Chapter VIII: Part 8

“But,” began Mrs Raynsworth, “if there were anything of that kind to tell, Philippa would be more likely to tell nothing.”

She smiled a little at her own rather “Irish” way of expressing herself.

“Of course, mother dear,” said Evelyn, with a touch of impatience. “Of course I know that. What I mean is, that you can _judge_. I don’t dream for a moment that she is the sort of girl to tell even _you_ of the conquests she has made. But to me—and I don’t suppose Philippa has said as much to me as to you. I have been so busy, you see, getting ready for Wyverston,” for the Marmaduke Headforts were on the eve of starting for a visit to the north, “and Duke wanting me every two minutes—but even judging by what she has said to _me_, I feel no doubt about it whatever. It is in her own hands. He fell in love with her that first afternoon at Dorriford. I shall always say so.”

“Well, time will show,” replied Mrs Raynsworth. She seemed slightly nervous, or rather disinclined to discuss the subject. But Evelyn, though a little disappointed, was not suspicious of there being any other reason for her mother’s reticence than Mrs Raynsworth’s extreme, perhaps exaggerated delicacy.

“I don’t know about that,” she replied. “There are ways and means of _preventing_ ‘time’s showing.’ It does not do to be a fatalist in such matters, any more than in any others, mamma. If Phil chooses to—well, to discourage its going any further, either actively or tacitly, nothing is easier than for a girl to discourage a man; no one will ever believe there was anything in it! At least no one would ever be sure that there had been. I do not call that ‘time’s showing;’ _I_ should call it girl’s perversity.”

Mrs Raynsworth hesitated.

“I think you can trust Philippa,” she said. “There is not a touch of a flirt or coquette about her. If she had real grounds for believing that any man she felt _she_ could care for, cared for her, she would behave with simplicity and straightforwardness, I am sure.”

“Perhaps she would,” rejoined Mrs Headfort, “but how about what you call ‘real grounds?’ Short of putting it into so many words, I doubt if she ever _would_ believe it, and till she did, she would be tacitly discouraging without meaning it, and then the ‘so many words’ would never come! It is a vicious circle, when you have to deal with any one so fantastic as Phil.” And to herself she added, “And I do believe mamma rather encourages it in her. They are both too impracticable.”

Poor Evelyn, she was feeling put out. For she had, to tell the truth, been putting considerable restraint on herself not to cross-question her sister. And she had only refrained from doing so in the hope of being rewarded by a good comfortable “talk over” of the whole affair with her mother before leaving for Wyverston.

And Mrs Raynsworth understood her perfectly, and was sorry for her disappointment. But there was another motive for her own uncommunicativeness. Philippa had told her _all_ that had happened—the last annoying “rencontre” with the maid, Bailey, as well as the first. And the mother’s heart was sore—sorer than she would for worlds have allowed Philippa to suspect. Was this miserable piece of girlish folly never to be forgotten? Was it to cloud her daughter’s life and prospects always? For Mrs Raynsworth knew the world and society much better than might have been supposed from her present quiet and almost isolated life. Her youth had been spent in a very different _milieu_ from the simple though refined home which was all that her scholarly husband was able to give her. And she knew how the least breath of anything against a girl—any, even harmless, piece of fun or thoughtlessness may be magnified or distorted—above all, where there is any element of spite or jealousy present—into grotesque, but none the less fatally damaging proportions.

“I almost wish,” thought Philippa’s mother, “that I had not made her promise never to tell the story without first consulting me. Had she been free to confide in Maida Lermont, for instance, Maida might have found some way of telling it to Mr Gresham, simply and unexaggeratedly; _if_, that is to say, Maida has noticed anything on his side of what Evey suspects. Maida is very clever and tactful—could I write to her?” But this idea was dismissed as soon as it suggested itself. It was too repellent to all Mrs Raynsworth’s instincts—as if her child, her noble Philippa, needed “explaining,” apologising for!—not to speak of the, to such a woman as herself, inexpressible indelicacy of presupposing any special interest in her daughter, before the man in question had unmistakably declared it!

“No,” she decided, “I can do nothing. I could _speak_ to Maida, possibly to her mother. But writing anything of the kind, putting it on paper, I cannot.”

Perhaps she was wrong. A great many things in this often crooked life of ours might be put straight if people were less timorous of speaking out, of their doing so being misunderstood. But for many, life-long suffering, death of every hope, seem preferable to even the shadow of indelicacy. And of such were Philippa and her mother.

And then again came a species of reaction to Mrs Raynsworth, much as had been the case that last evening at Cannes with Philippa.

“I am surely after all exaggerating it,” thought she, “I am letting myself get morbid; at the very worst there is nothing to be really ashamed of in what the foolish child did, and in the _motives_ which led to her doing it there is much to be proud of. Any man who was worthy of Philippa, who could rise above conventional notions of propriety where higher feelings called for doing so, _would_ understand and would scarcely blame her, though as we—as her father and I do—he might regret, bitterly regret, that she had been so rash. No; I will not let myself be unhappy about it, for there is no real reason, and Philippa would find out if I were so. Her intuitions are so quick and accurate. And, above all, _she_ must not be allowed to grow morbid about it.”

