I hope you’ll be pleased with me, ‘Mrs Shepton, ma’am!’” using the rather absurd title which had clung to his old friend since the days when she had been his nurse.

Mrs Shepton smiled indulgently. “Now, Master Michael, what would any one think to hear you still speaking to me like that?” she said, forgetting that her own way of addressing the young man was now equally inappropriate, “and I don’t like you to think that I would be unkind to a poor dumb creature, especially one you are fond of. Dogs are all very well in their proper place! But when it comes to finding one in a young gentleman’s bed with its head on the pillow and the clothes tucked under its chin, as I have seen you have Toby many and many a time in the old days at Allerton—well, no, I can’t say but what that was going too far.”

Michael Gresham laughed.

“I remember,” he said, “especially once when Bernie and I stole one of old Aunt Serena’s caps—a nightcap I suppose it must have been—and tied it neatly on to Toby’s head with the frills sticking out beautifully all round.”

“I don’t remember Master _Bernard_ ever doing anything of the kind,” said Mrs Shepton, with a marked accent on the name. “If there was ever any mischief afoot, it wasn’t often it had to be laid at _his_ door.”

“Not _often_, perhaps,” said Michael, “though I wouldn’t say never. If there was a scrape to be got into, it was, I allow, pretty sure to be I who found myself in it. But we stuck to each other very faithfully in those days. Poor old Bernie!” and he gave a little sigh. “After all, it isn’t his fault if all the plums have fallen to his share, and I’m sure I don’t grudge them to him, though I would not object to a few for myself sometimes.”

A shade of distress crossed Mrs Shepton’s face.

“They will come, my dear,” she said, affectionately patting the young man’s hand. “Never fear; they will come, all in good time, and none the less sweet that you have had to wait for them, and work for them too.”

“Oh, bless you, don’t think I mind the working,” he said, lightly. “Life would be unbearable without it. Don’t think I was grumbling, Mrs Shepton, ma’am, but,” and he rose to his feet, as an unmistakable sound of scratching and whining on the other side of the door made itself heard, “some one _is_ grumbling, and that’s Solomon. May I let him in?”

“Of course, dearie; I’ll let him in myself. No,” as the young man was moving towards the door, “let me do it; I should like him to see I was friendly.”

In another moment Solomon was inside, pawing and jumping on the housekeeper, who did her best to hide any sign of apprehension for her black silk skirt. “You see he is fond of me,” she said, with a touch of rather tremulous triumph in her tone.

“Moderately so,” Mr Gresham replied, eyeing the pair with considerable amusement, “but not as fond of you as he is of a young person who travelled down in our carriage the other day—third class—I always come third, you know. By-the-by, I wanted to ask you about her. She is Mrs Marmaduke Headfort’s maid, I believe.” Mrs Shepton looked considerably surprised.

“Yes, sir?” she said, interrogatively.

“Now, don’t be stupid,” said Michael, with some irritation. “You know very well I’m not likely to begin gossiping! But there is something unusual about this girl, and I cannot help feeling sorry for her. I had meant to speak of her to you before. What do you think of her?”

The housekeeper’s brow had cleared, but now a look of perplexity came over her face.

“To tell you the truth, Master Michael, I really don’t know,” she said. “I wouldn’t say as much to any one but yourself, and I would not for worlds betray her confidence—”

“Has she given you her confidence, then?” interrupted the young man.

“She has and she hasn’t! She has allowed that there is something about her present position that she cannot explain, and as far as things here go she has put herself in my hands, saying how inexperienced she is, and begging me to advise her if I see it necessary. But beyond that, I know no more than you do. Perhaps,”—with a touch of curiosity—“not as much, if you entered into conversation with her on the journey?” Michael laughed slightly.

“Oh, dear, no,” he said, “she would have snubbed me at once if I had said anything but the merest commonplace—and even that was only brought about by Solomon’s making such friends with her, which threw her a little off her dignity once or twice. She is a _lady_, nurse, I am perfectly certain of it, and that is why I am so sorry for her. The impression she made upon me,” he continued, slowly, “was that she is acting a part.” Mrs Shepton looked rather startled.

“I don’t like you to say that, Master Michael,” she replied, quickly. “I have felt from the first that I could trust her—and now that I know her better, and she has, as it were, thrown herself upon me, I couldn’t bear to go back from doing so.”

“You misunderstand me,” said Mr Gresham, with some annoyance. “Do you suppose I think she’s a burglar in disguise? People are forced into seeming what they are not sometimes, by no fault of their own.” Almost her own words to Philippa! The housekeeper in her turn hastened to exonerate herself.

