Chapter Eleven
A Cold Nose
Things if left alone often do shape themselves.
Philippa had come to no decision as to the best course to pursue, when further revelations from Evelyn intensified her alarm.
“Philippa,” she began, the very next afternoon. “I don’t understand that Michael Gresham, and I almost think I dislike him as much as I like his cousin. Of course I have always thought him rough and abrupt, but that he is to every one, more or less. But now there is something in his manner to me almost indescribable – well, not exactly offensive, that is too strong a word, but approaching it – a sort of tacit disapproval, that I really cannot stand from a young man like that, who has nothing whatever to do with me. I would not stand it if he were my brother; I feel as if I should have an open quarrel with him before long if it goes on!”
Philippa felt cold with apprehension.
“Don’t talk of such a thing, Evey,” she said; “your first visit here, and the Greshams such old friends of these people! Nothing could be more disagreeable. You don’t mean to say that he has ever been actually rude to you?”
“No, nothing actually tangible. But he looks at me, especially when I am talking to his cousin, in a sort of hard, questioning way, as if he would like to pull me up for everything I was saying. At luncheon to-day Mr Gresham alluded again to the visit we are to pay him. He was asking about when I expect Duke back, and he turned to Michael with some remark about the shooting – I forget what, exactly – in connection with our going there, and the horrid young man scarcely answered. He was as gruff as anything.”
“But that was more rude to his cousin than to you,” said Philippa.
Evelyn shook her head.
“No, it had to do with me. I think Mr Gresham noticed it, in fact I am sure he did, for afterwards I saw them together as I was crossing the hall, and I think I heard Mr Gresham calling him a bear, or a boor, I’m not sure which.”
There was no time for more just then, as Evelyn was going out for a drive with Mrs Headfort, and the summons came, before her sister had time to do more than repeat one little word of warning, as Mrs Marmaduke flew off. But once she found herself alone, while mechanically occupying herself in arranging Evelyn’s things with her usual deft carefulness, the poor girl’s thoughts were by no means to be envied. Things were coming to a crisis, thanks to her sister’s innocent indiscretion and that – yes, she could join with Evelyn in calling him “that horrid young man” – that horrid young man’s impertinent interference; for that he was about to interfere she felt convinced, though as yet he could scarcely be said to have done so.
“And if,” thought Philippa, “he thinks it his duty – officious people always think things their duty – to warn his cousins that we are acting a part and deceiving others, who knows what may come of it? Poor Evey will in one sense suffer more than I, and it will be all my doing! I may have ruined everything for them by my recklessness and self-will.”
She sat down beside the window in a state very nearly bordering on despair. She dared not let herself cry, though to one of her temperament the very rarity of her tears made them the greater relief.
“What can I do?” she repeated, and wild ideas chased each other through her brain as to the possibility of telegraphing to her mother to summon them home at once, or of an appeal, however repugnant to every feeling, to Michael Gresham to – nay, what could she say to him, without giving him her full confidence? and that, she scarcely felt that it would be possible to do. Of all men she had ever met, as far as she could judge, he seemed the last in any way likely to understand or to sympathise with the motives which had led her to act as she had done. Indeed, no man, she said to herself, could enter into all the feelings, some of them so apparently trivial and frivolous, which had actuated her.
“And a man like him least of all,” she thought. “One can see that he prides himself on excessive honesty and straightforwardness. No doubt he could be very good at saying disagreeable things from the best of motives, and he could be quite incapable of entering into shades of feeling, he is so rough. Now if it had been his cousin who was in question – oh, it would have been quite different! He must be so refined and delicate in perception.”
She gave a deep sigh. Her eyes turned mechanically to the window, and she gazed out half vacantly. The afternoon was very still, and the grey sky in any other part of the world would almost certainly have prognosticated rain. But Philippa was learning her bearings better by now in this northern country, where the greyness often meant nothing special as regarded the weather.
The wind had been high the night before, and the trees almost looked as if winter had already come, the paths being thickly strewn with their discarded vesture.
A little shiver passed through the girl.
“It does look dreary,” she thought, for her window overlooked some of the back premises, where no gardener’s broom had as yet tidied up the traces of the wind’s undoing. One corner of the great stable-yard was visible, and as Philippa still looked out, the silence was broken by a sound she loved to hear, the eager barking of a huge watch-dog, whom she had already made friends with in her rambles about the place.
