more.
"She is very interesting," thought Miss Lermont. "I care for herincreasingly every day."
It was Philippa's first visit to Dorriford. The relationship was not avery near one--only that of second cousins on the parents' side. Andthe Lermonts were very rich, and almost unavoidably self-engrossed,though not selfish. For they were a large family party, though Maida,the second daughter, was now the only unmarried one left at home. But aconstant succession of incursions from married sons and daughters,unexpected swoopings down or turnings up of younger brothers from India,or grandchildren "for the holidays," kept the house in a state ofnever-ending, active hospitality. It was accident--a chance meeting,that is to say, which had brought about renewed intercourse between theLermonts and Philippa's family, resulting in a week's visit on the younggirl's part.
It was to a great extent a new experience to her. Her family "lines"were cast in very different places to luxurious Dorriford; her life,though happily far from an intellectually narrow one, had been passedamidst the restrictions of small means and many cares; her work, almostindeed before she had left childhood behind her, had been "cut out" forher distinctly enough.
The next morning brought her own farewells to Dorriford and its inmates.
"I have enjoyed myself so much," she said, with her usual heartiness, toMrs Lermont, when it came to saying good-bye. "It really has been atreat to me, and it will be a treat to them all at home to hear aboutit."
"Well, then, dear, I hope you will soon come to see us again," said herhostess, kindly. "_We_ have enjoyed having you, I assure you."
"Thank you for saying so," Philippa replied. "But as for coming again_soon_," and she shook her head. "Some time or other I shall hope to doso, but not soon, I fear."
"They cannot well spare you, I daresay. But after all, they couldsurely always do without you for a week. So you must pay us morefrequent visits, if they cannot be long ones."
"If it were nearer," said Philippa, "there is nothing I should enjoymore. But you see, dear Mrs Lermont," she went on naively, "it isn'tonly the `sparing' me. I am not so tremendously important as all that.It is also that we can't afford much travelling about." Mrs Lermontlooked uncomfortable.
"How I wish I had spoken of it before!" she thought. "She will perhapsbe hurt at it now that she has said that herself. I wish I had takenMaida's advice."
She glanced round; there was no one within hearing. She half-nervouslyslipped her hand into her pocket.
"Philippa, my dear," she began, "you must _promise_ me not to mind whatI am going to say. I--I know--of course it is only natural I should--relations as you are--that you have to consider such things, and I--Ihad prepared this." She held out a small envelope addressed to "MissRaynsworth."
"You will accept it, dear to please me? And I want you to remember thatwhenever you can come to us, the cost of the journey must not enter intoyour consideration. That must be _my_ affair. If there were no otherreason, the pleasure that having you here gives Maida, makes me beg youto let this be understood."
The old lady spoke nervously, and a pink flush rose to her face. Butthe moment the tone of Philippa's voice in reply reached her, she feltrelieved.
"How _very_ good of you, dear Mrs Lermont!" she exclaimed, heartily."I never thought of such a thing; if I had--" She stopped and coloured alittle, but without a touch of hurt feeling. "I was going to say," shewent on, laughingly, "that if I _had_ dreamt of such kindness, I wouldnot have alluded to the expense. But you had thought of it before Isaid anything about it, hadn't you? And of course you know we are notat all rich. `Mind,'" as Mrs Lermont murmured something; "no, ofcourse, I don't mind, except that I think you are very, very kind, and Iam sure they will all think so at home too."
She kissed her cousin again, and the old lady patted her affectionatelyon the shoulder as she did so.
"Then it is a bargain," she said. "Whenever they can spare you--remember."
Philippa nodded in reply, though she had not time to speak, for justthen came one of her cousins' voices from the hall, bidding her hurry upif she did not mean to miss the train.
"She is a thoroughly nice, sensible girl," said Mrs Lermont to herdaughter, when Maida entered the drawing-room that morning an hour ortwo later.
"Yes," Maida replied. "She is all that and more. I like her extremely.But I do not know that life will be to her quite what one would feelinclined to predict, judging her as she seems now."
"How do you mean?" said her mother. "I should say she will get on verywell, and meet troubles pretty philosophically when they come. She isnot spoilt, and there is nothing fantastic or in the least morbid abouther."
"N-no," Miss Lermont agreed. "But she is more inexperienced than shethinks, and though not spoilt in the ordinary sense of the word, she hasnot really had much to try her. And her nature is deeper than you wouldthink--deeper than she knows herself."
"Possibly so," Mrs Lermont replied. "But though you are certainly notmorbid, Maida, I think you _are_ a trifle fantastic--about other people,never about yourself. You study them so, and I think you put your ownideas into your pictures of them. Now _I_ should say that PhilippaRaynsworth is just the sort of girl to go through life in acomfortable--and by that I don't mean selfish--satisfactory sort of way,without anything much out of the commonplace. She has plenty of energy,and, above all, any amount of common-sense." Maida laughed. This sortof discussion was not very uncommon between the mother and daughter;they were much together, owing to Mrs Lermont's increasing lameness andMaida's chronic delicacy, and often alone. And they understood eachother well, though in many ways they were very different.