“I took up your words wrongly,” she said. “I think I feel just as you do, Master Michael, about the poor girl. I am doing all I can to be a friend to her.”

“I’m very glad of that,” said Michael, heartily. “That was just what I had in my mind—to ask you to be good to her.”

He spoke with his usual perfect simplicity, and as his old friend glanced at him she said to herself: “Just the same kind heart as always! Well, if others don’t, there’s one that does you justice, and that’s your old nurse, my dear.”

Aloud she said nothing in reply to his last words, and Michael, too, sat silent. He was stroking Solomon’s soft back half absently, and pondering something in his mind, which the sight of his dachshund had recalled to his memory. Should he, or should he not say anything to Mrs Shepton of the curiously similar way in which both mistress and maid had alluded to a former “Solomon of their own.”

“Have you seen anything of Mrs Marmaduke?” he said at last, tentatively.

“Miss Christine brought her in here for a few minutes yesterday,” answered Mrs Shepton. “Of course I had seen her before, several times, but not to speak to. She is a sweet-looking young lady, very, and so devoted to her little children. I am very pleased, indeed, that the family seems to be taking to her so much; Miss Headfort has quite cheered up over it.”

The tone of her words decided Michael to say no more. He could scarcely have related the little incident without a suggestion of something not altogether to the young wife’s advantage, though in what way he himself would have been utterly at a loss to define. And the faintest suggestion of such a kind would have been most unfair to young Mrs Headfort, for if her maid had a secret—a secret of which she herself even was cognisant, it would be most unjustifiable to lay to the young lady’s account any supposition of underhand dealing or subterfuge.

“I think she is—Mrs Marmaduke, I mean—a nice little woman, and certainly very pretty. I should not say she was particularly clever, but I daresay that doesn’t matter much in a woman if her looks are all right,” he said, with a slight superciliousness not lost on his hearer.

“Now, Master Michael, I am not going to have you beginning in that way,” she said, remonstratingly. “If a young lady is pretty, that’s no reason why she shouldn’t have other gifts as well. You would not like me to say Mr Gresham had nothing but his good looks?”

Again there was just a shade of bitterness in the young man’s voice as he replied:

“Nobody could say such a thing of Bernard. He has got—well, what is there he hasn’t got?”

Michael’s old nurse seemed rather nonplussed.

“It was a stupid remark of mine, Master Michael,” she answered. “And I daresay it will make it no better if I say that whatever Mr Bernard has, and is, there are some ways in which I could never feel that he comes up to you.”

“Mrs Shepton, ma’am, you’re a silly old woman. I must be going. If I stay much longer you will be persuading me that my features are the most regular you have ever seen.”

“Nay, nay, my dear. I know what I mean, though I can’t put it in words. ‘All is not gold that glitters,’” she added, sententiously.

The proverb seemed scarcely relevant, but Michael understood the feeling that suggested the quotation, and there was affection as well as amusement in the smile with which he looked back at his old friend, as, followed by Solomon, he left the room.

The elder Mr Gresham had that day been the subject of discussion in another quarter as well. He had been almost from the first very gracious to Evelyn, and this naturally pleased her the more as she gradually came to see that Mr Gresham did not always give himself much trouble about those with whom he might be thrown in contact. The attractiveness of his appearance and the invariable gentleness of his manner had in themselves an undoubted charm, which often made his coldness and indifference the more irritating to those who could not flatter themselves that they had aroused in him the slightest interest in their persons or their conversation.

“I do wish you could see him, Phil,” Evelyn was saying to her sister at the very time that Mr Michael Gresham was paying his visit to Mrs Shepton. “He is really so charming. Felicia and Christine tell me they have never seen him make friends so quickly, and I think they are very pleased at it. Every one thinks so much of his opinion.”

“Then it is no wonder if he is a little spoilt,” said Philippa.

“But I don’t think he _is_ spoilt,” returned Evelyn, eagerly. “He is so gentle and considerate, such a contrast to his cousin—I never saw such a ‘brusque’ man as _he_ is; and if it is affectation, he has no right to be affected! He is so ugly, and of course his position is different in every way.”

“Then it is no wonder if he is a little spoilt,” said Philippa.

“But I don’t think he _is_ spoilt,” returned Evelyn, eagerly. “He is so gentle and considerate, such a contrast to his cousin—I never saw such a ‘brusque’ man as _he_ is; and if it is affectation, he has no right to be affected! He is so ugly, and of course his position is different in every way.”

