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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Thirteen
Herself Again

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

This was what had happened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mr Gresham glanced at Michael.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was perhaps as well that Evelyn here interrupted her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Philippa shook her head; she could not speak.

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

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