Chapter V: Part 5

“I will tell you how it all came about,” the girl went on, “But first of all you must promise me to believe that it was no one’s doing but my own. My father and mother are as vexed with me as they can possibly be, and Evelyn—it has been very trying for her,” she was going to have added, but the words remained unsaid, as with a faint smile of amusement, which even in the midst of her distress she could not altogether suppress, she recalled the comfortable philosophy with which, once she had accepted it as a _fait accompli_, her sister had resigned herself to her new lady’s-maid. “It has been,” she went on, “I see now, a great risk to run for Mrs Marmaduke; if Mrs Headfort and her daughters suspected that we have been deceiving them, I do not know what harm might come of it.”

She glanced up tentatively at Mrs Shepton, but there was nothing reassuring in the housekeeper’s grave face.

“I can’t say—” she began. “No, Miss—” and again she hesitated—“I can’t say how it might be. They are _very_ straightforward ladies—practical jokes, or wagers, or things of that sort that some people would think nothing of, they would judge very sharply.”

“But you misunderstand,” said Philippa, eagerly; “it is nothing of that sort at all. You will sympathise with my motives when you hear them, I know, however you may blame me for what I have done. Now, please, listen, and I will tell all exactly. To begin with, we are not at all rich, and lately, with my sister’s return home with the two children—all three far from strong—and other things, which will get easier before long, just lately we have had to be very careful and economical.”

Then with this preface she related to the housekeeper how the idea of accompanying her sister had first taken shape in her mind, and how one thing after another had combined to make it seem both desirable and feasible, with but infinitesimal risk of the secret ever being disclosed. And by the softening expression of the kind woman’s face, she saw that her sympathy was enlisted.

Then came the recital of the really extraordinary coincidences which had aroused her misgivings in the direction of the two Greshams, especially the younger.

“It is he I am so afraid of,” she said, in conclusion; “though he has never seen me before and could not identify me as his cousin could, I dread him far more. Hitherto, I have managed to keep out of Mr Bernard Gresham’s way, and we have only two or three days more here. But what I have just told you of this very morning, makes me almost certain that Mr Michael Gresham has guessed the whole, or very nearly the whole, and what is still worse, that in time we shall have a very severe judge—even now he may be speaking about it to his cousin or to the Headforts, probably thinking it his ‘duty’ to do so,” with a rather sarcastic emphasis on the word.

“Not to his cousin,” said Mrs Shepton. “I know enough to reassure you as to that. There is no great confidence between them.”

“They must be so very different,” said Philippa.

“_Very_ different indeed,” said the housekeeper. “Nor,” she went on after this little parenthesis, “do I think it likely that Mr Michael will have said anything to my ladies as yet. The first person,” with a touch of importance, “he would come to about it, would, I think, be myself.”

An expression of great relief overspread Philippa’s face.

“Do you really think so?” she said. “That would be the very best thing for me. You see, you could now tell him you know the whole—that I have confided it to you, but,” with a sudden change of tone, as another aspect of the affair struck her, “do you mean, Mrs Shepton, that he has already talked me over with you?” And as the housekeeper did not negative the inference to be drawn from her former words, the girl’s face grew scarlet. “What did he say or think?” she said. “It does seem so dreadfully lowering! As if I were a sort of adventuress! Was he afraid of my letting burglars into the house? I think he must be a most—officious young man!”

In her turn the housekeeper reddened a little, but she kept her self-control.

“My dear young lady,” she began, with a slight effort. “You must not think me officious for what I cannot help reminding you of—that all the disagreeables which you have to bear, or may have to bear as to this affair, are of your own causing, and,” with a very slight tremble in her voice, “even from what you know of me, I think you might trust me not to talk over any girl—whatever her position—in any way that could possibly be objected to—least of all with a young gentleman, even if he were the kindest and best in the world.”

“Which indeed,” she added to herself almost inaudibly, “Master Michael is.”

Her words brought to Philippa a quick rush of regret for her hasty words, as she recalled the affectionate relations which existed between her old friend and the younger Gresham.

“Please forgive me,” she said, penitently. “You have been very, very good to me, Mrs Shepton, and you are very good to me now, in listening and sympathising, instead of at once saying you must tell it all to Mrs Headfort, for fear of any possible blame to yourself hereafter, as many selfish people would have done. Please forgive me, and oh, do tell me what I had better do.”

She clasped her hands in entreaty, and the charm of her appeal went home to the housekeeper’s heart.

“My dear young lady,” she began again, then hesitated. “I do wish to advise you for the best, but it is very difficult. I have never heard of such a thing. I don’t think I have ever even read of anything like it in a story-book,” and for the first time the humorous side of the situation struck her. But the faint smile which this drew forth soon faded. “I wish I were quite sure of what is right to do. I cannot bear concealing anything that happens in this house from my masters, and yet—it is not as if your parents did not know of it, and _they_, as I understand, have thought it forced upon them to keep the secret.”

For, in spite of the deception Philippa had been practising, her innate truthfulness had impressed itself upon Mrs Shepton. Not for one moment did she doubt the absolute accuracy of every word in the girl’s narration. “I should like,” she continued, “as far as I may say so without presumption, to say just what your own mamma would say if she were here and knew what things have come to.”

His presence was first revealed to the weeping girl by the touch of a cold nose on her hand.