“I should scarcely think he was really affected,” said Philippa; “he is just rather rough. But certainly,” she went on, “the elder cousin is quite unusually good-looking.”

Evelyn gave a little laugh.

“What is amusing you?” said Philippa, rather sharply.

“Oh, nothing,” said Evelyn.

“When people answer ‘nothing’ in that way, it always means something,” said Philippa, sententiously. “You laughed at what I said, and I want to know why?”

“I didn’t—at least, not exactly. I was only thinking—now don’t be cross—how absurd it is! You admiring Mr Gresham, allowing, at any rate, that he made some impression upon you—for you are very critical, you know, Philippa—and he on his side entertaining me, whenever he can get round to the subject with his appreciation of your beauty and charms.”

Philippa reddened, and not altogether with gratification.

“That sort of thing is very common, Evelyn; I don’t like it. Besides which, it is incredible that the man should remember me so distinctly. We only met for one afternoon, and what chiefly impressed me about him was his unusual dearth of conversation. It forced me to talk, I remember—you know the hateful feeling of being _tête-à-tête_ with any one, and we were _tête-à-tête_ for some little time, in dead silence. No, Evelyn, he has found out one of your weak points, you unsuspicious little goose, not your _weakest_, but he couldn’t praise up Bonny and Vanda, as he has never seen them. You shouldn’t be so open to flattery.”

“But, indeed, it isn’t flattery,” said Evelyn; “he would be incapable of anything so coarse, and you should have a higher opinion of _my_ taste and perception too. All he says is in the very nicest way, really showing that he saw you to be—well, something out of the common, which you certainly are.”

“All the same,” said Philippa, “I wish you would leave off talking about me while you are here, at all. It is very unwise.”

“I don’t think so,” said Evelyn. “When I’m talking about you to Mr Gresham, I feel quite comfortable! I quite forget about you being here, and think of you as if you were at home. Of course,” looking a little ashamed of herself, “I have said once or twice: ‘How I do wish she were here!’ thinking of you as your proper self, you know.”

Philippa looked very grave. She did not like the idea of any such prevarication on her sister’s part, and was on the point of saying so, till a moment’s reflection reminded her that she had scarcely a right to do so. So she contented herself with remarking quietly that in future she begged her sister to avoid all mention of her name.

“I cannot promise anything of the kind,” said Evelyn. “Mr Gresham has got interested in you now, and I am—” She stopped short.

“Well, what?” asked Philippa.

Evelyn blushed a little.

“Interested in his interest, I suppose,” she admitted, with a little laugh. “I cannot help wondering,” she went on, “when or where, or how, you and he may meet again. I am sure you would have so much in common,” and it did not require much flight of imagination on the younger sister’s part to see whither Evelyn’s thoughts were tending.

She was both touched and annoyed, the practical effect of this conversation being to make her wish more devoutly than ever that their time at Wyverston were over. Other feelings were strongly influencing her in this wish. For utterly unreasonable as she knew it to be, she was conscious of a curious resentment against Michael Gresham, whom she had not been able to avoid meeting—thanks generally to Solomon now and then, either on the moor or nearer home, for tacitly accepting her present personality, even while in a sense grateful to him for doing so. For that he had guessed some part of her secret, guessed, at least, that she _had_ a secret, she felt perfectly sure, and the consciousness of this irritated her and reacted in curiously contradictory and capricious ways.

Fortunately, as she told herself, though here, too, her inconsistency came in, she had never come across the elder of the two cousins. Evelyn’s dissertations made her doubly careful as regarded him, yet she had a worrying curiosity to see him again, if only she could do so, herself unseen. And but for an additional reason for precaution which reached her a day or two later through her sister, she might have been tempted to some more or less reckless step for the gratification of this same curiosity, absurd and contemptible though she called it to herself.

This new danger lay in the discovery of the fact that should fate lead to the two Greshams laying their heads together about “Miss Raynsworth,” her identity with Michael’s fellow-traveller would be by no means unlikely to suggest itself.

Evelyn was full of her last piece of interesting information concerning Mr Bernard Gresham when she came up to bed a night or two after the conversation already recorded.

“Philippa,” she exclaimed, as soon as they were safely shut in for the night, “I have found out ever so much more about my charming Mr Gresham. His home is in Nethershire—a place called Merle-in-the-Wold—isn’t that a fascinating name? I am sure I have heard of it before. Didn’t _you_ speak of it, by-the-by? I said to him I was sure I had heard it mentioned quite lately, as such a lovely part of the country.”