“I hope they are going to loose him,” she thought, with interest, craning her neck to see what was happening.
Just at that moment she caught sight of Mrs Shepton’s slight and still erect figure, as she made her way back to the house, and a sudden suggestion flashed into the girl’s mind.
“I believe it is the only thing to do,” she said to herself. “She may be able to ask him what I cannot and will not ask for myself,” for by this time Philippa had learnt something of the relations existing between Michael Gresham and the housekeeper, though the latter had been scrupulously careful to avoid anything approaching to gossip about the young man whom she was still so devoted to.
Without giving herself time to reconsider what she was about to do, Philippa, pale with suppressed nervousness, hurried down-stairs in hopes of catching Mrs Shepton on her entrance to the house. In this she succeeded, for in answer to her tap at the door of the housekeeper’s room, its owner’s voice replied, “Come in.”
“Are you alone?” said Philippa, glancing round, “and can you spare me a few minutes? Mrs Shepton, I am in such trouble, and I promised you to ask your advice, if need arose.”
The housekeeper glanced at her anxiously. The girl had been greatly in her thoughts the last few days, though she had not seen much of her, for it had seemed to her that she was looking ill and careworn, unless, indeed, her own eyes had been sharpened by the younger Mr Gresham’s communications.
“Sit down, my dear,” she said, kindly.
Philippa obeyed her at once. Indeed, now that she was within the shelter of the kind woman’s own little sanctum, and felt the protection of her motherly tone and words, a reaction, not unnaturally, from the constraint she had been putting upon herself, set in. She trembled so that she could scarcely have stood a moment longer, and when she began to speak, her voice entirely failed her and she burst into tears.
Mrs Shepton felt positively alarmed, but she spoke calmly.
“Try to be composed, my dear,” she said, still more kindly than before, “otherwise you will not be able to tell me what is wrong. Will you have a glass of water? I have some here which is as cold as ice.”
The girl made a little sign in the affirmative, and when she had drunk the water, she was able to some extent to check her sobs.
“Now tell me,” said Mrs Shepton, “tell me all about it. Have you had bad news? No, it can’t be that, for I have seen you twice since the letters came, and you did not seem upset. Is Mrs Marmaduke vexed with you for anything? You must not take it so to heart, if it is that; I am sure she is a kind – ”
But before she got further in these suggestions of consolation, something in their nature suddenly struck her as strangely discrepant with the whole look and even attitude of the young girl before her. The disguising spectacles were discarded – the handkerchief with which Philippa was brushing away her tears was of the finest cambric, with a monogram beautifully worked in one corner – the whole pose of the figure, even in its abandonment of distress, was full of grace and refinement. It did not require Philippa’s shake of the head, accompanied involuntarily by a faint little smile, to bring home to the housekeeper that Michael Gresham had been right in the opinion he had expressed as to the social status of his fellow-traveller, and which, on first hearing it, had struck his old friend as scarcely warranted.
For Philippa was now completely herself, in the sense, that is to say, of having thrown off all attempt at appearing other than she really was, even while less self-controlled, more thoroughly unstrung than she had ever been before in her life.
Yet there was something almost queenly in her bearing, as at last, resolutely choking down the sobs which still would rise, she sat straight up in her chair and looked Mrs Shepton clearly in the face.
“I am going to tell you everything,” she began. “I know you will be kind, however startled and even shocked you may feel. Mrs Shepton, my real name is Philippa Raynsworth, I am Mrs Marmaduke Headfort’s sister.”
For a moment or two the housekeeper was too confused to take in distinctly the meaning of the words which reached her ears.
“Sister,” she repeated vaguely, while some romantic notion of “foster-sister,” “adopted sister,” or the like, floated through her brain. “You don’t mean really – ”
“Yes, I do,” interrupted her visitor. “I am her actual, full sister. You know her name was Raynsworth before she married?”
Mrs Shepton nodded, waiting breathlessly for further revelations.