At the mention of her mother’s name, Philippa’s overstrung nerves gave way again completely. She buried her face in her hands and burst into fresh tears.

“Oh, Mrs Shepton,” she cried, “don’t speak of mamma; I can’t bear it. She has never, never before in all my life been really angry with me. I would do anything, humble myself in any way, rather than bring further trouble upon her and papa.”

But for the moment there came no reply from the housekeeper, who had started to her feet at the sound of a knock at the door, which in her agitation had not reached Philippa’s ears.

Nor had the intruder waited for the usual response, so confident was he of his welcome, and before Mrs Shepton could take any precaution on Miss Raynsworth’s account, Michael Gresham was in the room, staring with amazement at the scene before him—amazement increased by the sense of the last words she had uttered.

And not Michael alone—indeed _his_ presence was first revealed to the weeping girl by the touch of a cold nose on the hand still covering her face as she bent forward in her chair. For Solomon’s ready sympathy was not restrained by any fear of intrusion; something was the matter with a some one he was attached to, and he must at once see to it, and offer all the comfort in his power.

Chapter Twelve. An Appeal.

“Solomon!” exclaimed Philippa, looking up with a start, “how have you—” But the rest of the words died on her lips, for there before her stood Solomon’s master, his eyes fixed on her in astonishment, not unmingled with concern, which latter detail, however, at the moment escaped her notice.

Alarmed and indignant at what seemed to her an unjustifiable intrusion, Philippa sprang to her feet, making a futile effort to remove the traces of her tears. She was brushing past the young man with the one idea of escaping from the room, when the housekeeper, recovering from her own first start of annoyance, stopped her.

“My dear,” she began, “my dear young lady—as—as Mr Michael _is_ here, will you not wait a moment? Perhaps it may be the best opportunity of—”

“I don’t know what you mean, Mrs Shepton,” replied the girl, haughtily. “I would not have come to see you if I had thought any one else—”

“I beg your pardon,” exclaimed Michael, recollecting himself, as he realised that he was the culprit.—“I will come back again, nurse,” he added to his old friend.

But now it was on him that the housekeeper’s detaining hand was laid.

“Stay a moment, Master Michael,” she began; and acting on a sudden impulse, she again appealed to Philippa. “Will you give me leave,” she said, “to consult Mr Michael about—about this difficulty, as we have reason to think that he knows so much already? May it not be better to tell him all?”

Philippa turned upon her with flaming cheeks, too angry now to care whether the young man saw her tear-stained face and swollen eyes or not.

“Mrs Shepton,” she said, indignantly, “you leave me no choice. What you have said now is equivalent to telling everything! Say what you like, I don’t care, but I cannot stay to hear it. And remember if—if Mr Gresham agrees to what I know you mean to ask him, he will do so for your sake, not for mine.—_I_ make no appeal to you,” she ended, coldly, glancing at the young man, as she determinedly crossed the room and disappeared, closing the door behind her.

The two she had left looked at each other in consternation. Then Michael gave a short laugh.

“What a whirlwind of a girl!” he ejaculated. “What does it all mean, Mrs Shepton, ma’am? I suppose you must tell me now, and I suppose I’ve got to listen. But why is your young friend so furious with _me_—whatever have _I_ done?” and in his tone, beneath its lightness, Mrs Shepton perceived a considerable spice of indignation.

The housekeeper, though sharing his indignation, looked ready to cry.

“What have you done, sir?” she repeated. “Nothing, of course nothing, except that you have been very kind and considerate about a self-willed, headstrong young lady—for a young lady she is, as you suspected from the first. And never in all my life have I heard of such a wild scheme as she has planned and carried out. If she had fallen into some hands, a nice scandal there would have been! But yet,” she went on, her voice softening, “I am so sorry for her too, for her motives were good and most unselfish. And when she goes home, she will have to face her parents’ great displeasure.”

Michael Gresham raised his eyebrows.

“I am glad to hear that,” he said. “I was beginning to wonder what sort of people they could be to countenance such a proceeding, for this very moment I had come to tell you what I had grown sure of, that this most eccentric young lady’s-maid is no other than Mrs Marmaduke’s own sister—Miss Raynsworth.” And he hastily recapitulated the various twos and twos which had offered themselves to be made fours of, without any special efforts at detection or very great exercise of acuteness on his part.

Mrs Shepton looked considerably relieved, for the having acted on her impulse had already begun to frighten her a little.

“I shall be glad to tell Miss Raynsworth that you had found it all out,” she said, “when she has calmed down a little, and then she will not be vexed with me. She was sure you suspected something, and that was what brought it all out to-day. She is terribly frightened, and no wonder! And yet her pride makes her angry at the very idea of appealing to any one—to you, Mr Michael—to keep her secret, you see?”

“Yes, naturally; but what I _don’t_ see is why I should be expected to do so. A girl who can behave so wildly, and in defiance of her parents, should be pulled up for it, and the sooner the better, I should say.”

His tone was hard; all the softness and geniality seemed to have melted out of his face. Mrs Shepton looked distressed. She began to feel as if by her appeal to him she had let the genii out of the bottle—not that she, good woman, would have thus expressed it—there was a look in her “boy’s” face which she had encountered more than once before in his progress from babyhood to manhood, and which meant a good deal beyond what she was able to cope with.