It would have been an unspeakable comfort to the mother to have confided the whole story, with its sequence of anxieties and misgivings, to her eldest son. But this she had deliberately decided not to do. Charley was so proud of Philippa; he loved to guard her from every touch of roughness or coarseness, as if she were too good for common life at all; it might be exaggerated, but it was very sweet and tender all the same, and his mother could not face the thought of his pain and indignation did he ever come to know what his sister had done, and the detestable gossip and comments that even now might result from it. No, Charley must never know.

And the unselfish determination to keep her uneasiness to herself made Mrs Raynsworth even more consistently cheerful than usual, so that Philippa felt herself justified in dismissing her misgivings, and now and then, though rarely, for the girl knew the complexities of her own character and its weaknesses, when few would have suspected them—just now and then she allowed herself a little day-dreaming, of radiant, rose-coloured possibilities, whose beauty any more definite picturing would, to such a nature as hers, have destroyed.

And some weeks passed, happily and peacefully. Evelyn and her husband stayed nearly a month at Wyverston, and Philippa enjoyed to the full her mother and elder brother’s society. Little Vanda was no trouble now, for she was fast outgrowing her delicacy, and the weather was lovely. And the letters from Wyverston were cheering in the extreme; nothing could be more satisfactory, wrote Evelyn, than the progressing friendship between the squire and her husband.

“They all like him, I can see,” she wrote, “and who could help it? Duke is so good and so simple and single-minded. I feel almost certain something will be arranged before we leave this, so that we need never go back to that dreadful India again.”

“Is not that good news?” said Mrs Raynsworth, looking up from the letter which she had been reading aloud.

“Excellent,” said Philippa, heartily. “I wonder where their home will be. Does Evey say,” she went on, rather thoughtlessly, for Charles was present, and the subject of her sister’s maid was always a somewhat nervous one, “does she say how Berthe is getting on?” Berthe was a French maid whom Miss Lermont had found for Mrs Marmaduke Headfort.

“Very well, indeed,” said her mother, consulting the letter afresh. “Ah, yes, here it is: ‘Berthe is shaping very satisfactorily. There have been several inquiries as to why I had parted with—’ Oh, yes, nothing of consequence,” Mrs Raynsworth went on, confusedly; “let me see, what more does Evey say? ‘I am so extremely glad that Berthe neither speaks nor understands English at present. It prevents all possibility of gossip, and—’”

“Gossip,” interrupted Charley; “what can Evey mean? She—we—have no reason to fear servants’ gossip. Surely,” and he flushed a little, “surely Evelyn is not vulgar-minded enough to be afraid of her maid’s talking of the simple way we live—of our not being rich?”

“Charley!” said Philippa. “How can you dream of such a thing? Of course not; but Duke’s position among his relations is a rather delicate one. There might be plenty of gossip about it.”

She felt herself crimson as she spoke; she hated herself for the species of subterfuge she was condescending to, and afterwards she felt that it had been scarcely necessary. Charley was not of a suspicious nature.

Her suggestion of a natural reason for her sister’s fear of gossip seemed to serve its purpose. Charley gave a kind of grunt of semi-apology to the absent Evelyn, and no more was said.

But later in the day, when Philippa and her mother were by themselves, Mrs Raynsworth alluded again to the letter.

“There are one or two things Evelyn asked me to tell you, Philippa,” she said. “One was that, as I knew she intended to do, she managed to pay a private visit to that good Mrs Shepton, and to give her the little present I sent her. And she says she had a ‘charming talk with her,’ and feels so much happier now that Mrs Shepton knows more about how it all happened.”

“I am sure _I_ was candid enough about it,” said Philippa. “I scarcely see what more there was for Evey to tell.”

“Not much, I daresay. But I think too that it is satisfactory and only fair to you yourself, under the circumstances, that what you told should have been, as it were, endorsed by a member of your family. And who so well able to do it as Evelyn? I know for _her_ own sake, she was anxious to show Mrs Shepton that she had not joined you in _planning_ the thing, though she had not resoluteness enough to stop it. And _I_ am glad for the housekeeper to know very distinctly what your father and I felt and do feel about it.”

There was a touch of coldness in Mrs Raynsworth’s tone, and a slight inference of reproach which her daughter’s tender conscience felt to be not entirely undeserved. She had not answered as gently as she might have done to her mother.

“Oh, mamma,” she exclaimed. “Of course I know you are always right and wise, but somehow any allusion to that—that time at Wyverston makes me nervous and cross.”

Mrs Raynsworth patted her gently. Philippa had crept up close to her. Evelyn’s letter was still lying open before her.

“There is a long postscript, I see, mamma,” she said. “You did not read it aloud, did you? Is it anything private?”

Mrs Raynsworth hesitated.

“It is and it isn’t,” she replied. “But of course Evelyn would leave it to my discretion to tell _you_ or not. She does ask me not to speak of it to your father or Charley, as Duke wants to tell them himself, once it is settled. Did you know, Philippa—no, I am sure you did not—that the Headforts have considerable property in —shire, not far from that place of Mr Gresham’s, Merle-in-the-Wold?”

Philippa looked up with interest.

“No, indeed,” she said. “I had no idea of it.”