“I will tell you how it all came about,” the girl went on, “But first of all you must promise me to believe that it was no one’s doing but my own. My father and mother are as vexed with me as they can possibly be, and Evelyn – it has been very trying for her,” she was going to have added, but the words remained unsaid, as with a faint smile of amusement, which even in the midst of her distress she could not altogether suppress, she recalled the comfortable philosophy with which, once she had accepted it as a fait accompli, her sister had resigned herself to her new lady’s-maid. “It has been,” she went on, “I see now, a great risk to run for Mrs Marmaduke; if Mrs Headfort and her daughters suspected that we have been deceiving them, I do not know what harm might come of it.”
She glanced up tentatively at Mrs Shepton, but there was nothing reassuring in the housekeeper’s grave face.
“I can’t say – ” she began. “No, Miss – ” and again she hesitated – “I can’t say how it might be. They are very straightforward ladies – practical jokes, or wagers, or things of that sort that some people would think nothing of, they would judge very sharply.”
“But you misunderstand,” said Philippa, eagerly; “it is nothing of that sort at all. You will sympathise with my motives when you hear them, I know, however you may blame me for what I have done. Now, please, listen, and I will tell all exactly. To begin with, we are not at all rich, and lately, with my sister’s return home with the two children – all three far from strong – and other things, which will get easier before long, just lately we have had to be very careful and economical.”
Then with this preface she related to the housekeeper how the idea of accompanying her sister had first taken shape in her mind, and how one thing after another had combined to make it seem both desirable and feasible, with but infinitesimal risk of the secret ever being disclosed. And by the softening expression of the kind woman’s face, she saw that her sympathy was enlisted.
Then came the recital of the really extraordinary coincidences which had aroused her misgivings in the direction of the two Greshams, especially the younger.
“It is he I am so afraid of,” she said, in conclusion; “though he has never seen me before and could not identify me as his cousin could, I dread him far more. Hitherto, I have managed to keep out of Mr Bernard Gresham’s way, and we have only two or three days more here. But what I have just told you of this very morning, makes me almost certain that Mr Michael Gresham has guessed the whole, or very nearly the whole, and what is still worse, that in time we shall have a very severe judge – even now he may be speaking about it to his cousin or to the Headforts, probably thinking it his ‘duty’ to do so,” with a rather sarcastic emphasis on the word.
“Not to his cousin,” said Mrs Shepton. “I know enough to reassure you as to that. There is no great confidence between them.”
“They must be so very different,” said Philippa.
“Very different indeed,” said the housekeeper. “Nor,” she went on after this little parenthesis, “do I think it likely that Mr Michael will have said anything to my ladies as yet. The first person,” with a touch of importance, “he would come to about it, would, I think, be myself.”
An expression of great relief overspread Philippa’s face.
“Do you really think so?” she said. “That would be the very best thing for me. You see, you could now tell him you know the whole – that I have confided it to you, but,” with a sudden change of tone, as another aspect of the affair struck her, “do you mean, Mrs Shepton, that he has already talked me over with you?” And as the housekeeper did not negative the inference to be drawn from her former words, the girl’s face grew scarlet. “What did he say or think?” she said. “It does seem so dreadfully lowering! As if I were a sort of adventuress! Was he afraid of my letting burglars into the house? I think he must be a most – officious young man!”
In her turn the housekeeper reddened a little, but she kept her self-control.
“My dear young lady,” she began, with a slight effort. “You must not think me officious for what I cannot help reminding you of – that all the disagreeables which you have to bear, or may have to bear as to this affair, are of your own causing, and,” with a very slight tremble in her voice, “even from what you know of me, I think you might trust me not to talk over any girl – whatever her position – in any way that could possibly be objected to – least of all with a young gentleman, even if he were the kindest and best in the world.”
“Which indeed,” she added to herself almost inaudibly, “Master Michael is.”
Her words brought to Philippa a quick rush of regret for her hasty words, as she recalled the affectionate relations which existed between her old friend and the younger Gresham.
“Please forgive me,” she said, penitently. “You have been very, very good to me, Mrs Shepton, and you are very good to me now, in listening and sympathising, instead of at once saying you must tell it all to Mrs Headfort, for fear of any possible blame to yourself hereafter, as many selfish people would have done. Please forgive me, and oh, do tell me what I had better do.”
She clasped her hands in entreaty, and the charm of her appeal went home to the housekeeper’s heart.