“Master Michael, my dear,” she began, sitting down as she spoke, and motioning him to a seat beside her, “you don’t understand. Wait till you hear the whole, and all that the poor, dear young lady had in her mind;” and trying not to seem too eager in her defence of Philippa, for she was not without experience in the “little ways” of the sterner sex, the housekeeper related with considerable detail all that she had learnt from Miss Raynsworth as to the home life of her family, her sisterly devotion and not unreasonable anxiety about Evelyn at the present crisis, all—down even to the little difficulties which had attended the efforts to find a suitable attendant to accompany Mrs Marmaduke Headfort to Wyverston. She drew, too, a touching picture of Philippa’s anguish of mind on receiving the sternly disapproving letter from her parents.

“Poor dear, I couldn’t but feel for her, however rash and foolish she may have been, when she looked up at me so piteous-like through her tears, and said, ‘Don’t speak of mamma; she has never been really angry with me before in my life.’ It quite went to my heart, Master Michael, but of course that’s a woman’s way of looking at it, I know,” she added, diplomatically.

Michael emitted an indefinite sound, something between a “humph,” and a “pshaw,” but the lines of his face had softened; there was a touch of amusement, too, in his eyes as he glanced up.

“She is a very silly girl,” he said, at last, “and a very bad actress, though I don’t know that I like her any the less for that.—Eh, Solomon, what do you say to it, old boy? _You_ saw through her from the first, didn’t you?—Solomon is very fastidious in his friendships, you know, Mrs Shepton, ma’am, and he took to her at once, as I have told you.”

His old nurse’s spirits rose. Master Michael wouldn’t speak like that, she thought, if he was going to be hard and unsympathising, but she was wise enough not to show her elation.

“Of course, sir,” she agreed, “_silly_ is no word for it! It was perfectly wild, but the wilder it was, the more mischief may come of it if we cannot help her. That is what she is now so wretched about; she thought of how it might turn our ladies, here, indeed, the whole family, against poor Captain Marmaduke and his wife, little as either deserves it,” for Mrs Shepton had not forgotten to exculpate Evelyn from all concerted share in the mad freak.

Michael’s face darkened a little.

“I don’t understand that young woman altogether,” he said; “either she is a better actress than her sister, or extraordinarily childish.”

“She is quite straightforward,” said the housekeeper, “but her sister has not allowed her to take it up deeply. She knows nothing of the angry letter from their home, or of all this trouble just now. And she has not nearly the strength of character of her sister, I am sure. Miss Raynsworth tells me that Mrs Marmaduke really forgets about it from time to time! And it must be so, or she would never have been so incautious. Why, it’s mainly thanks to her that there’s all this now.”

The smiles which had been lurking somewhere in the corners of Michael’s physiognomy now made itself visible, and broadened as he caught sight of the dubious expression it called forth on his old friend’s face.

“I can’t help thinking,” he began, half apologetically, “of the scene there might be here if it all came out. I mean nothing disrespectful to this family, nurse, when I say that they are not remarkable for their sense of humour. Christine, perhaps, has the most of it, of a rather blunt kind, but Mrs Headfort’s face would grow so long that it would never shorten again, and Felicia would certainly faint and be more melancholy than ever, if they once discovered the trick that had been played upon them.”

“Indeed, yes, sir,” Mrs Shepton replied, gravely, too decorous to join in his smile. “It would be no laughing matter.”

“But what have _I_ to do with it,” said Michael, reverting to the earlier part of their conversation. “What do you—or she—want me to do, or not to do?”

“Oh, that is quite easy to explain, sir,” replied the housekeeper, briskly. “It is _not_ to do that we ask of you. Just to keep her secret, in short, for the two or three days that remain.”

Michael again raised his eyebrow’s.

“And after that—shall I be at liberty to tell anybody who cares to hear? It is rather like giving the burglars time to escape; does Miss Raynsworth intend leaving the country?”

But Mrs Shepton did not smile. On the contrary, she shook her head.

“It is no joking matter, sir,” she repeated, dolefully; “it is not, indeed. I wish I saw a clear end to it, that I do. No, Master Michael—of course I did not mean what you say. She will depend on you _never_ to betray her, I feel sure. I only mentioned the two or three days she will still be here, because once they are over, it is not likely the poor young lady or her troubles will ever come into your mind again—there would be no difficulty in keeping her secret after that.”

From behind her own spectacles the old woman eyed the young man with a somewhat curious expression. But he was looking down; his face was perfectly composed, almost stolid. Only his old nurse knew that when he “put on that face,” it was often more as a mask than as indicating indifference.

“I don’t know,” he said at last, with a slightly cynical lightness of tone. “I have not the very least doubt that she will keep out of my way—she took a dislike to me from the very first, even in the train; a case of natural antipathy, probably. But fate has a nasty little trick of meddlesomeness in these cases sometimes; just because she would prefer giving me the widest berth possible, your young lady, my good Mrs Shepton, may find herself hurled in my way some day when she least expects it. It is by no means improbable; once Duke Headfort is back again, he and his wife will naturally see something of the people here, and Bernard and I are often about Wyverston.”

“But Miss Raynsworth is not Captain Marmaduke’s wife—I am quite sure _she_ will not want to come here again, sir,” said Mrs Shepton.