“Nor had Evelyn; it is natural enough, however, that she should not have heard of it, for it is not what agents call a ‘residential estate.’ There was no house. But quite lately the old squire has bought more land there, and on it there _is_ a small house, a sort of good farm-house, which might easily be converted into a very charming little place. And with the increased size of the property he wants some one there to look after it. _This_ is what he is talking about to Duke; his idea is for Duke to leave the army and settle down there. They are talking it over busily, Evey says. Of course, Duke is sorry to give up his profession, but then, as the squire truly says, there is the future to think of—his children and—” Here Mrs Raynsworth consulted the letter. ”‘He says, too,’ Evey writes, ‘that if Duke’s future is to be that of a country proprietor, the sooner he learns some details of the business the better. That is the way he puts it, you see—half jokingly. But he is too kind and good to mislead us. And in many ways —shire would suit us better at present than farther north. I shall get quite strong in time, no doubt, but India has tried me, and Vanda is not too robust either. Phil will remember what a lovely part of the country it is near Merle-in-the-Wold.’ Ah, yes,” Mrs Raynsworth went on, “that shows that she meant to tell you. She adds also something about Mr Gresham’s being such a pleasant neighbour.”

“It does sound delightful,” said Philippa, with sparkling eyes. “I do hope it will be soon decided about I shall have to try to forget about it, or I shall be able to think of nothing else.”

“It is not likely that we shall be kept very long in suspense,” said her mother, “for Evelyn and Duke will be back in a week, and by that time they are sure to know.”

Even a week, however, seems to extend itself magically, if one—especially if “one” is young and eager—has any great reason for wishing it over. But the first glance at her sister and brother-in-law’s bright faces as the familiar old Marlby fly drew up at the Greenleaves door told that all was right, and Philippa’s heart rebounded with joy.

“Isn’t it too lovely, Phil?” whispered Evelyn already, as they were crossing the hall. “Mamma has told you what we have been hoping, hasn’t she? I told her she might, though Duke wanted to tell papa and Charley himself.”

“And is it really settled, then?” asked Phil; “if so, it _is_ almost too lovely as you say.”

“Yes, it is settled, quite settled. Duke wrote about retiring before we left Wyverston. That is the only melancholy bit of it, for he has been so happy in his regiment, and he loves his work. It was better for him to do it there—on the spot, as it were—when the _family_ feeling could keep him up to knowing it was right. Poor old Duke! The squire did so understand and liked him the better for it, I could see. And I was glad for them all to feel that there _is_ sacrifice even in his accepting the position of future head of the house. And—but I must wait till afterwards to tell you everything. I think I shall have to talk for a week without stopping, once Duke lets me.”

They were in the drawing-room by this time, where all the others were waiting to receive the travellers. For the Raynsworths were “old-fashioned” enough to be a very united family. The comings and goings of any among them were of interest to the others; their joys and sorrows were common to all, and Duke Headfort, from his somewhat lonely and isolated position before his marriage, seemed at Greenleaves, for the first time, to learn what home life and home affections are.

And even now, when his own kinsfolk had so unexpectedly made those friendly overtures to him, and his future position bade fair to be a prominent and prosperous one, Captain Headfort was far too steady and loyal to change.

“_Whatever_ the squire does for me, and however kind and cousinly they all are,” he said to his wife, “I can never but know that the _first_ reason is that I am a Headfort. They thought little and cared less about me till fate, in a sense, forced them to do so. And I don’t in the least blame them. It was only natural, and I am grateful to them now for the kind and hearty way in which they are acting. For at best it must be terribly bitter to them to see a stranger in their son’s place. But they can never be to me what your people are, Evey. Your dear people, who welcomed me as a son and a brother, as cordially as if I had been a duke or a millionaire.”

“Far more than if you had been either one or the other,” said Evelyn, adding, with a smile: “but then, you know, Duke, it was partly for my sake, because I had fallen in love with you.”

“Well, what is done for your sake only doubles its value in my eyes,” he said.

It can readily be imagined, in such circumstances, how _very_ good the good news the young husband and wife brought back seemed to the little circle at home. Almost indeed at first it sounded “too good to be true,” and it was not till Captain Headfort, with the practical matter-of-fact grasp of things which was a part of his character, went on to give details about going down to see the place and settle what had to be done, and how soon they could take up their residence there, and so on, that they all began to breathe more freely and feel that it was _real_.

“You must come with us, Phil, when we go to spy the land,” said Evelyn. “We shall be ever so much the better for your advice and taste.”

And this time Philippa brought forward no excuses for not falling in with her sister’s wishes, though Brierly—Evelyn’s new home—was within a drive of Merle-in-the-Wold.

Chapter Twenty. A Visitor in a Hansom.

A day or two after the Headforts’ return to Greenleaves, Philippa got a letter from Maida Lermont. The Dorriford people were now at _home_ again, but they had travelled back by slow stages, and this was only the second time that any direct news of them had come since Mr Raynsworth and his daughter had left Cannes.

Miss Lermont wrote cheerfully. She was feeling so well, she said, far better than “this time last _year_,” and she was looking forward to seeing her cousin before long, though how or when exactly she could not say—it was more “a sort of presentiment.” She gave a few details, with the graphic interest of touch peculiar to her, of their journey homewards and certain new sights and experiences it had offered. And then at the close came a mention of the name which, almost unconsciously to herself, Philippa had been looking for all through the letter.

“I hear from the Bertrams that Mr Gresham has been down at Merle, but only for a short time,” she wrote. “They will be seeing him in town next week when they go up. He has been very busy about something or other, I forget what—oh, yes, I know—some electioneering through an unexpected vacancy.” And at the _very_ end she added: “I forgot to give you Aline Worthing’s love, though I faithfully promised her to do so. They left Cannes the same day you did, but by a different route, so I did not see them again there, but we came across them in Paris.”