“My dear young lady,” she began again, then hesitated. “I do wish to advise you for the best, but it is very difficult. I have never heard of such a thing. I don’t think I have ever even read of anything like it in a story-book,” and for the first time the humorous side of the situation struck her. But the faint smile which this drew forth soon faded. “I wish I were quite sure of what is right to do. I cannot bear concealing anything that happens in this house from my masters, and yet – it is not as if your parents did not know of it, and they, as I understand, have thought it forced upon them to keep the secret.”
For, in spite of the deception Philippa had been practising, her innate truthfulness had impressed itself upon Mrs Shepton. Not for one moment did she doubt the absolute accuracy of every word in the girl’s narration. “I should like,” she continued, “as far as I may say so without presumption, to say just what your own mamma would say if she were here and knew what things have come to.”
At the mention of her mother’s name, Philippa’s overstrung nerves gave way again completely. She buried her face in her hands and burst into fresh tears.
“Oh, Mrs Shepton,” she cried, “don’t speak of mamma; I can’t bear it. She has never, never before in all my life been really angry with me. I would do anything, humble myself in any way, rather than bring further trouble upon her and papa.”
But for the moment there came no reply from the housekeeper, who had started to her feet at the sound of a knock at the door, which in her agitation had not reached Philippa’s ears.
Nor had the intruder waited for the usual response, so confident was he of his welcome, and before Mrs Shepton could take any precaution on Miss Raynsworth’s account, Michael Gresham was in the room, staring with amazement at the scene before him – amazement increased by the sense of the last words she had uttered.
And not Michael alone – indeed his presence was first revealed to the weeping girl by the touch of a cold nose on the hand still covering her face as she bent forward in her chair. For Solomon’s ready sympathy was not restrained by any fear of intrusion; something was the matter with a some one he was attached to, and he must at once see to it, and offer all the comfort in his power.
Chapter Twelve
An Appeal
“Solomon!” exclaimed Philippa, looking up with a start, “how have you – ” But the rest of the words died on her lips, for there before her stood Solomon’s master, his eyes fixed on her in astonishment, not unmingled with concern, which latter detail, however, at the moment escaped her notice.
Alarmed and indignant at what seemed to her an unjustifiable intrusion, Philippa sprang to her feet, making a futile effort to remove the traces of her tears. She was brushing past the young man with the one idea of escaping from the room, when the housekeeper, recovering from her own first start of annoyance, stopped her.
“My dear,” she began, “my dear young lady – as – as Mr Michael is here, will you not wait a moment? Perhaps it may be the best opportunity of – ”
“I don’t know what you mean, Mrs Shepton,” replied the girl, haughtily. “I would not have come to see you if I had thought any one else – ”
“I beg your pardon,” exclaimed Michael, recollecting himself, as he realised that he was the culprit. – “I will come back again, nurse,” he added to his old friend.
But now it was on him that the housekeeper’s detaining hand was laid.
“Stay a moment, Master Michael,” she began; and acting on a sudden impulse, she again appealed to Philippa. “Will you give me leave,” she said, “to consult Mr Michael about – about this difficulty, as we have reason to think that he knows so much already? May it not be better to tell him all?”
Philippa turned upon her with flaming cheeks, too angry now to care whether the young man saw her tear-stained face and swollen eyes or not.
“Mrs Shepton,” she said, indignantly, “you leave me no choice. What you have said now is equivalent to telling everything! Say what you like, I don’t care, but I cannot stay to hear it. And remember if – if Mr Gresham agrees to what I know you mean to ask him, he will do so for your sake, not for mine. —I make no appeal to you,” she ended, coldly, glancing at the young man, as she determinedly crossed the room and disappeared, closing the door behind her.
The two she had left looked at each other in consternation. Then Michael gave a short laugh.
“What a whirlwind of a girl!” he ejaculated. “What does it all mean, Mrs Shepton, ma’am? I suppose you must tell me now, and I suppose I’ve got to listen. But why is your young friend so furious with me– whatever have I done?” and in his tone, beneath its lightness, Mrs Shepton perceived a considerable spice of indignation.
The housekeeper, though sharing his indignation, looked ready to cry.
