Chapter VII: Part 7

He did not wish for any great preponderance of brains or culture. There were times when Miss Raynsworth struck him as having been too severely educated for his standard. Femininity was his _sine quâ non_. So long as a little Greek and Latin, some notion of mathematics even, did not unduly harden or stiffen a woman, he would not exactly object to them, though any approach to obtrusive learning he strongly deprecated. But Philippa was too unaffected, too self-forgetful, to jar him by any such putting forward of her acquirements—acquirements which, in contrast with the real learning of her father and brother, seemed to her, as indeed they were, but the merest sips of the “spring.” And above all, he was so sure of her perfect propriety—there was no slightest taint of “fastness” or “loudness,” or any such horror, in this irreproachable girl, no love of eccentricity or Bohemianism, no possibility of mad escapades turning up in which she had taken a part!

“No,” thought the master of Merle, “there could be no risk—no risk whatever in it. Of course, people would be surprised at the marriage, but what do I care for that! Everybody knows,” and he smiled half cynically; “everybody knows that my possibilities of choice have not been restricted.”

And this was certainly true.

Nor would it be fair to accuse the young man of fatuity, inasmuch as he was little troubled by any misgiving as to his personal acceptability to Miss Raynsworth, should he decide to go through with his suit. He had every possible grounds for believing in it; he knew himself to be attractive and good-looking far beyond the average; he believed himself also to be affectionate and endowed with all the qualifications for making a good husband (though he did not add, “to a wife who would see everything through his eyes and have no will but his”); and so far—for this _résumé_ of Mr Gresham’s views of the whole situation is somewhat ante-dated—that is to say, as the day drew near for Philippa and her father to leave Cannes, he had no reason to doubt that the young girl liked his society, and was in a fair way to feeling still more attracted by him.

This fortnight in the beautiful south was propitious in the extreme to pleasant projects. The weather was faultless, and not as hot as is sometimes the case, even early in the spring. The circle of residents and visitors, to whom the Lermonts had come temporarily to belong, seemed specially anxious to make the last weeks of their southern sojourn agreeable. Scarcely a day passed without some plan being set on foot for diversion or amusement in which even Maida could take part, and few, if any, guessed how many of these were really skilfully initiated by Mr Gresham, who was well aware that it would have been of little use to try to decoy Philippa away from her cousin.

So there was no question of balls or large evening parties for the girl. Such would have been quite out of her father’s line; nor could she have expected Mrs Lermont, quietly congratulating herself that such exertions for herself were over, to have begun again the arduous duties of chaperon. One exception only in this direction was made, and that was in the case of a large private dance on the very eve of the Raynsworths’ departure, at which kind Lady Mary Bertram set her heart on Philippa’s appearing. But before this there had been gaieties, or what seemed such to the young girl, in constant succession, and such as she had little dreamt of taking part in when she left home.

Her letters to Evelyn described fully all that was going on, and Evelyn’s spirits rose high.

“Nothing could be better,” she said to her mother, just as she herself was starting with her husband for Wyverston. “Now, mamma, was I _not_ sensible when I made you get and send her those two new dresses, as soon as we heard of the Cannes visit?”

And Mrs Raynsworth could not but agree with her. “I don’t suppose it could ever have occurred to Mrs Lermont to give her the pretty blue evening-dress Phil is so pleased with, _unless_ she had arrived with one or two decent things. It would have been just like her and papa to say they had nothing but travelling clothes with them, and could go nowhere and see nobody. I cannot tell you how delighted I am for the poor dear to have some fun at last. And,” she added to herself, “to see something of Bernard Gresham,” though she dared not say this, in so many words, to her mother!

Picnics were among the favourite amusements of the moment at Cannes, and picnics on the luxurious scale that these were carried out were new to Philippa, whose only experience of out-of-doors entertainments was a holiday tea-drinking in the Marlby woods, when one old donkey carried on his back the whole material part of the repast. After two or three of these expeditions she found, it is true, that they began to pall a little. Still, it was always a pleasure to be with Maida, especially in the charming surroundings of lovely scenery and weather; and, more, probably, than she would have allowed herself to own, never did Mr Gresham show to greater advantage than on these occasions. His tact was wonderful; without making her or himself in the least conspicuous he yet succeeded in giving her the feeling that she was never forgotten, that her amusement and enjoyment were his first consideration, and that once satisfied that these were insured, his own pleasure was complete. _No_ girl, certainly no girl of Philippa’s sensitive and responsive nature, could have been unconscious of this subtle and delicate consideration; to her, singularly free from vanity in any form, unspoilt and unselfish, there was something almost intoxicating in this refinement of homage.

Spots of interest, either by reason of their own beauty, or sometimes from historic association, now and then indeed combining both, were usually chosen for the scene of the picnics.

One of the last to which the Lermonts and their guests were bidden was given by Mr Gresham himself, and he had bestowed much thought and consideration upon its locality.

Nor were his labours unrewarded. It proved to be one of the most successful parties of the season, and but for an incident which momentarily affected Philippa unpleasantly by recalling events which the last fortnight, with its sunshine and distractions, had almost ended by banishing from her memory altogether, the day would have been one of unalloyed enjoyment.

The picnic was to be at an old château a few miles off. An old “manor-house,” with remains of the domestic fortification necessary in those turbulent medieval times, would perhaps better describe it. For it had never been large, and now one part of it had fallen into picturesque ruin, while the remainder had been not unskilfully restored, more strictly speaking, perhaps, kept in repair, without any jarring modern innovations such as the French _positif_ way of looking at such things often introduces.