These two fragments of gossip did not detract from the generally pleasurable feeling which Miss Lermont’s letter left on her cousin’s mind. She was glad to know that Mr Gresham had been “unusually busy,” for—a girl’s fancy is an unmanageable thing—in spite of her strong self-control, Philippa, at the bottom of her heart, knew that she was not always mistress of her own thoughts. And now that several weeks had elapsed since her return and his, for he had told her he meant to be soon in England again, and he had made no sign, not even a letter to Evelyn, certain painful possibilities had now and then suggested themselves. Had the woman, Bailey, who, for some reason or other, seemed to have become her enemy, had Bailey done or said something? Had she retailed her discovery to Mrs Worthing, and had Mrs Worthing—a faint sick feeling came over Philippa at this stage of her conjectures, and she went no further with them, for what sort of interpretation a coarse, vulgar mind might give to what she had done, she was at a loss to imagine.

“She would probably say I had done it for a wager, or some hateful practical joke—just the kind of thing _he_ would abhor,” she thought.

So in addition to the satisfaction of learning that Mr Gresham had been unusually occupied, was that of hearing that the Worthings had left Cannes so quickly.

“They cannot have met again,” thought Philippa to herself. And her heart grew lighter at once.

“If only,” she went on thinking, “if _only_ I knew him well enough, or—or had any reason for telling him all about it—the whole story—_what_ a relief it would be! And even Michael Gresham, rough and ready as he is, _so_ different from his cousin, once he knew the whole, was really kind and I don’t think he looked down upon me for it. What he hated, I can see now, was the feeling that I was deceitful and unstraightforward. And Mr Gresham understands shades of thought and feeling so wonderfully—almost like a woman. Oh, no, it could not do me any harm in any real friend’s opinion if I could tell it all myself in the first place.”

And perhaps she was right.

“Philippa,” said Evelyn, one morning, “I have ever so many messages for you from Mrs Shepton—dutiful regards or affectionate respects, or something of that kind. She was sorely put to it to find out how to express herself correctly, with proper respect, I mean, and yet with the affection she really does feel for you. She _is_ a nice woman and so devoted to Bonny. I only hope—” But here Mrs Marmaduke Headfort hesitated.

“Go on,” said Philippa, “I don’t mind any allusions now. And I love Mrs Shepton. Nothing she could say would vex me.”

“You are wrong for once,” said Evelyn. “It wasn’t anything about you I was going to say. It was only that I do devoutly hope if ever I come to be—well, at the head of things at Wyverston, that I shall find Mrs Shepton still there. And I hesitated, because it seems horridly cold-blooded to think of the dear old squire’s death.”

“Yes,” her sister agreed, “it does. Still he is an old man, and of course he now _wants_ Duke to be recognised as his heir. That makes a difference. I should not think Mrs Shepton at all a lover of change. I daresay she will end her days at Wyverston. She has only been in two places in her life—first as nurse in one of the Gresham families, and then, after a few years of married life, as housekeeper at Wyverston. And her affections seem divided between the two families.”

“I don’t think she cares much about Bernard Gresham, _our_ Mr Gresham,” says Evelyn. “It is Michael she is so devoted to, and that is natural, I suppose, as it was in _his_ family she was nurse, though she had a good deal to do with Bernard too—he was so much with his relations as a child. She told me some interesting things about the Greshams, by-the-by. Did you know that _Michael’s_ father was the elder brother, not Bernard’s, and that the grand-uncle—grand-uncle to these young men, I mean—from whom Bernard inherited Merle and all his wealth, left it away from Michael on purpose?”

“N-no,” Philippa replied. “At least I don’t know anything distinctly. Mr Gresham, in talking of his cousin one day, alluded to his having had troubles, and spoke of him as having behaved very well, or very unselfishly or something.”

How clearly she remembered the very spot at which they were standing—in the grounds of the old château—when Mr Gresham had alluded to Michael! “A bit of a hero,” he had called him, though he had added what, though vaguely, pleased her less, something about “quixotry.”

“That was nice of Bernard Gresham,” said Evelyn, “for the position is a delicate one, and many men without his good feeling and _perfect_ good taste might almost have taken a dislike to Michael; the association of having in a sense supplanted him must be rather painful.”

“Supplanted him!” repeated Philippa. “I don’t understand what you mean?”

“Oh, no, of course—you know so little. It was this: _Michael’s_ father was the elder brother, and though, by all accounts, very charming, he was terribly wild. He ran through all he had and half or wholly broke his wife’s heart. He died when Michael was about eighteen, leaving any amount of debts. They _had_ been very well off, much better than Bernard’s parents, who were in India or somewhere—his father, that is to say—his mother died when he was born, and he was practically brought up at his uncle’s. Then his father died, just before Michael’s, so the two young men came next, though the property was not entailed. Well, the old uncle was furious at the way Michael’s father had behaved, but that would not have made any difference to Michael, whom he liked and respected. But he would do nothing to help to pay his dead nephew’s debts, and Michael and his mother were broken-hearted about them. Both on account of the disgrace to Mr Henry Gresham’s memory and also because some of the debts were unusually bad ones; he had borrowed money from all sorts of people who could ill afford to lose it, poor relations of his wife’s, even poorer people still, whom he had cajoled by his charming manners. It was actual ruin to several. Michael pleaded and pleaded with the old uncle till at last he got into a sort of rage and said that for peace sake he would pay them off, if Michael would renounce all expectation of being his heir. And Michael _did_, for his mother’s sake more even than for the other reasons, and he never let her know at what a cost his father’s memory had been cleared. She died soon after, in comparative peace of mind. And he had to face the world practically penniless. He knew it; he knew the old man would keep to what he had said, and he did.”