“What have you done, sir?” she repeated. “Nothing, of course nothing, except that you have been very kind and considerate about a self-willed, headstrong young lady – for a young lady she is, as you suspected from the first. And never in all my life have I heard of such a wild scheme as she has planned and carried out. If she had fallen into some hands, a nice scandal there would have been! But yet,” she went on, her voice softening, “I am so sorry for her too, for her motives were good and most unselfish. And when she goes home, she will have to face her parents’ great displeasure.”
Michael Gresham raised his eyebrows.
“I am glad to hear that,” he said. “I was beginning to wonder what sort of people they could be to countenance such a proceeding, for this very moment I had come to tell you what I had grown sure of, that this most eccentric young lady’s-maid is no other than Mrs Marmaduke’s own sister – Miss Raynsworth.” And he hastily recapitulated the various twos and twos which had offered themselves to be made fours of, without any special efforts at detection or very great exercise of acuteness on his part.
Mrs Shepton looked considerably relieved, for the having acted on her impulse had already begun to frighten her a little.
“I shall be glad to tell Miss Raynsworth that you had found it all out,” she said, “when she has calmed down a little, and then she will not be vexed with me. She was sure you suspected something, and that was what brought it all out to-day. She is terribly frightened, and no wonder! And yet her pride makes her angry at the very idea of appealing to any one – to you, Mr Michael – to keep her secret, you see?”
“Yes, naturally; but what I don’t see is why I should be expected to do so. A girl who can behave so wildly, and in defiance of her parents, should be pulled up for it, and the sooner the better, I should say.”
His tone was hard; all the softness and geniality seemed to have melted out of his face. Mrs Shepton looked distressed. She began to feel as if by her appeal to him she had let the genii out of the bottle – not that she, good woman, would have thus expressed it – there was a look in her “boy’s” face which she had encountered more than once before in his progress from babyhood to manhood, and which meant a good deal beyond what she was able to cope with.
“Master Michael, my dear,” she began, sitting down as she spoke, and motioning him to a seat beside her, “you don’t understand. Wait till you hear the whole, and all that the poor, dear young lady had in her mind;” and trying not to seem too eager in her defence of Philippa, for she was not without experience in the “little ways” of the sterner sex, the housekeeper related with considerable detail all that she had learnt from Miss Raynsworth as to the home life of her family, her sisterly devotion and not unreasonable anxiety about Evelyn at the present crisis, all – down even to the little difficulties which had attended the efforts to find a suitable attendant to accompany Mrs Marmaduke Headfort to Wyverston. She drew, too, a touching picture of Philippa’s anguish of mind on receiving the sternly disapproving letter from her parents.
“Poor dear, I couldn’t but feel for her, however rash and foolish she may have been, when she looked up at me so piteous-like through her tears, and said, ‘Don’t speak of mamma; she has never been really angry with me before in my life.’ It quite went to my heart, Master Michael, but of course that’s a woman’s way of looking at it, I know,” she added, diplomatically.
Michael emitted an indefinite sound, something between a “humph,” and a “pshaw,” but the lines of his face had softened; there was a touch of amusement, too, in his eyes as he glanced up.
“She is a very silly girl,” he said, at last, “and a very bad actress, though I don’t know that I like her any the less for that. – Eh, Solomon, what do you say to it, old boy? You saw through her from the first, didn’t you? – Solomon is very fastidious in his friendships, you know, Mrs Shepton, ma’am, and he took to her at once, as I have told you.”
His old nurse’s spirits rose. Master Michael wouldn’t speak like that, she thought, if he was going to be hard and unsympathising, but she was wise enough not to show her elation.
“Of course, sir,” she agreed, “silly is no word for it! It was perfectly wild, but the wilder it was, the more mischief may come of it if we cannot help her. That is what she is now so wretched about; she thought of how it might turn our ladies, here, indeed, the whole family, against poor Captain Marmaduke and his wife, little as either deserves it,” for Mrs Shepton had not forgotten to exculpate Evelyn from all concerted share in the mad freak.
Michael’s face darkened a little.
“I don’t understand that young woman altogether,” he said; “either she is a better actress than her sister, or extraordinarily childish.”
“She is quite straightforward,” said the housekeeper, “but her sister has not allowed her to take it up deeply. She knows nothing of the angry letter from their home, or of all this trouble just now. And she has not nearly the strength of character of her sister, I am sure. Miss Raynsworth tells me that Mrs Marmaduke really forgets about it from time to time! And it must be so, or she would never have been so incautious. Why, it’s mainly thanks to her that there’s all this now.”