“Well, no; perhaps not. But there are other possibilities—Mrs Duke and my cousin have struck up a great friendship—I told you, you know, that I heard them planning a visit in which the sister was to be included. And I don’t see why I should stay away from Merle at the best of the shooting for any silly girl in the world. Do you?”

“Nobody asked such a thing,” said the housekeeper, feeling for once rather cross with her adored nursling. “Miss Raynsworth would never dream of it—once you have given your promise, her mind, so far as you are concerned, will be quite at rest, Master Michael, I can assure you.”

“I daresay,” said Michael, grimly, “once I _have_ given my promise.”

He was in a very teasing mood.

But his words failed this time in their effect.

“My dear Master Michael,” said the housekeeper, with a smile, “you are talking for talking’s sake, just to get a ‘rise out of me,’ as you used to say. Of course I know it is all right, and I can assure poor Miss Raynsworth that the matter will be perfectly safe in your hands.”

Mr Gresham did not reply. He had transferred his teasing to Solomon, from whom he at last succeeded in extracting a growl, which made Mrs Shepton start. Though if the truth were told, the dachs only growled out of amiable condescension, understanding that his doing so would gratify his master, whose childishness really amused him sometimes.

“All the same,” continued the old woman, when Solomon had subsided again, “I shall be more thankful than I can tell you, when the two ladies are safely off. It makes me that nervous, sir, you’d scarcely believe it. And unless I can persuade Miss Raynsworth to stay in her room with a bad headache this evening, there’s sure to be gossip in the hall; any one with half an eye could see she is quite upset; her poor eyes alone—”

Michael looked up quickly, and this time his old friend had no need to rebuke him for levity.

“Do you mean—” he began. “Are the—all of the servants not—not respectful and civil to her?”

Mrs Shepton bristled slightly.

“_Civil_, sir; of course they are that, at any rate when _I_ am by, and I don’t think she ever comes much across them at other times. But ‘respectful’—if you mean behaving to her as if she were not one of themselves!—is the very last thing to wish for under the circumstances.”

“Of course, of course—I was forgetting,” said the young man.

“You may be sure _I_ would allow no disrespect to any young girl, above all, a stranger. And as far as our own servants are concerned I think it has been quite pleasant, though even I cannot stop talk among themselves. And the visitors’ servants I know still less about; I had to give Miss—Miss Ray is the name she calls herself—a warning the other day, to be a little more chatty and friendly. There’s a maid of Mrs Worthing’s that I felt uneasy about. She’s a sharp sort of person and inclined to be spiteful to any one younger and better-looking than herself.”

“She takes after her mistress, then. I can’t stand Mrs Worthing,” said Michael, boyishly. “The daughter is a harmless little thing—wax in her mother’s hands, but Mrs Worthing is a bundle of worldliness, just the sort of woman to beware of.”

He had more in his mind than he thought it well to discuss, even with his trusted old friend. It would have required no great acumen to discover the great attraction of Wyverston at the present time to the lady in question, for Bernard Gresham was universally recognised as one of the most desirable _partis_ of the day. And that, not only by reason of his wealth and social position, but on the higher grounds also of his personal character and refinement of taste. And what Michael had overheard of Evelyn’s conversation with his cousin, even one or two remarks accidentally dropped by his cousin himself, had shown that the Miss Raynsworth of Dorriford had made an impression on him, little as he had seen of her.

“Yes,” added Michael aloud, after a little pause, “you are quite right, nurse. Don’t let the Worthings—mistress or maid—get the slightest scent of any mystery. And impress upon the young lady at all costs to keep out of Bernard’s way.”

So saying, he got up and turned to leave the room. “You may depend upon me,” he said, with a slight nod, and without waiting to hear the housekeeper’s fervent thanks, he called to Solomon, who by this time had fallen comfortably asleep by the fire, and the two went off together.

When Evelyn came in from her drive, somewhat to her surprise, no “Phillis” was awaiting her as usual in her room. She had shut and locked the door carefully, for by this time she had in some ways acquired caution, and then hurrying through the dressing-room, she made her way to the small apartment appropriated to her sister, though scarcely expecting to find her there.

“I believe she has gone out for a stroll,” she said to herself. “Phil is always so fond of mooning about in the dusk, and I do so want to see her.”

But her conjecture proved unfounded, for there on the little bed, with a shawl thrown over her, lay Philippa fast asleep. Evelyn stole up beside her, and stooped down to see her face.

“Poor dear,” she thought, “she is looking very pale, and there are dark rings round her eyes; I wonder if there is anything the matter! Anyway I won’t wake her. I must wait till later to tell her of this new complication.”

So if young Mrs Headfort looked a degree less trim than usual when she made her appearance among the circle gathered in the hall for afternoon tea, it was not to be marvelled at. On her way thither, at the corner of the first passage, she almost ran into the arms of the housekeeper. Evelyn started; she was in rather a nervous mood, and it was not often one came across Mrs Shepton in the upper storeys. To her relief the housekeeper was the first to speak.

“I beg your pardon, ma’am,” she said, “I’m afraid I startled you. I did not know you had come in, and I was on my way to your—maid’s room. She did not come down to tea, and I know her head was aching this afternoon. I thought perhaps she would like a cup of tea up-stairs.”

“Thank you,” said Evelyn, with incautious fervour. “Thank you so very much. She is lying on her bed fast asleep, and she does not look at all well! But I must go down to tea. If you _could_ stay beside her a few minutes I should be most grateful. She may wake; if she does, please tell her that I can manage quite well for myself to-night.”