The château had not descended to the rank only of a farm-house, for its owners, the bearers of a name which would at once serve to identify the original home of the family, still visited it from time to time. And during most of the year, with good-nature, not unmingled very probably with legitimate pride in the old, old home, they allowed any who cared to do so, to visit it, and wander all over the demesne and the château itself with perfect freedom.

It lay, however, somewhat off the usual routes of pleasure-seekers, and was less known than it deserved to be. Maida Lermont had never seen it, and though her eyes lighted up with pleasure at the idea of a visit, some doubts were expressed by her mother as to whether the distance and the reported roughness of the roads would not make it too fatiguing for her.

“Oh, mamma,” she exclaimed, speaking for once with almost the disappointment of a child in her voice, “_please_ don’t say so. The Château de C— is one of the places I have longed to see ever since we came.”

Philippa glanced at her affectionately. Maida’s “humanness” was one of the characteristics that attracted her young relation to her so much. She never, notwithstanding the long discipline of her life, affected to be above or apart from the natural tastes and interests of those about her.

“_I_ won’t go, if you don’t,” whispered Miss Raynsworth, stooping over Maida.

But Bernard Gresham caught the words; a slight frown, showed itself on his face. He was pleased—more than pleased indeed—to gratify Miss Lermont, whom he cordially liked and admired, but for Philippa to suggest giving up the expedition for Maida’s sake, when she must in her heart have known that he had planned it all for _her_, was most annoying. And for the first time he mentally accused Miss Raynsworth of affectation.

“She shall see her mistake,” he said to himself, “if she takes that line with me. I shall throw up the whole affair if there is any risk of her not coming, I should have the Worthings thinking, or the mother pretending to think, I had got it up for them—how I do detest that woman! ‘So kind of you to look us up at once; you know we were only here _en passant_,’ when I didn’t know they were here at all, and cared less.” But a moment after, the sound of Philippa’s sweet voice speaking in half-appealing, half-coaxing tones to her hostess, made him glance round from the window whither he had turned to hide his annoyance; and Mrs Worthing and her iniquities faded from his mind as if they had never existed.

“I really think, Mrs Lermont,” he said, “that the risk of over-fatigue for your daughter can be guarded against. I shall look out for a specially easy carriage, and we can take our time about it and drive slowly if Miss Lermont prefers. We shall not be at all a large party, and nearly all, people who know each other well—the Denvers and Maxtons and one or two more—the only strangers a mother and daughter who have just arrived, whom I suppose I _must_ invite, friends of the Wyverston Headforts, by-the-by,” he added, turning to Philippa.

But for once the name of Wyverston failed to catch her attention, so engrossed was she in the question of Maida’s joining the picnic.

“Yes,” she said, speaking with reference to the first part of Mr Gresham’s speech, of which he felt instinctively that she greatly approved, “yes, dear Mrs Lermont, I really am _sure_ it would do Maida no harm. We should all take such care of her, and you would be there yourself.”

“Of course,” said Mr Gresham, cordially, “I am counting on you and Mr Lermont, and Mr Raynsworth; I think the touch of antiquarian interest about the château may be a lure to him, may it not?” with a glance at Philippa.

“I have no doubt it would be,” she replied. “But I will _make_ him come whether he cares about the fifteenth-century tower still standing or not,” said Philippa, laughingly.

“Miss Raynsworth, Miss Raynsworth,” said Mr Gresham, “you have been ‘reading up,’ and you will come out with your learning to shame us all.”

“That would be so like Philippa!” said Maida, touching the girl’s shoulder affectionately. “But, mother, we are waiting for your decision,” for Mrs Lermont had not spoken again.

“Silence gives consent,” said Philippa, and as her hostess only smiled, so her reply was interpreted.

Chapter Seventeen. “Rencontres.”

Morning broke over a cloudless sky the day of the expedition to the Château de C—, the last but two of the Raynsworths’ sojourn at Cannes.

Philippa woke with that vague sensation of something pleasant to come, which in youth at least—and let us hope in a modified degree in later years too—is almost as familiar as its converse, that sad awaking from temporary forgetfulness when the memory struggles in spite of itself to remember “what it is that is wrong.”

There was only one touch of “wrongness” to cloud the girl’s happy anticipations, and that was the knowledge that this delightful holiday time was so nearly at an end.

“But I am not going to think about that—not to-day, at least,” she said to herself as she dressed. “I am going for once to live entirely in the present.”

And these laudable resolutions she repeated in her light-heartedness to her host for the moment, Mr Gresham, some four or five hours later, when, already arrived at their destination, for, to avoid the heat of the day, they had made an early start, at his request, she was spying the land, otherwise the grounds of the old house, with him in search of the best place for _déjeûner_.

He commended her resolution warmly.

“And after all,” he continued, “in many cases—or some, at least—pleasant times—I am more honoured than I can express by your considering to-day one of them—are only the precursors of others as agreeable. Let us hope that it may be so in our case. I am determined to get the Marmadukes over to Merle again before long, and this time I trust you will be able to accompany them.”

“I should like it very much indeed, thank you,” said Philippa, “if—” but her sentence was never finished.

Almost as the “if” formed itself on her lips, a sudden pallor crept over her face, and she started slightly.

Mr Gresham looked up in surprise.