The smiles which had been lurking somewhere in the corners of Michael’s physiognomy now made itself visible, and broadened as he caught sight of the dubious expression it called forth on his old friend’s face.
“I can’t help thinking,” he began, half apologetically, “of the scene there might be here if it all came out. I mean nothing disrespectful to this family, nurse, when I say that they are not remarkable for their sense of humour. Christine, perhaps, has the most of it, of a rather blunt kind, but Mrs Headfort’s face would grow so long that it would never shorten again, and Felicia would certainly faint and be more melancholy than ever, if they once discovered the trick that had been played upon them.”
“Indeed, yes, sir,” Mrs Shepton replied, gravely, too decorous to join in his smile. “It would be no laughing matter.”
“But what have I to do with it,” said Michael, reverting to the earlier part of their conversation. “What do you – or she – want me to do, or not to do?”
“Oh, that is quite easy to explain, sir,” replied the housekeeper, briskly. “It is not to do that we ask of you. Just to keep her secret, in short, for the two or three days that remain.”
Michael again raised his eyebrow’s.
“And after that – shall I be at liberty to tell anybody who cares to hear? It is rather like giving the burglars time to escape; does Miss Raynsworth intend leaving the country?”
But Mrs Shepton did not smile. On the contrary, she shook her head.
“It is no joking matter, sir,” she repeated, dolefully; “it is not, indeed. I wish I saw a clear end to it, that I do. No, Master Michael – of course I did not mean what you say. She will depend on you never to betray her, I feel sure. I only mentioned the two or three days she will still be here, because once they are over, it is not likely the poor young lady or her troubles will ever come into your mind again – there would be no difficulty in keeping her secret after that.”
From behind her own spectacles the old woman eyed the young man with a somewhat curious expression. But he was looking down; his face was perfectly composed, almost stolid. Only his old nurse knew that when he “put on that face,” it was often more as a mask than as indicating indifference.
“I don’t know,” he said at last, with a slightly cynical lightness of tone. “I have not the very least doubt that she will keep out of my way – she took a dislike to me from the very first, even in the train; a case of natural antipathy, probably. But fate has a nasty little trick of meddlesomeness in these cases sometimes; just because she would prefer giving me the widest berth possible, your young lady, my good Mrs Shepton, may find herself hurled in my way some day when she least expects it. It is by no means improbable; once Duke Headfort is back again, he and his wife will naturally see something of the people here, and Bernard and I are often about Wyverston.”
“But Miss Raynsworth is not Captain Marmaduke’s wife – I am quite sure she will not want to come here again, sir,” said Mrs Shepton.
“Well, no; perhaps not. But there are other possibilities – Mrs Duke and my cousin have struck up a great friendship – I told you, you know, that I heard them planning a visit in which the sister was to be included. And I don’t see why I should stay away from Merle at the best of the shooting for any silly girl in the world. Do you?”
“Nobody asked such a thing,” said the housekeeper, feeling for once rather cross with her adored nursling. “Miss Raynsworth would never dream of it – once you have given your promise, her mind, so far as you are concerned, will be quite at rest, Master Michael, I can assure you.”
“I daresay,” said Michael, grimly, “once I have given my promise.”
He was in a very teasing mood.
But his words failed this time in their effect.
“My dear Master Michael,” said the housekeeper, with a smile, “you are talking for talking’s sake, just to get a ‘rise out of me,’ as you used to say. Of course I know it is all right, and I can assure poor Miss Raynsworth that the matter will be perfectly safe in your hands.”
Mr Gresham did not reply. He had transferred his teasing to Solomon, from whom he at last succeeded in extracting a growl, which made Mrs Shepton start. Though if the truth were told, the dachs only growled out of amiable condescension, understanding that his doing so would gratify his master, whose childishness really amused him sometimes.
“All the same,” continued the old woman, when Solomon had subsided again, “I shall be more thankful than I can tell you, when the two ladies are safely off. It makes me that nervous, sir, you’d scarcely believe it. And unless I can persuade Miss Raynsworth to stay in her room with a bad headache this evening, there’s sure to be gossip in the hall; any one with half an eye could see she is quite upset; her poor eyes alone – ”