“Did he leave Michael _nothing_?” said Philippa.

“Nothing. His name was not mentioned in the will. The uncle might have modified it if he had lived longer, but he was very old and he died suddenly.”

“And,” Philippa went on, with some hesitation, “has her—has Mr Gresham done nothing for his cousin?”

Evelyn shook her head.

“I can’t say. I didn’t like to ask Mrs Shepton anything that she did not tell, but she is a very fair, just-minded woman. She did not say anything about Mr Gresham—Bernard, I mean—one way or the other. But she said a great deal about how proud Michael is. I should think it is most probable that Bernard has offered to help him, but that he has refused it.”

“Yes,” said Philippa, consideringly. “And then besides if—if he looked upon his arrangement with his grand-uncle as a compact, I daresay he would think it not strictly honourable to take any of his money, even from its present possessor. Still—”

“Still what?” said Evelyn, with some impatience.

“I was only going to say that I think Mr Gresham might have done—well _something_ to help Michael on.”

“And how do we know that he has not? I feel almost certain he has _tried_ to do so at any rate. You remember he used the word ‘quixotry’ in talking to you of Michael. Ten to one he was thinking of his cousin’s refusal to take anything from him.”

“Perhaps so,” said Philippa, somewhat absently. Evelyn felt slightly irritated with her, and half inclined to blame herself for her own communicativeness.

“Philippa is so fantastic,” she thought. “Very likely she will now begin making a hero in earnest of Michael Gresham, and blaming Bernard for what he probably deserves no blame for.”

But she scarcely understood her sister. Philippa’s thoughts were certainly occupied with the two men, but not exactly to the disparagement of the elder. She was only comparing the two in her mind and saying to herself how little she would have credited Michael with the delicacy and sensitiveness of _feeling_ he evidently possessed.

“He must be almost a grand character,” she thought. “And I only saw his roughness and hardness. I never would have thought him so capable of devotion as he must have been to his mother. What a hard life he has had! It makes it seem easy for any one to be kind and considerate as Mr Gresham is, when one knows how smooth things have been for him in comparison. Still, prosperity _might_ have made him hard and indifferent; it often does. And that I cannot think he would ever be.”

She was right—right, that is to say, so far as a large nature can ever fairly judge a small one. Careless or indifferent to his cousin it was not in Bernard Gresham to be, nor forgetful of the kindness shown him throughout his youth by Michael’s parents. And Evelyn’s belief that the struggles the latter had gone through were far more due to his own determined independence than to Bernard’s selfishness or neglect, hit the mark pretty closely.

The very evening of the day on which the sisters had had this talk about the Greshams, a _tête-à-tête_, in which they themselves—Miss Raynsworth more especially—were the principal subject of discussion, took place in Michael Gresham’s rooms.

He had dined and was preparing for an evening’s study, for he was working very hard just then at the higher branches of technical knowledge connected with his profession, when the sound of a hansom stopping at his door made him glance out of the window with a touch of curiosity. For the street was a quiet one, and the neighbourhood was not fashionable and callers on himself were rare.

But that this caller was one of such, there could be no doubt, for standing on the pavement as he paid the cab, Michael recognised the familiar figure of his cousin Bernard.

He stepped back from the window with a murmur of impatience. Bernard’s visits, though infrequent, were not flying ones, and Michael had mapped out his evening’s work. There was no use in grumbling, however, and he met the new-comer pleasantly, as the door opened and the small boy who acted as page on such occasions announced Mr Gresham.

“Lucky to find you in, Mike,” was Bernard’s first greeting. “I would have telegraphed to say I was coming, but I only made up my mind to try to see you half an hour ago, so I thought I would just chance it.”

“I am not often out in the evening,” said Michael. “I don’t go in for dinner-parties and that sort of thing, as you know.”

“I have missed you sometimes, however,” said his cousin. “Last year I looked you up two or three times, don’t you remember? without ever finding you in.”

“Last year I stayed later at the office. I very often didn’t come home to dinner,” said Michael, quietly. “This year it is different. I have work that I can do better at home.”

Bernard glanced round the room as his cousin ceased speaking. Michael’s “home” was a somewhat dreary one, and somehow, though he had honestly meant to do his best for the man who had been all but a brother to him in bygone days, Bernard Gresham never realised Michael’s uphill life and struggles without a twinge of something like self-reproach.

“Are you satisfied with the berth you have got?” he said, abruptly. “Are these fellows—Matterson and Wheeler, I mean—treating you properly?”

“Quite properly—quite fairly, that is to say, thanks to you,” Michael replied, for the one thing he had accepted at his cousin’s hands was a substantial guarantee, which in due course was to pave the way towards his being taken in as a working partner. “One does not look for more than that in business matters. I have never expected ready roasted larks to fall to my share; but I am quite satisfied. Once I am thoroughly qualified in this special department,” and he glanced at the papers strewn on the table, “I have no doubt the permanent arrangement will be settled. But talking of roast larks or roast anything, have you dined, Bernard?”

Mr Gresham nodded.