“Have you twisted your ankle?” he was beginning to ask, when he caught sight of one or two of the servants who had followed in a _char-à-banc_, and who were now busily unpacking the provisions, just emerging from the courtyard, as he and Philippa passed the entrance. And one of these, a middle-aged woman, unexceptionable in appearance as a superior maid, to his surprise stopped short, as if about to accost his companion.

“Miss Ray!” she exclaimed; “you here!” were the words that he thought he heard. And the two first, seeming so like the beginning of Philippa’s name, would probably not have struck him curiously—the woman might have been a former servant of the family’s for all he knew—but for the familiarity of the ejaculation that followed, a familiarity so unmistakable that he instinctively glanced _past_ his companion as if in search of the person to whom they were addressed, so impossible did it seem to him that the woman was speaking to Miss Raynsworth.

But there was no one else behind or near themselves. And again he saw that Philippa’s face was still very pale, though she walked on rather more quickly than before, taking not the very slightest notice of the person who had spoken. And she on her side, after throwing a curious glance in Miss Raynsworth’s direction, in like manner passed on with her two or three companions.

“Did that woman speak to you? What did she say? Is she insane?” said Mr Gresham, in a tone of annoyance.

Philippa turned to him with a slight smile, but her lips were quivering a little.

“She—she certainly startled me,” she said. “I am afraid you will think I have no nerves at all. It is absurd to be so easily startled.”

“But she said your name, or something like it,” persisted Mr Gresham. “What could she have been thinking of?”

“I—I don’t think she said my name,” replied Philippa. “She must have—have taken me for some one else.”

Her companion felt strangely annoyed. There was something about Miss Raynsworth’s manner that he could not define. In spite of her having been so visibly startled, she did not seem “natural,” scarcely, in a sense, surprised at this curious incident, almost as if she were too absent-minded to have taken it in! Then a new and more agreeable explanation of her nervousness occurred to him. What had they been talking about just at the moment they met the woman? Yes, Miss Raynsworth was in the act of answering what he had said about her coming to Merle, perhaps that was it; perhaps, and the thought touched him with a certain tenderness, at that moment it had flashed upon her for the first time that he was beginning to care for her specially; that it was not every girl he would show himself so anxious to meet again; no wonder it was rather bewildering and startling. She was so unsophisticated, so free from vanity and that detestable _aplomb_ of young women in society! Mr Gresham felt satisfied that he had hit the right nail on the head.

So though he muttered something about “impertinence,” “how could any one make such an extraordinary mistake,” his annoyance at the incident gradually subsided. Only for a moment or two it was in danger of reviving, as Philippa, shaking off her dreaminess with an effort, looked up quietly and inquired with perfect calm:

“Who was that person? Do you know her by sight?”

“I have an idea that she is Mrs Worthing’s maid,” he said. He wished Philippa had let the thing drop; its vulgarity spoilt the idyllic charm of the scene, and the day, and his new thoughts about herself. “I remember her teasing me to let the woman come—she was so useful at helping on these occasions, and so on. And she was walking with Lady Mary’s servants. But what does it matter? I shall take care that you are not annoyed again. How _could_ she have imagined you any one but yourself?” with a rather forced laugh.

“Oh,” said the girl, reassuringly, “at the first glance one does not notice—dress, and that kind of thing. My _face_ must have reminded her of some one she knew. Do not say anything about it to any one, I beg of you; it would be making the maid of far too much consequence, I assure you. And if her mistress is a friend of yours, it might—might possibly lead to some annoyance.”

“You are far too good-natured,” he replied. “However, I daresay you are right. It would be making the woman of too much consequence to speak of it to Mrs Worthing. Not that the Worthings are special friends of mine. I had to ask them, though we should have been more the sort of party I wished without them. But I agree with Michael about Mrs Worthing.”

Another shock for Philippa; somehow this was the first time that his cousin’s name had been mentioned to her by Mr Gresham. And after all, what did it matter? She must get accustomed to hearing Michael Gresham spoken of, even perhaps to meeting him if—if her present companion were to become a permanent friend. It was only unlucky just now, startling, to have that name brought on the _tapis_ when she was already upset and discomposed. And to-day, when she had meant to be so happy!

But she must not be so weak-minded. And with this determination—impelled too, half unconsciously, by the strange fascination of a subject she would fain avoid—she looked up at Mr Gresham inquiringly.

“Michael?” she repeated.

He smiled.

“Oh, I forgot,” he said. “You don’t know the family archangel? I have got into the habit of imagining that you know all that your sister does about—about myself and my home interests. Not that old Michael is exactly a part of my home, except by old association. He is my cousin. We were brought up together, more or less, but there is not any very great amount of common ground for us to meet on. He is—ah, well, a very good fellow in his own way, but rather a bear—doesn’t shine in society—in fact, it and he know very little about each other.”

“Why so?” asked Philippa. She was nervously anxious not to seem to avoid the subject of the younger Gresham, and even more so to prove to herself that she had completely mastered her uneasiness. And she was not free from curiosity about Michael, both as to himself and as to the light in which Bernard regarded him. “Are you joking,” she went on, “when you call him ‘the family archangel,’ or do you really mean that he is very, remarkably good?”

“Honestly,” said Mr Gresham, “I don’t quite know. Good things are not necessarily the most agreeable, are they? Rather the other way sometimes. Oh, yes, Michael’s very good, a model of steadiness and industry and all the rest of it, but not distinguished by suavity and charm of manner. He lives so out of things, you see.”