The new-comer glanced at the young lady approvingly; even the flush which involuntarily rose to Evelyn’s face, much to her own annoyance, for they were standing close to an already lighted lamp, increased Mrs Shepton’s good opinion of Mrs Marmaduke.

“I will certainly say so, ma’am,” she replied, quickly.

“I have a quarter of an hour to spare, and I will see to her. Perhaps the best thing would be for her to go to bed properly. A good night’s sleep will put her quite right, I daresay.”

And Evelyn, her mind more at rest about her sister, hurried off, congratulating herself on the lucky chance which had brought them in contact with such a kindly “unsuspicious” person as the Wyverston housekeeper.

Chapter Thirteen. Herself Again.

More “good luck” was in store for young Mrs Headfort that afternoon. And when she went up-stairs again to dress for dinner, and found her sister—In bed indeed, but on the alert to jump up to see to Evelyn’s toilet—she rejoiced that Philippa’s having been asleep before had delayed her relating the new cause of alarm that had arisen, till she could at the same time tell of its happy dispersal.

This was what had happened.

Allusion had been made to Mrs Marmaduke’s approaching departure, and in her thoughtless fashion she had grumbled somewhat at the long journey, “all by myself in a corner of a railway carriage.” And thereupon, not unnaturally, Mr Gresham, the elder, had offered to escort her a considerable part of the way; as far indeed as the junction, where, as will be remembered, she had, on her journey north, been startled by the unexpected apparition of her volunteer lady’s-maid.

“It is really on my way,” said the master of Merle, with the graciousness of manner which, when he chose to exert it, was almost irresistible, “and as I must be home by the end of this week, a day sooner or later is immaterial. There are two routes, you see,” he continued, “and your way only takes about an hour longer. So pray let me look after you as far at least as Wrexhill.”

Evelyn was aghast; for a moment or two, realising her own folly, she could not speak. Bernard Gresham saw her annoyance, and attributed it, fortunately, to a cause very foreign to the real one. He imagined that she was vexed at not being able to invite him to accompany her to her father’s house and spend a night there by way of breaking his journey. And with what he believed to be consummate tact, he hastened to set her mind at rest. For though few invitations would have suited him better, he knew that the Raynsworths were far from rich, and thus readily explained Mrs Marmaduke’s not suggesting what in many cases would have seemed a very simple arrangement.

Little did he suspect what was really passing through poor Mrs Marmaduke’s mind, and it was with some surprise that he noticed the still troubled expression on her face, even after he had, as he imagined, reassured her, by remarking that he must go straight through from Wrexhill, however late it was, as a new purchase of a valuable young horse was to travel by this train; a horse which he wished to keep his own eye on both at the start and on arrival at its destination.

Evelyn scarcely heard what he said. She murmured confusedly something in the way of thanks, and then hastily changed the subject till she could fly up-stairs and consult her sister as to how to steer clear of this new and most uncalled-for complication.

But up-stairs she found Philippa fast asleep and looking so ill that to awake her would have been cruelty of which, with all her thoughtlessness, Evelyn Headfort was entirely incapable.

So it was not to be wondered at that when the young lady got down to the hall where most of the household were already assembled for tea, she glanced round her in trepidation, earnestly hoping that her favourite Mr Gresham might not be one of the company.

“He is sure to begin again about the journey,” she thought, “and I do not know what to say or what excuse to give. And I must fix the day; Mrs Headfort, kind as she is, does not, I can see, like people to hang on indefinitely, and it is an undignified thing to do. I wonder what Phil would advise. I am really ashamed to tell her what a fool I was.”

Her hopes were not realised. Both the Greshams were among the group standing round the tea-table, where Christine Headfort was handing cups. Nor did a letter, which had come by the afternoon post, and which her hostess begged her to read at once, help to cheer her.

“I must go—_decidedly_—on Thursday,” she exclaimed, impulsively again, as soon as she had run her eye down the few lines it contained.

“No bad news, I hope?” said Mrs Headfort, senior, kindly.

“N-no, not exactly. It is only that—you see, I made my mother _promise_ to tell me precisely how the children were,” she replied, sure of the elder lady’s sympathy, “and she says Bonny has a cold and rather a suspicious cough; and baby is not looking _quite_ well either. Whooping-cough is about, and the doctor says he cannot be quite sure as to Bonny till Thursday. I had already spoken of Thursday to mamma, and she says she is so glad I shall be back by then.”

“I quite understand,” said Mrs Headfort, “and sorry as we shall be to lose you, my dear Evelyn, I agree with you that you should be on the spot. When my children were young I never left them if they were the least ill, not even to my mother’s care. And it was thanks to that, I do believe, that they all grew up so strong, even Geoff,” with a moment’s pathetic forgetfulness, instantly followed by a deep sigh. “Yes,” she continued, pulling herself together with the self-control habitual to her, “there is nothing like a mother’s watchfulness.”

“I felt sure you would understand,” said Evelyn, “So I will decide for Thursday.”

“Thursday,” repeated a voice beside her; “you are speaking of your journey, Mrs Headfort, are you not?” It was Bernard Gresham, who had overheard her last words.

“I can manage Thursday, I feel sure, so you may feel quite happy about Mrs Marmaduke,” he went on, turning to Mrs Headfort the elder.