“Yes, thank you, all right. I had something at my club early, on my way here. Have _you_ dined?”

Just then there came a scratching at the door.

“Yes,” said Michael, as he got up to open it. “I take my meals down-stairs. That’s one thing I can’t stand, eating and working in the same room. And Solomon,” as the dachshund walked in solemnly, “Solomon has dined too, but he stays behind for a nap.”

Bernard eyed the dog with a smile that was not all amiability.

“Really, Michael,” he observed, “you are too ridiculous about that animal.”

“Was that all you had to say to me?” said Michael, carelessly. He knew his cousin quite well enough to be sure that there was some special reason for his visit, a reason which it was not altogether easy to express, for he was conscious that Bernard was beating about the bush.

“No,” Mr Gresham replied, with a touch of sharpness, “it was not all. I want to ask your advice. But besides that, you have no reason, Mike, to say or to think that I am indifferent about you. I did want to know how you were getting on.”

“All right, old fellow. I have never said or thought that you were indifferent,” Michael answered, and his smile was frank and cordial. “But what is it that you want to consult me about? You are not thinking of getting married, are you?”

“I don’t know,” was the reply.

Michael looked at him keenly.

“That means, I should say, that you are,” he said.

In his turn, Bernard fixed his eyes on his cousin.

“What makes you think so? Have you heard any gossip about it?”

“I don’t know if you would call it gossip or not. I have heard that you seemed—well, a good deal struck by some one you met at Cannes. But you need not mind about it; it came round to me in the most innocent way, though I cannot tell you how.”

In point of fact, Michael’s informant was his old nurse, who had mentioned in a letter to him some allusions which Mrs Marmaduke Headfort had allowed herself to make, in her confidential talks with the housekeeper, to Mr Gresham’s admiration for her sister. But no comments, for or against, had been added by Mrs Shepton.

Bernard did not appear annoyed.

“Oh, at _Cannes_,” he repeated. “It is a nest of gossip about the English visitors, like all those places. And possibly,” he went on more slowly, “there was some little ground for it.”

“Then you need not trouble to tell me the young lady’s name,” said Michael, quickly, “which, to my mind, is always preferable in such circumstances. But taking that for known, what is it you want to consult me about? How can you—” He stopped short.

“Perhaps she has given you no encouragement to go further?”

A shade of irritation darkened Bernard’s face.

“On the contrary—” he began. Then he, too, stopped short. He had no wish to pose as a _fat_, even to Michael. “We need not enter into that part of it,” he said, composedly. “The thing is this, and, as you like plain speaking, you must not turn upon me, and call me coarse, or unchivalrous, or anything of that kind—the facts are these: I left Cannes all but decided in my own mind to—to—well, to go through with it. But circumstances delayed my return home, or, rather I should say, my return to my usual life. I was so busy about that canvassing business. And, on the whole, I thought it was just as well; I wanted to think it all over. Well, soon I was at leisure again; one day in London, when I was just considering how best to proceed, _not_ having cooled upon it, I met some people you too know. The Worthings.”

Michael crushed up a sheet of paper lying on the table by his hand.

“Indeed,” he said. “And what about that? Has Mrs Worthing not relinquished her hopes for the fair Aline—poor little soul—and is she waxing spiteful?”

“She is far too clever to _show_ her spite, whether she feels it or not,” said Mr Gresham. “And she is too cautious to state anything distinctly untrue. I can’t make it out. With all reasonable allowance for her—well, spitefulness is as good a word as any—I cannot understand her saying what she has done, unless—unless she has some facts to back her?”

“What did she say?” asked Michael, and he threw the ball of crushed paper into the fire, with a sort of fierceness.

“She said—” began Bernard. Then he got up and walked up and down the room. “Upon my soul,” he went on, “it’s awfully difficult to tell. It was so vague—just enough to be horribly annoying and upsetting, and—”

“People have no right—no right whatever—to be vague in mischief-making,” said Michael, angrily. “And mischief-making I infer that it was. She spoke ‘vaguely’ against Miss—no, I won’t name her. Why, in heaven’s name, did you not bring the woman to book?”

“How could I?” replied his cousin. “Don’t get so excited, Mike. By Jove! what a Don Quixote you are still! How could I bring her to book, as you say, without seeming to give credence to her hints? The very thing she would have liked. Of course, my only rôle was to treat what she said with absolute indifference, as an absurd mistake. I could see that my doing so riled her. Besides, you would not have had me let her see that, mistake or no mistake, I took any special interest in Miss—in the person concerned?”

“No. I see what you mean,” said Michael, consideringly. “It would have been very wrong, seeing that you had _not_ quite made up your mind; very wrong for _her_ sake.” And again he eyed his cousin keenly.

Bernard gave a movement of impatience.

“It would have been very disagreeable for _myself_,” he said. “I wouldn’t allow that woman to think any chatter or warnings of _hers_ had influenced me. I don’t say—candidly to you in confidence—I don’t say but what they did, for I believe I had made up my mind to go through with it.”

“Then, upon my soul,” said Michael, sharply, “I don’t understand you. You—you care for this girl; you love her or are in love with her, and you would let the poisonous tongue of a thorough-going, scheming woman like Mrs Worthing deter you from what you call going through with it, when you know her motive too! By Jove! Bernard, if you are fool enough to play into her hands, and I see you some fine day married to poor little Aline, you need not come to me to complain of your mother-in-law.”