“Is he a misanthrope, then?” asked Miss Raynsworth, her curiosity increasing.

Mr Gresham hesitated. He was a very truthful man, and prided himself intellectually as well as morally on his accuracy. And Philippa’s question revived some old memories. Michael a misanthrope! Who would ever have associated such a word with the bright-faced schoolboy of not so very many years back, or the young fellow going up to college with everything this world can give him in the present and the future? And then the change; the shock of finding on his death that the father he had so honoured had for years deceived him and his too confiding mother, the clouded name, the broken-hearted widow, who had no strength to rally even for her boy’s sake; the transference to Bernard, the son of a younger brother, of the inheritance which, but for his father’s misdoings, would at least in some part have been his! No, by nature assuredly Michael was no misanthrope, but if circumstances had conspired to make him one, would it have been a thing to wonder at?

But all this the elder cousin had no wish to explain to the girl beside him. Still he was loyal, and his face had grown graver as at last he turned to reply:

“No,” he said, “it wouldn’t be fair to call him that. He’s had—he’s had troubles enough to sour him, and he’s not soured. And—oh, well, to give him his due, he has been a bit of a hero in his time.”

Philippa looked up quickly. She had never liked Mr Gresham so much as at this moment. And some instinct told him so.

“I cannot tell you all about it,” he said. “He would not wish it, even though you do not know him. But I can give you some idea of it. He gave up great advantages for himself for the sake of clearing the name of one whom he had little reason to sacrifice himself for. _I_ think it was quixotry, and so do many others, except—well, yes, there was another element in it, the peace of mind of one very dear to him. He was very young; I doubt if he realised the grind of a life he was bringing upon himself.”

“Has he to work so hard, then?” the girl inquired. “If so, I scarcely see that he can be reproached with keeping ‘out of things,’ as you say he does.”

There was a touch of reproach in her tone now, which her companion did not approve of.

“Oh, as to that,” he said, airily, “it’s a matter of temperament, and personal idiosyncrasy. Many very busy men find time to mix in society. But Michael’s a bear; there are only two individuals in the world that I would care to assert that he loves—individuals, not people, for one is a dog.”

“And the other?” said Philippa.

“The other is an old woman,” said Mr Gresham. Miss Raynsworth said nothing, but probably she thought the more. Something in her companion’s manner gave her the impression that he did not wish to prolong the conversation in its present direction. And just then an exclamation impulsively escaped her. They had turned a corner sharply, in their progress round what had once been the ramparts of the little fortress, and below them lay a charming view—for the château stood on high ground, though the ascent to it was so gradual that one hardly realised its importance.

“How lovely!” she exclaimed.

“Yes,” Mr Gresham agreed, “this is one of the attractions of the place. I wanted to surprise you—it bursts on one so suddenly,” and he began to point out to her the landmarks of interest to be more or less identified from where they stood.

“Don’t you think,” he added, in conclusion, “that this smooth bit of grass here would be our best dining-room? The view would give people something to talk about and quarrel over—no two would agree as to what places can be seen and what not, if other topics of conversation fall flat.”

So the stretch of old turf—as much moss as grass, perhaps, but none the less charming on that account—was decided upon for the luncheon. And after all, the day turned out a pleasant and amusing one for Philippa, in spite of the shock of the unlucky “rencontre.” In the interest of talking about Michael Gresham; apart from all personal feelings in connection with him, she had forgotten her nervous dread of him. More than once during the day, his cousin’s remarks about him, vague as they had been, recurred to her memory.

“I wonder what it was he did, or sacrificed, to make Mr Gresham speak of him as ‘a bit of a hero,’” she thought.

He was once alluded to in her hearing in the course of the day, and that was by Mrs Worthing, whom Philippa recognised as one of the visitors whom she had often caught sight of from her watch-tower at Wyverston. Mrs Worthing was the type of woman whom one is pretty sure to meet in any “society,” using the word in the narrowly conventional sense. She was of indefinite age and appearance, well-dressed and well-bred, an affectionate though somewhat tyrannical mother, to an, for these days, unusually submissive daughter. There was a papa Worthing too, who appeared in orthodox fashion on orthodox occasions, such as his wife’s dinner-parties and receptions, but he was a very busy man, and, apart from his own line, uninteresting. So when “the Worthings” were alluded to, it could be taken for granted that the mother and daughter only were meant.

Aline Worthing was undoubtedly pretty, and, so far, her blue eyes were without the hard metallic light which was often to be seen in her mother’s. But she was by no means a clever or original girl. Mrs Worthing, of better birth than her husband, came from the north, not far from Wyverston, and old family associations had been kept up to some extent between the Headforts and herself. It was at Wyverston that she had first met the Greshams.

She spoke graciously to Miss Raynsworth when the young girl was introduced to her, a certain reflection of the Headfort lustre being associated with Mrs Marmaduke’s sister. But there was a touch of condescension, not to say patronage, mingled with the graciousness, which made Philippa doubly glad that her meetings with the mistress, as well as the maid, were not likely to recur.

“I have met your sister, I believe,” said Mrs Worthing. “We were staying at Wyverston when she came there last autumn; her first visit there, you remember,” she went on, turning to Mr Gresham. “It must have been quite an ordeal for her, without her husband too.”

“First visits to new relations must always be something of an ordeal for a bride,” said Maida, quickly and rather thoughtlessly, for she detected the covert impertinence.

