Philippa

“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.

“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.