Bernard flushed crimson.

“You are going too far, Michael,” he said. “To begin with, I have no right to impute the motive you do, nor to impugn Mrs Worthing’s truthfulness. It is possible her motives are sincere and disinterested. It is not inconceivable that she may have some friendly feeling for me.”

“It is conceivable that she is clever enough to make you think so,” muttered Michael. Then, after a moment’s silence. “But, after all,” he said, suddenly, “what _did_ she say? All through this conversation you have put off telling me.”

“You never asked distinctly,” said his cousin. “I began by telling you it was vague—vague, and so extraordinary; so—upon the face of it—_absurd_, that I—I scarcely know how to make you take it seriously.” Michael laughed, but it was somewhat forcedly.

“You are really a good deal of an idiot, Bernard. But go on, the more absurd the better.”

Chapter Twenty One. Circumstances.

“I can’t give you her precise words,” said Mr Gresham. “And I don’t think what she said was exactly premeditated. We were talking about Cannes and the people there—it was, in fact, the first time I had seen the Worthings since meeting them there, and I have not seen them again. Something was said about the Lermonts, and Mrs Worthing expressed her surprise at finding that the—the Raynsworths were cousins of theirs. She ‘had never heard of them before; who were they? it seemed odd somehow.’ I reminded her that Mrs Marmaduke Headfort was a Miss Raynsworth, and that the young lady of the same name was her sister. And to my amazement, what do you think the woman said next?”

Michael murmured something unintelligible. Bernard proceeded:

“She looked at me curiously, and said, ‘Ah, that is just it—_is_ she her sister?’ I stared, naturally, and then said, carelessly, ‘Do you mean that they are only half-sisters? Possibly so, though I scarcely think it; they are not the least like each other, however.’ She agreed, and if no more had been said I daresay I should have thought no more about it. But I saw by Mrs Worthing’s manner that there was something more to come, and so, as at the bottom of my heart I _was_ interested, I said nothing to turn the subject or to shut her up.”

“H-m,” said Michael.

“She hesitated, and then she began again. ‘No,’ she said, ‘I was not thinking of their being only half-sisters, but sisters at all. There is something odd about that family, Mr Gresham, mark my words. I know as a fact—as a fact—that that girl does not always assume the position of Mrs Marmaduke Headfort’s sister. She has been recognised as figuring in a very different capacity.’ ‘What?’ said I. ‘Mother, or grandmother, perhaps?’ ‘It is no laughing matter,’ Mrs Worthing replied; and to give her her due she was serious enough. She had been very anxious about it, for Aline’s sake, as it appeared that the child had taken a tremendous fancy to—to Miss Raynsworth. And then she went on to say that her maid—a treasure, of course, who had been with her twenty years, and all that sort of thing—had seen and known that same girl as a servant. Where and when she did not say, and I would not ask, but she vouched for it. I laughed at it as an absurd piece of nonsense, and I am glad to believe that I quite took her in. She does not think she made any impression upon me. I made some upon her. I asked her on the face of it how such a thing was possible. She had seen the Lermonts—Miss Lermont above all, who is far from a silly woman—making much of their guest. I did _not_ say, ‘You have only to look at the girl to see how thorough-bred she is.’ I thought it wiser not. I _inferred_, politely, of course, my surprise at a woman like Mrs Worthing condescending to listen to servants’ gossip. On the whole, so far as _she_ is concerned, I am by no means dissatisfied with my diplomacy.”

“And what _are_ you dissatisfied about then?” inquired Michael, drily.

Mr Gresham got up and walked towards the window, where he stood for a moment or two staring out in silence. Then, without facing his cousin, he began again.

“I scarcely like to tell you; you will be down upon me for giving a moment’s thought to it, but half confidences are no good.” And he went on to relate the curious and annoying episode which had occurred at the picnic, an episode which he confessed had been emphasised to him by Philippa’s extreme reluctance to having any notice taken of the lady’s-maid’s impertinence. “So you see,” he added, in conclusion, “I could not help putting two and two together, when Mrs Worthing made her extraordinary statement to me, otherwise I should probably have sent it quite out of my mind, as utterly absurd and contemptible nonsense, or, possibly as one of those extraordinary cases of personal resemblance which one does come across or hear of now and then.”

“And why not explain it in that way still?”

“I don’t know,” said Mr Gresham, slowly; “I really cannot say. There was something indefinite, unsatisfactory, in her manner.”

“It is surely natural enough that a girl of any refinement would detest to be mixed up in a scene with Mrs Worthing’s maid, or Mrs Anybody’s maid,” said Michael, hotly. “A low-minded, suspicious servant! Of course, Miss Raynsworth treated the thing as beneath contempt. And after all,” he went on, cooling down again, “what _can_ you be afraid of? What do you suppose it _can_ be but some mistake? The girl is _not_ a servant. Would a whole family, including the Lermonts, combine to pass her off as a lady if she were not one? It is inconceivable. Besides, Mrs Marmaduke Headfort spoke of her sister Philippa to you often at Wyverston. I remember hearing her say how unlike they were.”

“Yes,” Mr Gresham agreed. “I know she did, and I had seen her myself—you forget—the same girl that I met at Cannes—I had seen her at Dorriford.”

“Then what in heaven’s name are you worrying about?” exclaimed Michael. “You blow hot and cold with one breath.”