“Ah, but you see, it was not exactly that,” continued Mrs Worthing. “You could scarcely call Mrs Marmaduke Headfort a _bride_—she has two or three children. And, but for my poor, dear friend’s terrible sorrows, the connection is not a very near one—only second cousin-ship or something of that kind.”

“My brother-in-law’s father was Mr Headfort’s nephew,” said Philippa, quietly, determined not to be suppressed.

Mrs Worthing held up her hands in smiling deprecation.

“Oh, dear, dear,” she said, “that is beyond me. It reminds one of ‘Dick’s father and John’s son.’—Aline—where is Aline?—can you unravel it? Aline is so good at riddles.”

“And I maintain,” said Maida, smiling too, and absolutely ignoring Mrs Worthing’s latter remarks, “that my cousin was certainly in the _position_ of a bride; possibly you are not aware, Mrs Worthing, that the Marmaduke Headforts went out to India immediately they were married, and Evelyn only came home comparatively recently.”

“Your cousin?” repeated Mrs Worthing. “Dear me! I am all at sea. I did not know you were connected with the Headforts.”

“Nor are we,” said Mrs Lermont, “but Mr _Raynsworth_ here,” with a pleasant glance in his direction, “is my husband’s cousin.”

“We are getting quite into a genealogical tree,” said Mrs Worthing, “and I _am_ so stupid at that sort of thing. I never know who people are or to whom they are related or anything like that. And I don’t care. _I_ like people for what they _are_, in themselves, you know. Mr Worthing says I am a regular Socialist—like _your_ cousin, Mr Gresham—that dear eccentric Michael and his dog.”

“I must set you right on two points, I fear, Mrs Worthing,” said Bernard, gravely. “Michael is not a Socialist, and his dog is not my cousin.”

Everybody laughed—even Aline Worthing. Her mother did not like it, but she pretended to think it an excellent joke. And Mr Gresham saw with gratification that the Lermont connection had “told.”

“We shall have no more bald impertinence from her,” he said to himself, “but she won’t love Philippa any the better for having been the indirect cause of a snub. I had a presentiment that these people’s coming would somehow or other spoil the day. Even that madwoman of a maid of theirs daring to think of accosting Miss Raynsworth in that extraordinary way!” and his face darkened with annoyance as he recalled the incident which somehow still hovered uncomfortably about his memory.

Maida Lermont, ever alert and ever kind, noticed the touch of constraint in the air.

“What about the dog, Mr Gresham?” she said, brightly, “the dog whom you will not acknowledge as a member of your family? I should like to hear more about him—dogs always interest me, and I know few whose relationship _I_ should not consider an honour. Is your cousin’s dog specially ugly or evil-minded or vulgar?”

“Vulgar,” ejaculated Aline Worthing; “how funny you are, Miss Lermont! Who ever heard of a _dog_ being vulgar?”

Philippa’s eyes gleamed and she opened her lips impulsively as if about to say something. How she longed to “speak up” for dear Solomon!

Mr Gresham ignored Miss Worthing’s remark.

“Ugly,” he repeated, meditatively. “Yes, his ugliness is his beauty. I don’t mind that. He, the animal in question, Solomon by name, is a thorough-bred dachshund. ‘Evil-minded or vulgar’—no, Solomon must be acquitted of those charges. And to begin with, I never said I should not consider it an honour to be his blood-relation, if you remember. I only stated the fact—that I was _not_ his cousin.”

He looked up lazily, and again everybody laughed. And Mrs Worthing, whose good-humour had returned by this time, proceeded to amuse them all by various anecdotes illustrative of the eccentricity of the dachs and his master.

“They are quite inseparable,” she added. “Last year at Wyverston you never saw one without the other. We used to meet them coming home from long rambles over the moors, the dog generally a few paces in front of the man, both looking so solemn and—so ugly.”

“Mrs Worthing,” said Mr Gresham, drily, “you must pardon my reminding you that the animal’s master is my cousin.”

No one was quite sure if he was annoyed or not, but Mrs Worthing laughed. She was not without some gift of repartee.

“Then,” she said, “you must allow _me_ to remark that the family likeness is not striking.”

And Philippa fancied that the implied compliment was not altogether distasteful to her host.

Aline Worthing was sitting hear her. From time to time she had made feeble efforts to catch Miss Raynsworth’s attention—there was something about Philippa which attracted the weaker girl—but hitherto without success. She now tried again.

“Do _you_ think Mr Michael Gresham so very ugly?” she said, in a low voice. “Mamma is always saying so. I don’t think I do—there is something rather nice about his face. But, oh,”—as she caught sight of the astonishment, which an acuter observer might have described as not unmingled with alarm on her hearer’s face—“I forgot, you were not at Wyverston. I suppose you don’t know the other Mr Gresham?”

“It was my sister who was staying there last year,” said Philippa, evasively.

“Yes, I know. Mrs Marmaduke Headfort. She is very pretty, though not the least like you,” said the girl, simply, her thoughts already diverted from the consideration of Michael’s personal appearance; “But it is so odd,” she continued, “I have such a feeling that I have seen you before. And to-day, as soon as that visit to Wyverston was spoken of, I seemed to have seen you there. I suppose it is through knowing that Evelyn Headfort—she let me call her Evelyn—is your sister.”

“Perhaps so,” said Philippa. Then anxious at all costs to set this troublesome little person’s little mind at rest, she went on. “Perhaps Evelyn spoke about me to you. She is rather fond of doing so.”