“Oh, Evelyn,” said Philippa, aghast, “do be careful. Yes, no doubt I spoke of it. I passed that way on my return from Dorriford. But what might not come of it, if you had mentioned me in connection with it?” “Nothing,” says Evelyn, sensibly enough. “He knows my sister was at Dorriford, there is no secret about _that_, and he probably knows that you would pass Merle-in-the-Wold on your way to Marlby. You are getting morbid and stupid, Phil, about being found out. And no one heard what we were talking about, except—oh, Mr Gresham has all but asked us to pay him a visit, I, of course, as your chaperon, though he would have a married sister and her husband there, too. Phil,” clasping her hands, “we _must_ go. It would be too lovely—we two together.”

“And what about a maid?” said Philippa, grimly.

“Oh, I don’t exactly know; I must plan something when we go home. I am sure I could think of some arrangement if I had a little time. I almost think I will send away the under-nurse—she is a stupid little thing, and though her wages are small, Dorcas says her appetite is enormous. I could get a nice _young_ maid, who would not object to help a little with the children, for a few pounds a year more. I am sure Duke would not mind, and very likely her eating less would make up the difference. You see, I shall have to be planning all about a house in a very few months now, Phil. And if the old people here really take us up, Duke will be so delighted that he will agree to anything.”

She was chattering on, when a word in her former speech recurred to Philippa.

“Wait a moment, Evey,” she said. “You did not finish what you were saying before. You said no one heard what you and Mr Gresham were talking about, ‘except?’ Except whom—one of the Headforts?”

“No—what does it matter? I was only going to say except that stupid Michael Gresham—he was staring at a book, as far as I remember. I don’t suppose he did hear what we were saying. And, do listen, Phil—don’t you see, as I was saying, once Duke has the position—almost, one may say, the _recognised_ position of heir, there will be things that we _must_ do, out of respect for the family even, like my having a—”

But the latter part of Evelyn’s speech had conveyed little meaning to her sister’s brain, so startled was she by the careless announcement that if any one had overheard what Evelyn and Mr Gresham had been talking about, it had been his cousin.

Had he done so, or had he not? Who could say? And what possibility was there of discovering the facts of the case?

Philippa trembled as she realised the consequences of Michael Gresham’s having taken in the whole bearings of her sister’s chatter. No special power of discernment would be required, nothing but the simplest, most everyday faculty on his part of putting two and two together, to satisfy him as to the identity of Mrs Marmaduke Headfort’s sister and the girl he had travelled with. And her trepidation was by no means selfish; she forgot about the disagreeables which would certainly ensue to herself if the strange little plot were to be disclosed, in realising the injurious effect it would certainly have upon Evelyn and her belongings.

“Oh, Evey!” she began, impulsively, but checked herself before saying more. What right had she to blame Evelyn, whose words would have been perfectly harmless but for her own unnecessary communication to Michael Gresham in the train? Still more, what could be less expedient than now, when the mischief was done, to startle and alarm her sister, and effectually destroy her ease and unconstraint during the few days they must still pass at Wyverston?

“No,” she decided in her own mind. “I must think it over by myself, and I must face it by myself. I have got Evelyn into the danger, and I must get her out of it at all costs. No one must ever be able to blame _her_ in the least.”

But, oh! if she could but think that Michael had not caught the sense of Evelyn’s words—Evelyn called him “stupid;” but that he certainly could not be in the real sense of the word, for she had heard, even in the servants’-hall, allusions to the position he had gained for himself in his profession, but “unobservant?” Could she hope that his perceptions were not very keen? Many clever men were dull and slow in ordinary life, and by all accounts he did not shine in society. But even this flattering unction failed her as she recalled the keen, “interested” expression of his somewhat deep-set eyes, and the half-sarcastic, half-humorous lines of the whole physiognomy that first morning of meeting him in the wood—the unlucky morning when she had forgotten her spectacles, and in the exhilaration of the fresh air and novel surroundings had been far less on her guard than she now was.

All this train of thought passed through her mind far more rapidly than it takes to describe the process, so rapidly that she had made up her mind to silence as regarded Evelyn, before her sister had fully taken in the scant attention which Philippa was bestowing on her words.

“Philippa,” she exclaimed, at last catching sight of the girl’s grave face, “what are you thinking about? You are always very good at cheering me up when I am in low spirits, but I must say that when I am feeling bright and hopeful, and with good reason, you are _not_ very sympathising. Don’t you care to hear about my plans?”