His words awoke no responsive smile on Evelyn’s face, and but a faint one on that of his hostess, who, truth to tell, was somewhat too “old-fashioned” in her notions, altogether to approve of this masculine chaperonage for Duke Headfort’s charming and girlish wife. And Evelyn rose still some degrees higher in her estimation from her slack eagerness to avail herself of the young man’s proposal.

“To be so pretty and attractive, and yet so very discreet, is really greatly to her credit,” thought the old lady.

Another member of the group had noticed young Mrs Headfort’s hesitation—noticed and thoroughly understood it, in a way which would have greatly astonished her.

“What’s that you’re saying, Bernard?” said his cousin, stepping forward. “Going on Thursday? What about the big shoot that day? They’re counting on you. The squire won’t be pleased, will he, Mrs Headfort?”

“Indeed, no,” said their hostess, quickly, “very much the reverse, I am afraid.” Her husband was not present.

Mr Gresham glanced at Michael.

“You can take my place,” he said; “you can drop your work for a day, it will make you something less of a ‘dull boy’;” for the younger Gresham had been “grinding” pretty steadily during his stay at Wyverston.

“Sorry to disoblige you,” said Michael, drily, “but my work has nothing to do with it, my work _here_, that is to say. I must be in London on Thursday morning; I go up by the night express to-morrow. There is no getting out of it,” and he turned away determinedly.

When Michael “looked like that,” his cousin, as well as Mrs Shepton, knew by past experience that there was no more to be said.

“Surly boor,” he muttered under his breath, though the next instant there was a smile on his face, as he addressed his hostess.

“Do you really think it would annoy the squire?” he inquired.

“I am quite sure it would, as you ask me, Bernard,” Mrs Headfort replied, decidedly, “and Evelyn would be the last—”

“Oh, dear, yes,” interrupted Mrs Marmaduke, eagerly. “I would not for worlds, Mr Gresham, have you risk such a thing for my sake. I shall be all right—just as right as on my journey here.”

In face of the want of enthusiasm with which his proposal had been received, there was nothing to be done but for Mr Gresham to withdraw it, and this he did from a mixture of motives. Few things would have distressed him more than to show want of consideration for the now son-less old squire; furthermore, if Bernard Gresham had a special personal foible, it was the fear of looking ridiculous, and he prided himself greatly on his tact.

So with a little bow of unruffled composure he accepted Evelyn’s fiat.

“Some other time, perhaps, I may be more fortunate,” he murmured, and mentally contrasting him with his cousin, by no means to the latter’s advantage, Evelyn thanked him with graceful cordiality.

All this was what she now had to relate to her sister.

“Did you ever hear of such a lucky escape, by the skin of our teeth?” she concluded, with exuberant self-congratulation; and Philippa, lying there pale and fagged-looking after her rare fit of violent crying, could not but agree with her.

“I don’t know,” she said, wearily, “I don’t know what we _should_ have done if he had travelled with us in the same train. It would have been worse now for it all to have been found out than even at the beginning, now when we are within forty-eight hours of being safe at home! Oh dear, dear! I am sure I shall never want to leave it again. I wish I had not gone to Dorriford; somehow that seems to have begun it all. The meeting Mr Gresham there!”

“You are too depressing,” said Evelyn, impatiently, “instead of being delighted that I managed to get out of it so beautifully.”

“I don’t quite see that you _did_ get out of it,” said Philippa, rather maliciously; “as far as I understand, it seems to have been Michael Gresham who came to the rescue.”

“No thanks to him,” said Evelyn; “it was very horrid and interfering of him. I do believe he is jealous of his cousin. And I was forgetting to tell you that afterwards I believe he was conscious of having seemed very disagreeable, for he came and sat down beside me and began talking far more nicely than he has ever done yet, rather as if he wanted to ‘make up,’ you know.”

“I don’t quite know why you have taken a dislike to him,” said Philippa, listlessly. “I should think he’s nice in some ways, kind-hearted perhaps, or else his dog wouldn’t be so fond of him.”

“I don’t know how you can judge,” said Evelyn; “you have only seen him in the train.”

Philippa did not reply. She was up again by this time, and busying herself as usual with the preparations of Evelyn’s evening attire, and before her sister left her, a promise had been extracted that the girl would not sit up till Evelyn’s reappearance that night.

The next day passed without event of any moment. It seemed long and wearisome to Philippa, for in her increased terror of discovery she almost exaggerated her precautions, and scarcely ventured to leave her own room. Late in the afternoon she was sitting by the open window of her sister’s apartment, which looked out on the front of the house, when the sound of wheels caught her attention, and glancing out she saw a dog-cart coming round from the stables.

It was hidden from view for a few minutes as it stood under the large porch, but the sound of voices and laughter reached her ears, telling their own tale, as she distinguished, “good-bye, old fellow,” “too bad of you,” and the like. And in another minute the cart drove off, though not so rapidly as to prevent her perceiving that one of its occupants was Michael Gresham; and leaning forward slightly she caught sight of Solomon’s little brown person comfortably ensconced on the seat beside his master. Just at that moment the young man looked up. That he saw her there could be no question, for he instinctively lifted his hand to his cap, and Philippa, crimsoning, drew back hastily behind the window-curtains.