“Yes, I daresay it was that,” said Aline. “She did talk about you. I remember somebody said that she and I might be taken for sisters, and that made her say that her sister and she were not at all alike.”

“Oh, Evey,” thought Philippa, “rash is no word for you!” But aloud she said kindly, for something in the childish creature touched her: “Yes, you are both so fair, and your hair and eyes are just about the same colour.”

Aline smiled with pleasure. And there was no flattery in what Philippa had said. She was certainly a very pretty little thing, though without a touch of Evelyn’s charm of mind and originality.

And for the rest of the day she attached herself so steadily to Miss Raynsworth that Mr Gresham wished more devoutly than ever that he had restricted his party to its original limits.

Chapter Eighteen. A Torn Frill.

The ball to which allusion has already been made, as the one gaiety of its kind that proved attainable for Philippa Raynsworth during her visit to Cannes, though a private one, was given at a hotel. And that hotel was the temporary residence of Mrs and Miss Worthing.

It came about, therefore, naturally enough that they were among the guests, though they had not previously been acquainted with the givers of the dance. For kind Lady Mary Bertram thought it would be “too bad” for a young creature like Aline Worthing to be actually on the spot, listening to the inspiring strains, which would probably prevent her going to sleep, without taking part in the entertainment. So she arranged that there should be an introduction, followed by a card of invitation.

Philippa had heard of the circumstance, but without paying special attention to it. The evening was not destined, however, to pass without her having reason to wish more fervently even than heretofore that the mother and daughter had selected some other route for their journey home from Italy, than that which had brought them to their present halting-place.

She had looked forward to the ball with considerable interest and a fair amount of girlish excitement, which Miss Lermont was glad to see. It was only natural and right that Philippa should enjoy herself and should wish to do so. And this dance was almost a début for her. In the Raynsworths’ very quiet life, occasions of the kind were rare, and since Philippa had been really grown-up, for various local reasons the neighbourhood of Greenleaves had been peculiarly dull.

Maida herself superintended her cousin’s toilet, and the result fully rewarded her. Philippa had never looked better, and her total absence of self-consciousness greatly added to the charm of her appearance. She was frankly pleased with her dress, and delighted that her kind friends approved of the whole effect, and then she thought no more about it.

“Of course I do not expect to dance very much,” she said to Maida, “and I hope Lady Mary will not trouble herself about partners for me. It is not as if we had been here all the winter and knew everybody there is to know; it is not even as if we lived in the ‘world’ at home, like the Worthings. Miss Worthing says they have found ever so many old friends and acquaintances here. But I shall enjoy it quite as much if I dance very little; it will be all so new to me, you see.”

She did not allow, even to her inmost self, that the knowledge of Mr Gresham’s presence, the certainty that he would not suffer the evening to pass without spending as much of it as good taste would permit by her side, had something to do with this foreseeing philosophy of hers. And Miss Lermont was the very last person to hint at such a thing.

To her the whole scene was almost one of enchantment.

“I daresay you will have quite as much dancing as you care about, dear,” she said, quietly, “I am sure you dance well; you have the look of it, and your partners will find that out quickly. Besides,” with a smile, “you must allow something for the charm of novelty. Those other girls who have been here all the winter have not _that_ advantage over you.”

Philippa laughed.

“There will be the charm of novelty for me, assuredly,” she said.

And then, as the Bertrams’ carriage was announced, she kissed her cousin affectionately, promising to relate all her adventures in full the next morning.

“I am sure she will enjoy herself,” said Maida to Mr Raynsworth, as he came back from putting his daughter into the carriage.

“I have no doubt of it,” he said. “In fact she has enjoyed everything here. And it is all greatly due to you, Maida. I have never seen Philippa so bright and light-hearted in her life. And I am most thankful for it. She deserves to be happy.”

“Yes,” Miss Lermont agreed, warmly. “She does indeed.”

And Philippa did “enjoy herself.” To her the whole scene was almost one of enchantment, and she threw herself into it with no misgiving. Personally, though in her inexperience she did not realise this, she was a great success, and she had certainly no reason to test the truth of her prediction that she would be equally happy if she danced little or much.

Mr Gresham was her most frequent partner; but from their previous acquaintance this seemed only natural. And he in no way obtruded the fact. He had no desire to make any gossip about himself or his affairs prematurely, and till he had entirely and completely decided that in Miss Raynsworth he had at last found his ideal, he would have considered any behaviour calling for such comment decidedly ill-judged and in bad taste.

Nevertheless he managed to appropriate to himself a good deal of the girl’s time and attention. And the result of the ball at the Hôtel —, at which Philippa’s bearing and the admiration she excited fulfilled his best anticipations, was such as to make him all but own to himself that in Miss Raynsworth he had found something very nearly approaching perfection.

The evening did not, however, pass, as has been said, without a sting of annoyance to poor Philippa. Among the maids deputed to attend to the ladies in the cloak-room was Mrs Worthing’s “Bailey.”

On arrival, the room being crowded and the attendants busy, Philippa did not notice the maid’s presence. But later in the evening a slight accident happened to her dress, a frill of which was torn. Aline Worthing was standing near her at the time, and good-naturedly offered to go with her to have it mended, and without the least misgiving, Miss Raynsworth thanked her, and went with her to the cloak-room, now comparatively deserted.

“Bailey must be here; our maid, I mean,” said Aline, glancing round. She was a little near-sighted. And at the name, Philippa’s heart for a moment seemed to stand still.

