Philippa

Chapter Seventeen
“Rencontres.”

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

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

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

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

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

He commended her resolution warmly.

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

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

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

Mr Gresham looked up in surprise.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Michael?” she repeated.

He smiled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And the other?” said Philippa.

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

“How lovely!” she exclaimed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mrs Worthing held up her hands in smiling deprecation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mr Gresham ignored Miss Worthing’s remark.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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