“It was rather nice of him,” she said to herself, “though rash. I do hope no one saw it. Poor old Solomon, I wonder if I shall ever stroke his smooth little back again!”

What would she have thought had she known that the departure of both master and dog had been hastened by some forty-eight hours or so, as the only means Michael could see of putting a stop to his cousin’s disastrous proposal of escorting Mrs Marmaduke Headfort on her homeward way?

There are—there must be such things as “brainwaves.” What had made Michael look up at the first-storey windows as he drove away from Wyverston?

Philippa, as she got up from her seat by the window and began some preparations for Evelyn’s packing, was conscious of some intermingling of feelings with regard to her former fellow-traveller’s departure. It was, in a sense, a relief to know that the only person who, besides the kindly old housekeeper, was in possession of her secret, had left the place; a salve to her wounded dignity to be no longer in dread of coming across the man to whom circumstances had forced her to appeal so unwillingly. Yet, with Michael Gresham there went a certain sense of protection and security. Somehow or other she was instinctively assured that however he might blame her, he would have stood by her in any worse complication, had such arisen, and would have exerted himself to the utmost to ward off more serious trouble.

“I am happier than I can express to know that we shall so soon be away from this place,” she said to herself over and over again that evening. “To think that it is not now days but _hours_ only that have to pass before we are safe on our way home—dear home, dearest home! I do not care how angry my darling mother is; I do not care how shocked father looks; I have deserved it for my headstrong presumption; I only care for the delight of being safe with them again. And I _don’t_ think anything worse can happen now, so very near our going, and good Mrs Shepton so on the alert.” Her hopes were fulfilled. Nothing more to startle or alarm the sisters occurred. And if there were any remarks in the servants’-hall about “Miss Ray’s” headache, which again incapacitated her from coming down to supper or joining in the more or less harmless gossip which went on at that sociable meal, remarks friendly or the reverse, Philippa did not hear them. Their early start the next morning was a reason too for Mrs Marmaduke’s coming up to bed betimes, and when she congratulated her sister on her cleverness in having the boxes all but ready to lock, Philippa turned to her with a radiant face.

“Oh, Evey,” she exclaimed, “I _am_ so thankful to be going home!”

“I am sure you are, you poor dear,” said Evelyn, tenderly. “It must have been unutterably dull for you, poked up here by yourself, except when you were forced to—Pah! I can’t think of it—_you_, my beautiful Phil, sitting at table with a crew of _servants_—common servants.”

“They were not all common,” said her sister. “Some, on the contrary, were very uncommon. I have told you about the dear old housekeeper. No, as regards that part of it all, I have been really very lucky.”

“Don’t talk of it all the same,” said Evelyn. “I do not know, honestly I don’t, how I should have got on here without you, but yet I cannot endure to think of it. I don’t think I _could_ have stood it, even when every one was so nice and I was really enjoying myself, if I had not resolutely _determined_ to put you out of my mind for the time.”

“You are very fortunate in possessing any power of the kind,” said Philippa, with some amusement at her sister’s emphasising of her own strength of will.

“Yes,” said Evelyn, “it is an excellent thing to possess.”

“It is the thought of being at home again and rid of all this acting and planning and watching, that I am so happy about,” Philippa went on. “I do really and truly feel as if I never shall want to leave mamma again. I don’t mind if she—”

It was perhaps as well that Evelyn here interrupted her.

“Nonsense, dear,” she said. “You will get quite different again. You mustn’t give way to such morbid feelings, for _my_ sake even, you must not, or else I should always have a wretched self-reproach that somehow I had spoilt your girlhood—though of course it was not my doing. But I suppose I _might_ have been resolute and insisted on your returning, or even taken you back myself and telegraphed to them here that I was delayed.”

“I would not have gone back,” said Philippa, stoutly.

“Well, then, if it wasn’t my fault, don’t punish me for it by saying dreadful things. You shall come to Merle-in-the-Wold whenever we get Mr Gresham’s invitation, and enjoy yourself with Duke and me.”

Looking for all the world like the everyday Philippa.

“I would not mind _so_ much if Duke were with us,” said Philippa, doubtfully.

“Of course not; there would be nothing to mind. And _some_ day, you may come back here—who knows?” But at this Philippa shook her head.

“I cannot imagine such a thing; it has grown into a sort of nightmare to me,” she replied, and in her heart she devoutly hoped that circumstances would combine to delay the invitation to Merle-in-the-Wold indefinitely. But at nineteen, feelings change.

With every mile on the homeward road the next day the girl’s spirits rose. And not even the constraint and unusual seriousness of her mother’s manner as she met the travellers at the station, whither she had expressly come to meet them, could prevent the relief and delight of knowing herself at home again.

“I have brought one of your hats and ordinary jackets for you to change at once,” Mrs Raynsworth said eagerly. “They are in the waiting-room in a small bag with my name on. Run and put them on while I look after the luggage with Evelyn. I could not risk the servants seeing you in that masquerade.”

The word stung Philippa. But she knew she had deserved it, and she felt touched by her mother’s thoughtfulness. Two minutes later she stood on the platform with the others, looking for all the world like the everyday Philippa, though a trifle paler and thinner than her wont, who had come to meet her sister on her arrival.