“Oh, pray don’t trouble to find your maid,” she said, eagerly. “Any one can do what is required; a few pins indeed are all that is necessary.”

But Miss Worthing, in the sort of enthusiasm she had conceived for her new friend, was not satisfied with half measures.

“Bailey! Bailey!” she called, as she caught sight of her attendant at the other end of the room; “come quick. I want you to mend Miss Raynsworth’s skirt!”

The woman hastened towards the two girls; but as she drew near them a curious change came over her face, which had hitherto expressed only good-natured readiness to attend to her young lady’s summons. It grew hard and almost repellent in expression, with a look in the eyes of something so nearly approaching insolence that it made Philippa shudder. Yet Bailey was not a bad or vindictive woman. She was simply one of her class; perhaps specially prone, as Mrs Shepton had warned Philippa, to jealousy of any one younger or better-looking than herself, and, as a not unnatural result of this, to suspicion.

She smiled slightly as she addressed Aline, but the smile was not a pleasant one, and she seemed to avoid looking at Philippa, as if she wished to obtrude her ignoring of her.

“Yes, ma’am,” she said; “what is it I can do? Have you torn your dress?” and she glanced at Aline’s draperies with a kind of affectation of concern.

“No, no,” said the girl, impatiently, “didn’t you hear what I said? It is Miss Raynsworth’s dress that is torn, not mine. Get a needle and thread and mend it as quickly as you can.”

“Miss—Miss _Ray’s_ dress?” said Bailey, slowly; “no, Miss Aline, I did not understand that Miss Ray was a friend of yours.”

And now, almost as if indifferent whether Miss Worthing noticed her extraordinary manner or not, she stared hard at Philippa, with the same half-impertinent, half-contemptuous smile on her face.

Philippa grew white; Aline grew red with shame.

“Bailey,” she said, indignantly, “what is the matter with you? Are you going out of your mind? Or have you been asleep and don’t know what you are saying?”

The maid in her turn reddened a little. She was evidently not accustomed to be spoken to so sharply, and it mortified her.

“I did not understand,” she muttered, confusedly, and she drew a thimble and needle-case out of her pocket. “If you will show me—” she began.

But Philippa by this time had quite recovered her self-possession. Every nerve in her body tingled with proud indignation. Whether wisely or unwisely, she felt that there was but one course possible for her to pursue.

“She shall not dare to think that I am afraid of her,” she said to herself.

And she fixed her eyes undauntedly on Bailey with a gesture of repelling her now offered services.

“No,” she said, icily. “I am much obliged to you, Miss Worthing, but I should much prefer one of the other maids mending my skirt,” and she turned away and walked slowly across the room to where one of the French chamber-maids was standing, looking rather astonished at the little scene, though she had no idea what it was all about. And just for a moment Bailey felt staggered. _Could_ she have made a mistake as to the identity of this young lady and Phillis Ray, the maid, whom she had met and disliked at Wyverston? The very idea frightened her; what _would_ her mistress say to her if “Miss Aline” told of her rudeness? Bailey’s imagination was well stocked with sensational fiction; she had read of extraordinary likenesses, leading to still more extraordinary mistakes. But no, a moment’s reflection satisfied her again. There were other coincidences—here, at Cannes, this girl was figuring as Miss Raynsworth, sister to Mrs Marmaduke Headfort (for Bailey knew all the small talk and gossip of the place already); there, at Wyverston, she had been the same lady’s _maid_. There was some mystery, some secret, and Bailey’s sensational novels came in handy again, as suggesting reasons and clues by the score. She had _not_ made a mistake.

All this passed through her mind so rapidly that she was quite prepared with an answer when Aline, waiting an instant till Philippa was out of earshot, turned upon her again hotly.

“Bailey,” she said, “I am utterly ashamed of you. I do not know what has come over you, but I warn you I shall tell mamma all about it.”

Somewhat to her surprise, Bailey did not seem impressed by what she said. Aline was in general very mild and gentle, and Bailey was an old servant. Miss Worthing would not have dared to speak so strongly to her, had she not herself for once been really angry, and she was half prepared for something rude in reply. But the maid answered calmly enough:

“Of course, miss, you must tell your mamma what you like. But I shall have something to tell her too—something that will surprise her more than anything you tell her of _my_ behaviour. And I take blame to myself that I have not spoken out before; so particular as your mamma has always been about you.”

“What do you mean, Bailey? Say what you mean, or I will go straight into the ball-room and bring mamma here,” said Aline, beginning to be vaguely frightened as well as angry.

“As you like, Miss Aline,” returned the maid, curtly; “but—”

Aline, glancing round, saw at this moment Philippa, her skirt repaired, coming slowly towards her. Something in Miss Raynsworth’s cool and stately bearing at once reassured the younger girl, and afraid of the _possibility_ of repeated insolence on Bailey’s part, she hurried forward to meet her companion.

“Thank you so much for waiting for me,” said Philippa. “I hope you will not have missed all this dance.”

“Oh, no; I don’t mind,” said Aline, confusedly. “Miss Raynsworth,” she went on, “I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to apologise to you for Bailey’s insolence. I don’t know what has come over her, unless she is going out of her mind. She was never like that before. I shall tell mamma about it at once.”

“Oh, pray don’t,” said Philippa. “Do not spoil the evening by anything disagreeable. Wait till you are in your own rooms afterwards. It is really making too much of it to say anything to Mrs Worthing at all, but still I can understand your feeling about it.”