“I have no doubt that it is all right, practically,” said his cousin. “She must be herself. What I dread is the possibility of some wild practical joke—acting a part for a wager,” and here he shuddered. “Can you imagine anything more detestable for me? The sort of thing I could not stand coming up in the future about _my wife_. It would be insufferable.”

“Then why risk it? Why take any steps towards making her your wife?” said Michael. His tone was peculiar.

Bernard Gresham’s face fell.

“You really think there is risk of something of the kind? you seriously advise me to give it up?” he said. “I had hoped you might suggest something, that possibly you might have found out what it has all arisen from, and set my mind at rest.”

Michael shook his head and laughed, somewhat grimly. “Not if I know it,” he said. “I would do a great deal to oblige you, but not act detective, thank you, my good fellow. Do I advise you to give it up? Well, yes, if,” and here his voice softened and deepened till its tones were very grave and yet almost tender too, “if you cannot entirely and absolutely trust a woman to be incapable of any really unladylike or unfeminine action, or course of action—well, yes, without such trust I should strongly advise you, for her sake, even more than your own, to give up all idea of making her your wife.”

Mr Gresham’s face had brightened at first; as Michael came to a conclusion it fell again.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, “the way you speak seems to describe her. She gives one just that feeling. You might have seen her—”

“I have heard of her,” said his cousin, laconically.

“And yet,” the other went on, scarcely noticing the interpolation, “yet, I am _not_ satisfied, and that’s the truth of it. You don’t think I could ask her about it—straight out, you know—do you, Mike?”

“Premising, of course, as the excuse for your im— for your interest in the matter, that if she explain things to your satisfaction, you have almost made up your mind to propose to her? Well, what do you think yourself? How does it strike you?”

“Don’t be so confoundedly sarcastic,” said Mr Gresham, in a tone of reproachful irritation. “I have come to you for advice; I have told you the whole thing as I would do to no one else, and—you might see I am very much upset. I suppose you cannot understand—a cold-blooded misogynist like you.”

“Come now, you needn’t call me ugly names,” said Michael, whose spirits seemed to rise as Bernard’s went down. “I suppose we look at things quite differently. I don’t think I _do_ understand your excessive uneasiness and perplexity.”

“Put yourself in my place,” said Bernard, eagerly, “if you—” He hesitated.

“Go on; if I cared for any one as you do for _her_,” said Michael, “would I feel as you do? No, I would not. That’s just it. It is not in me to ‘care’ in that sort of way, without giving complete trust.”

“You don’t know anything about it,” grumbled his cousin. “You mean, then, that you think I should—”

“I don’t mean anything. You are you, and I am I. I am afraid I cannot advise you.”

Bernard got up slowly.

“Thank you for listening to me, all the same, old fellow,” he said, as he held out his hand. “You’ll come down to Merle at Easter for a day or two as usual? I shall count upon you.”

“Well, yes. I daresay I shall, thank you.”

They shook hands. Michael opened the door, followed his guest a few steps down the staircase, and stood looking after him till the hall door shut again. Then he returned to his sitting-room, and there came the sound of the hansom driving away.

“I wonder how it will end,” he said to himself, and for a few moments he stood there with a curious dreamy expression, very unusual to him. Suddenly he started. The dachshund, divining something out of the common, had crept up to him silently, and was licking his hand.

“All right, Solomon,” said Michael, “all right. Many thanks for reminding me that I’m wasting time. That would never do.”

He sat down at the table, resolutely drawing his books and papers towards him, and set to work to get as much done in the evening as the long interruption had made possible.

“Easter,” he said to himself, when at last he stopped working and proceeded to “tidy up,” as the children say, methodically and carefully, all the notes, plans, and books with which the table was spread. “Easter is very late this year—as late as it can be. By that time, nearly a month hence, surely Bernard will have made up his mind, as he calls it.” A gesture of something almost like disgust escaped him. “Has he got any mind, I sometimes wonder! What can _she_ find to attract or interest her in him, except of course his good looks?”

Easter was so late that year, and the spring came on so rapidly, that it was quite confusing and unsettling to one’s ideas.

“Good-Friday on a positively summer day would be too much for my brain to take in,” said Evelyn Headfort.

“Yes,” her sister agreed. “But _Easter_ and sunshine are not incongruous. Let us hope we shall not have winter back again; there is still a week to Easter Day, you know, Evey.”

“I don’t think it is likely to get cold again now; there are no weather prophecies of the kind,” said Mrs Headfort. “Still it is well to make hay while the sun shines. I _think_ we shall be pretty straight by the end of next week. I mean to say, the rough of the work done, so that I shall not need to come back again till we come for good.”

“I _think_ so,” Philippa agreed. “But you know tradespeople and workpeople are proverbially behind time in these cases.”

She glanced around her as she spoke. They were standing in what was in process of being converted into a drawing-room in the old house on Mr Headfort’s —shire property which was now to be Evelyn’s home.

It was a dear old place, and with great capabilities of better things; though hitherto it had been little more—of late years at least—than a large well-kept farm-house.

But it was not substantially out of repair, and it was very roomy. So no fresh building was called for, only the removal or alteration of partitions and doors and such, comparatively speaking, expeditious work, as well as painting, papering, and general embellishment to suit Mrs Marmaduke Headfort’s taste, and to be a fitting background to the well-chosen furniture of which a great part was the old squire’s gift. A “wedding present” he called it, though coming somewhat late in the day.