Evelyn glanced at her approvingly. But by tacit consent no allusion was made to the transformation, or the circumstances that had led to it, during the drive home of the mother and daughters in the Marlby fly; and the elder sister, who, whatever in the way of thoughtfulness she was deficient in, was certainly not wanting in tact, above all, where those dear to her were concerned, managed to ward off any painful sense of constraint by her graphic accounts of her visit and its undoubted success, intermingled with her delight at “coming home” again, home to her mother and the darling children.

“Bonny’s cough is better, you say, dear mamma? Oh, then it _can’t_ be going to be whooping-cough. Indeed I have never felt really anxious about it. I don’t see how he _could_ have caught it, with all the care you have taken of him. I shall have nothing but good news to send to poor old Duke by this mail. And don’t you think I am looking better? I feel quite different.”

“Yes, dear, I think the bracing air up there must have done you good,” Mrs Raynsworth replied, more brightly than she had yet spoken.

“It is only poor, dear Phil who is looking pale,” Evelyn went on, leaning forward to kiss her sister as she spoke. They were close to their own gate by this time. “Mother, dearest,” she added, coaxingly, “I _can’t_ tell you all she has been to me, nor how _beautifully_ she managed everything. You—you and father aren’t angry with her? It was all out of devotion, and after all, my allowing it puts quite half the blame on to me. For that morning, when she came into the railway carriage, I was feeling so ill and weak and frightened. I was, in spite of all, so _thankful_ to see her, that at the bottom of my heart I could not send her away. Mamma, dear, _don’t_ be vexed with her.”

The tears were coursing each other down Philippa’s pale cheeks by this time—some were trembling too on Evelyn’s pretty eyelashes. Mrs Raynsworth was already softened. The sight of the two, the one so bright and invigorated, the other so timid and evidently apprehensive of what was in store for her, had already done its work.

“My poor, dear child,” she said, gently, as she held out her hand to her younger daughter; and Philippa felt herself forgiven. “I can only hope,” she said, “earnestly hope that no harm will ever come of it. I am quite sure I need not warn you never to do such a thing again.”

Philippa shook her head; she could not speak.

“We need never allude to it,” Mrs Raynsworth added. “Only Dorcas knows, and she will take care that no one ever hears of it. I cannot imagine,”—for after all it was impossible not to feel some curiosity as to how the extraordinary little drama had been carried out—“I cannot imagine how you managed it. But I daresay we had better try to forget about it and never mention it again. Your father—”

“Oh! there he is,” exclaimed Evelyn, “coming down the drive to meet us. And, yes, he has got Bonny with him. How sweet of him! Phil, do look at them—”

Chapter Fourteen. Charley’s plan.

But as for “never mentioning it again?”

Before Philippa fell asleep that night, her mother was in possession of every detail of all that had happened since they parted. More, far more of course than Evelyn knew, or ever would know. The younger sister was not one to do things by halves, and when she gave her confidence it was completely given. She had confided in her mother all her life, and the longing to do so now, even at the risk of causing Mrs Raynsworth increased pain and mortification, was irresistible.

And it was far better so.

The fact which, naturally, was the most difficult for the mother to bear with equanimity was that of the necessity which Philippa had felt herself under of appealing to Michael Gresham.

“I could not have done it myself,” she said; “it came on, you see, mamma, through his knowing the housekeeper so well. Though what would have happened if he had _not_ been told, I really do not like to think.”

“He suspected something, then, you think?” said Mrs Raynsworth, uneasily.

“Suspected,” Philippa exclaimed. “I beg your pardon, mamma, for repeating your words. Far more than that, he _knew_ there was something not straightforward about us. And the worst of it was that he thought poor Evey so double and insincere. Oh, mamma, I _was_ mad to do it.”

Self-blame disarms any kindly judge. Mrs Raynsworth could say nothing more to add to her daughter’s keen regret. On the contrary, she gently stroked her hand. They were sitting by themselves in Philippa’s own room after Evelyn had gone to bed.

“We can only hope,” she said again, “and, I think we _may_ do so, that no harm will ever come of it. I am very grateful, truly grateful, to that good Mrs Shepton, and I should like her to know it.”

“I can write to her,” said Philippa, eagerly. “I should like her to see that I have told you everything, and I can say it all without—without mentioning names, or anything that would matter if by any accident the letter were seen. Oh, yes, as far as the housekeeper is concerned, I have no misgiving or sore feeling. It is that—that Mr Gresham I have such a horror of ever meeting again.”

“The one that Evelyn liked so much—who has asked you both—Evelyn and Duke at least,” (Mrs Raynsworth interrupted herself hastily, recalling certain injunctions in the confidences her elder daughter had already found time to give her as to the “impression” Philippa had made on Bernard Gresham at Dorriford), “I should say, to stay with him at his place, the place with the queer name?”

“No, I don’t mean _Mr_ Gresham,” the girl replied; “but, mamma, you need not hesitate. I know he spoke of me to Evelyn and said something about her bringing me—me in my proper character, of course,” with a somewhat rueful smile. “And, if it had not been for all this, I daresay I should have liked to go. Evelyn says he is charming. But it is not _he_ I am afraid of meeting again; he suspects nothing; as I told you, mamma, by some lucky chance he never caught sight of me once at Wyverston, and at the end, you know, when there was that risk of his travelling with us, I strongly suspect his cousin put a stop to it on purpose.”

“That was kind of him,” said her mother. “It shows you can trust him.”