“Of course I do,” said Philippa, compelling herself to speak lightly, “but we have oceans of time before us to talk over everything in, and you have _not_ too much time for a good night; it is getting very late, and if we go on talking you will never get to sleep.”

Evelyn was well-trained by this time; she made but faint resistance to her sister’s ultimatum.

Of the two it was certainly Philippa who found the greater difficulty in getting to sleep that night, and long before the dawn broke, she was wide awake again, revolving in her own mind the whole tormenting question of what to do, and how to do it.

“Or, after all,” said she to herself, “might it not be safer to leave things alone, and do nothing?”

Chapter Eleven. A Cold Nose.

Things if left alone often do shape themselves.

Philippa had come to no decision as to the best course to pursue, when further revelations from Evelyn intensified her alarm.

“Philippa,” she began, the very next afternoon. “I don’t understand that Michael Gresham, and I almost think I dislike him as much as I like his cousin. Of course I have always thought him rough and abrupt, but that he is to every one, more or less. But now there is something in his manner to me almost indescribable—well, not exactly offensive, that is too strong a word, but approaching it—a sort of tacit disapproval, that I really cannot stand from a young man like that, who has nothing whatever to do with me. I would not stand it if he were my brother; I feel as if I should have an open quarrel with him before long if it goes on!”

Philippa felt cold with apprehension.

“Don’t talk of such a thing, _Evey_,” she said; “your first visit here, and the Greshams such old friends of these people! Nothing could be more disagreeable. You don’t mean to say that he has ever been actually rude to you?”

“No, nothing actually tangible. But he looks at me, especially when I am talking to his cousin, in a sort of hard, questioning way, as if he would like to pull me up for everything I was saying. At luncheon to-day Mr Gresham alluded again to the visit we are to pay him. He was asking about when I expect Duke back, and he turned to Michael with some remark about the shooting—I forget what, exactly—in connection with our going there, and the horrid young man scarcely answered. He was as gruff as anything.”

“But that was more rude to his cousin than to you,” said Philippa.

Evelyn shook her head.

“No, it had to do with me. I think Mr Gresham noticed it, in fact I am sure he did, for afterwards I saw them together as I was crossing the hall, and I think I heard Mr Gresham calling him a bear, or a boor, I’m not sure which.”

There was no time for more just then, as Evelyn was going out for a drive with Mrs Headfort, and the summons came, before her sister had time to do more than repeat one little word of warning, as Mrs Marmaduke flew off. But once she found herself alone, while mechanically occupying herself in arranging Evelyn’s things with her usual deft carefulness, the poor girl’s thoughts were by no means to be envied. Things _were_ coming to a crisis, thanks to her sister’s innocent indiscretion and that—yes, she could join with Evelyn in calling him “that horrid young man”—that horrid young man’s impertinent interference; for that he was about to interfere she felt convinced, though as yet he could scarcely be said to have done so.

“And if,” thought Philippa, “he thinks it his duty—officious people always think things their duty—to warn his cousins that we are acting a part and deceiving others, who knows what may come of it? Poor Evey will in one sense suffer more than I, and it will be _all_ my doing! I may have ruined everything for them by my recklessness and self-will.”

She sat down beside the window in a state very nearly bordering on despair. She dared not let herself cry, though to one of her temperament the very rarity of her tears made them the greater relief.

“What can I do?” she repeated, and wild ideas chased each other through her brain as to the possibility of telegraphing to her mother to summon them home at once, or of an appeal, however repugnant to every feeling, to Michael Gresham to—nay, what could she say to him, without giving him her full confidence? and that, she scarcely felt that it would be possible to do. Of all men she had ever met, as far as she could judge, he seemed the last in any way likely to understand or to sympathise with the motives which had led her to act as she had done. Indeed, no _man_, she said to herself, could enter into all the feelings, some of them so apparently trivial and frivolous, which had actuated her.

“And a man like him least of all,” she thought. “One can see that he prides himself on excessive honesty and straightforwardness. No doubt he could be very good at saying disagreeable things from the best of motives, and he could be quite incapable of entering into shades of feeling, he is so rough. Now if it had been his cousin who was in question—oh, it would have been quite different! He must be so refined and delicate in perception.”

She gave a deep sigh. Her eyes turned mechanically to the window, and she gazed out half vacantly. The afternoon was very still, and the grey sky in any other part of the world would almost certainly have prognosticated rain. But Philippa was learning her bearings better by now in this northern country, where the greyness often meant nothing special as regarded the weather.