It would be worse than useless she well knew to persuade the girl not to tell her mother, even could she herself have condescended to do so. For she now felt little doubt that Bailey would communicate her suspicions, whatever form they had taken, to her mistress; and any check from herself as to Aline’s account of the strange occurrence would only lower her position.

“I can’t understand _her_” repeated Aline. “She really looked at you as if she hated you, Miss Raynsworth. Can she be confusing you with some one else? Now I come to think of it, she spoke of you as ‘Miss Ray,’ did she not?”

“Yes,” said Philippa, “I think she did. I daresay she did take me for—for another person.”

“There _are_ very strange likenesses sometimes between people who have nothing to do with each other,” said Aline, looking perplexed.

But by this time they were entering the ball-room, and Mr Gresham, who had been waiting about the door for Philippa’s return, came forward to claim a dance, and at the same time Captain Bertram asked Aline to make up a Lancers set with him. So the two girls were separated. Nor did they meet again, except for a hurried good-bye at the end.

Poor Philippa, she would gladly have been left by herself for a few moments, to recover her composure and think over the disagreeable shock she had just received. For the brave front she had put upon it was only in appearance; in reality she was miserably upset.

“You are looking very pale, Miss Raynsworth,” said Mr Gresham. “Are you tired? Pray don’t dance if you would rather sit quietly and rest.”

“No, thank you,” Philippa replied. “I would rather dance,” which, under the circumstances—“sitting out” only meaning a _tête-à-tête_ with her partner—was certainly true. “I am really not tired,” she went on, “though I have been dancing so energetically as to tear my dress, you saw?”

“That was that clumsy Delmaine’s fault,” he replied. “I saw how it happened. I was waiting to catch you as you came back from the cloak-room. It is all right now, I suppose?” with a glance at her skirts. It would have annoyed him to find himself entangled in his partner’s torn flounces before the whole ball-room!

“Oh, yes,” she replied. “I got it mended by one of the maids in the cloak-room.”

The word—or was it an unconscious intuition of what was passing in the girl’s mind?—caught Mr Gresham’s ear.

“Oh, by-the-by,” he said, “I wanted to ask you something. Do give me leave to speak to Mrs Worthing about that insolent maid of hers. I really think she must be insane. I cannot forget about it, and I do not think such a thing should be allowed to pass.”

Philippa smiled—had Mr Gresham been more discriminating, her smile would have struck him as a very bitter one.

“Oh, dear,” she said, “I wonder at your remembering about that absurd thing. Surely it should be treated as beneath contempt.”

Mr Gresham looked dissatisfied.

“You might understand,” he said, speaking in a lower tone of voice, and with something of reproach, “You might understand how inexpressibly annoying it was to me for anything of the kind to happen to _you_; above all, when you were in the position of my guest.”

He glanced at her with a kind of delicate inquiry in her eyes, and the accent on the pronoun made Philippa’s cheeks flush.

“Don’t mind about it, I beg of you,” she said, earnestly. “Promise me you will not mention it to Mrs Worthing. I scarcely know her at all, and—and—she might not be nice about it. You have been so kind,” she went on; “you have done so much to add to the pleasure of my time here, that I should hate to think it could be associated with anything disagreeable. Please promise me,” she repeated, in conclusion.

He smiled.

“I am afraid I should find it difficult not to promise you anything you liked to ask,” he said. “Well, then, we will let the matter drop. I am so glad, so delighted that you have enjoyed your visit here; and if I have in the very least added to your amusement, as you so kindly say, I need scarcely assure you that I am repaid a thousandfold.”

Then he went on to speak, in his most attractive way, of meeting again in England; of Evelyn and her husband; of “Charley,” whom he had heard of and would be so pleased to meet; exerting himself so tactfully to talk of the things which he knew interested her the most, that Philippa forgot the painful shock she had experienced, or only recalled it to make light of her own exaggerated fears.

“After all,” she said to herself, “at the very worst I did nothing wrong, nothing really to feel ashamed of. And if—if I were ever to get to know Mr Gresham better—really very well indeed, I could make him understand it all. Even that rough, surly Michael was kind about it, and Bernard is infinitely gentler and less harsh judging than he. No; I need not be unhappy.” And that night when she passed Maida’s room, of which the door was slightly ajar, and heard Miss Lermont’s voice saying, softly:

“Philippa, dear, is that you? Have you enjoyed yourself?” she answered brightly, as she went in for a moment:

“Enjoyed myself? I should think so. I have never been so happy in my life.”

The words and tone gave Miss Lermont much subject for thought. Was this to be the girl’s fate, then? Was she destined to be one of the favoured few to whom the good things of life come almost before life has really begun? Was it to be a case of “true love running smooth,” one of the exceptions to prove the rule? It looked like it. And in the eyes of the world—and that not of the thoroughly “worldly” world either—such a marriage for Philippa Raynsworth would be not only brilliant, but excellent in every possible way.

“Yet,” thought Maida to herself, “yet, _is_ he really good enough for her?”

Forty-eight hours after the ball saw Mr Raynsworth and his daughter started on their journey home.

Chapter Nineteen. Good News.

“Well, mother,” said Evelyn Headfort, one morning, a fortnight or so after the return of the two wanderers to Greenleaves, “I hope you are satisfied _now_ that it was not my fancy about Mr Gresham? I have not said anything hitherto about it. I thought I would wait till you could judge for yourself; but I am sure you have had time to hear everything Phil has to tell by this.”