The wind had been high the night before, and the trees almost looked as if winter had already come, the paths being thickly strewn with their discarded vesture.

A little shiver passed through the girl.

“It does look dreary,” she thought, for her window overlooked some of the back premises, where no gardener’s broom had as yet tidied up the traces of the wind’s undoing. One corner of the great stable-yard was visible, and as Philippa still looked out, the silence was broken by a sound she loved to hear, the eager barking of a huge watch-dog, whom she had already made friends with in her rambles about the place.

“I hope they are going to loose him,” she thought, with interest, craning her neck to see what was happening.

Just at that moment she caught sight of Mrs Shepton’s slight and still erect figure, as she made her way back to the house, and a sudden suggestion flashed into the girl’s mind.

“I believe it is the only thing to do,” she said to herself. “She may be able to ask him what I cannot and will not ask for myself,” for by this time Philippa had learnt something of the relations existing between Michael Gresham and the housekeeper, though the latter had been scrupulously careful to avoid anything approaching to gossip about the young man whom she was still so devoted to.

Without giving herself time to reconsider what she was about to do, Philippa, pale with suppressed nervousness, hurried down-stairs in hopes of catching Mrs Shepton on her entrance to the house. In this she succeeded, for in answer to her tap at the door of the housekeeper’s room, its owner’s voice replied, “Come in.”

“Are you alone?” said Philippa, glancing round, “and can you spare me a few minutes? Mrs Shepton, I am in such trouble, and I promised you to ask your advice, if need arose.”

The housekeeper glanced at her anxiously. The girl had been greatly in her thoughts the last few days, though she had not seen much of her, for it had seemed to her that she was looking ill and careworn, unless, indeed, her own eyes had been sharpened by the younger Mr Gresham’s communications.

“Sit down, my dear,” she said, kindly.

Philippa obeyed her at once. Indeed, now that she was within the shelter of the kind woman’s own little sanctum, and felt the protection of her motherly tone and words, a reaction, not unnaturally, from the constraint she had been putting upon herself, set in. She trembled so that she could scarcely have stood a moment longer, and when she began to speak, her voice entirely failed her and she burst into tears.

Mrs Shepton felt positively alarmed, but she spoke calmly.

“Try to be composed, my dear,” she said, still more kindly than before, “otherwise you will not be able to tell me what is wrong. Will you have a glass of water? I have some here which is as cold as ice.”

The girl made a little sign in the affirmative, and when she had drunk the water, she was able to some extent to check her sobs.

“Now tell me,” said Mrs Shepton, “tell me all about it. Have you had bad news? No, it can’t be that, for I have seen you twice since the letters came, and you did not seem upset. Is Mrs Marmaduke vexed with you for anything? You must not take it so to heart, if it is that; I am sure she is a kind—”

But before she got further in these suggestions of consolation, something in their nature suddenly struck her as strangely discrepant with the whole look and even attitude of the young girl before her. The disguising spectacles were discarded—the handkerchief with which Philippa was brushing away her tears was of the finest cambric, with a monogram beautifully worked in one corner—the whole pose of the figure, even in its abandonment of distress, was full of grace and refinement. It did not require Philippa’s shake of the head, accompanied involuntarily by a faint little smile, to bring home to the housekeeper that Michael Gresham had been right in the opinion he had expressed as to the social status of his fellow-traveller, and which, on first hearing it, had struck his old friend as scarcely warranted.

For Philippa was now completely herself, in the sense, that is to say, of having thrown off all attempt at appearing other than she really was, even while less self-controlled, more thoroughly unstrung than she had ever been before in her life.

Yet there was something almost queenly in her bearing, as at last, resolutely choking down the sobs which still would rise, she sat straight up in her chair and looked Mrs Shepton clearly in the face.

“I am going to tell you everything,” she began. “I know you will be kind, however startled and even shocked you may feel. Mrs Shepton, my real name is Philippa Raynsworth, I am Mrs Marmaduke Headfort’s sister.”

For a moment or two the housekeeper was too confused to take in distinctly the meaning of the words which reached her ears.

“Sister,” she repeated vaguely, while some romantic notion of “foster-sister,” “adopted sister,” or the like, floated through her brain. “You don’t mean really—”

“Yes, I do,” interrupted her visitor. “I am her actual, full sister. You know her name was Raynsworth before she married?”

Mrs Shepton nodded, waiting breathlessly for further revelations.