"Perhaps you are right, mother," the daughter said, "Perhaps I do workup people in my imagination till they grow quite unlike what they reallyare. People, some especially, interest me so," she went on,thoughtfully. "I feel very grateful to my fellow-creatures; thinkingthem over helps to make my life much pleasanter than it might otherwisebe."
Mrs Lermont glanced at her half anxiously. It was so seldom that Maidaalluded to the restrictions and deprivations of her lot.
"I am sure, dear, you always think of them in the kindest possible way;you may be critical, but you are certainly not cynical," and she glancedat her daughter affectionately. Mrs Lermont was an affectionate motherto all her children, but her daughter Maida had the power of drawing outa strain of tenderness of which one would scarcely have suspected theexistence in her. Miss Lermont smiled back.
"I am glad you think so, mother," she said; "all the same, I often feelI should be on my guard lest the interest of dissecting others'characters should lead me too far. As for Philippa, I shall be only tooglad, poor child, if her life is a happy and uncomplicated one." Andthe subject for the time was dropped, though Maida's memory, above allwhere her affections were concerned, was curiously retentive. From thattime her young cousin had her own place in what Maida sometimes toherself called her invisible picture-gallery; there were many touchesstill wanting to the completion of the portrait, some which no one couldhave predicted.
Philippa herself, tranquilly seated in the corner of her second-classrailway compartment, would have been not a little astonished could shehave overheard what her cousins were saying about her--_herself_ wasnot, as a rule, the subject of her cogitations.
It was a long journey to Marlby, the nearest station to Philippa's home;long, comparatively speaking, that is to say, for the length ofjourneys, like the measure of many other things, is but a relativematter, and the young girl had travelled so little in her short lifethat the eight hours across country seemed to her no trifling matter.She enjoyed it thoroughly; even the waitings at junctions and changingof trains, at which many would have murmured, added to the pleasurableexcitement of the whole. There was something exhilarating in the merefact of passing through places whose names were unfamiliar to her.
"What a pretty name!" she said to herself, at one station where someminutes had to be spent for no apparent reason, as nobody got out
or gotin, and neither express nor luggage train passing by solved theenigma--"`Merle-in-the-Wold!' and what a pretty country it seems abouthere! I don't remember noticing it on my way coming. I wonder how longit will be before I pass by here again. They won't be so afraid aboutme at home after this, when they see how well I have managed--catchingtrains and everything quite rightly, and not losing my luggage, oranything stupid like that--though, I suppose, I'd better not shout tillI'm out of the wood. I should feel rather small if my things don't turnup at Marlby."
But these misgivings did not trouble her long; she was absorbed by thepicturesque beauty of the country around, which was shown to itsgreatest advantage by the lovely autumn weather.
"There is really some advantage in living in an uninteresting part ofthe world as we do," Philippa went on thinking; "it makes one doublyenjoy scenery like this. I wonder I never heard of it before. I wonderwhat those turrets can be over there among the trees; they must belongto some beautiful old house. Dear me, what delightful lives somefortunate people must have, though, I suppose, there are oftendrawbacks--for instance, in Maida Lermont's case! I wouldn't changewith her for anything, except that she's so very, very good. It is sonice to be strong, and able to enjoy any lucky chance which comes inone's way, like this visit to Dorriford. I shall have to be content nowwith quiet home life for a good while."
But home, quiet and monotonous as it might be, was essentially home toPhilippa. Her spirits rose still higher as she knew herself to benearing it, and she had never looked brighter than when she sprang outof the lumbering old fly which had brought her and her belongings fromMarlby station, and eagerly questioned the servant at the door as towhich members of the family were in.
"Mamma is, you say, but not my father--and Mrs Headfort and thechildren? Everybody is quite well, I suppose?"
"All quite well, Miss Philippa," replied Dorcas, the elderly handmaidwho had once been Philippa's nurse. "Your mamma and Miss Evelyn--MrsHeadfort, I should say--are in the drawing-room. I don't think theyexpected you quite so soon. My master has gone to meet the younggentlemen on their way back from school. I don't suppose they'll be infor some time."
"All the better," said Philippa, "so far as the boys are concerned, thatis to say. I do want to have a good talk with mamma and Evey first."
"Yes, of course, Miss Philippa, you must have plenty to tell, andsomething to hear too, maybe;" this rather mysteriously.
"What can you mean?" said Philippa, stopping short on her way; butDorcas only shook her head and smiled.
"Philippa already! How nice!" were the words that greeted her as sheopened the drawing-room door. "Darling, how well you're looking!"--and--"Evey, dear, ring for tea at once, the poor child must befamishing," from her mother.
Certainly there could be no two opinions as to the warmth of the younggirl's welcome home.
"It is nice to be back again," said Philippa, throwing herself on to alow chair beside her mother, "and with such lots to tell you. They haveall been so kind, and I have so enjoyed it; but, by-the-by, before Ibegin, what does Dorcas mean by her mysterious hints about some news Ihad to hear?"
"Dorcas is an old goose," said Mrs Headfort, "and," [Page 21 missing]tively. "And as if I didn't realise only too fully how terrible it is,Duke writes pages and pages of warnings and instructions and directions,and heaven knows what! down to the minutest detail. If he had knownmore about the fashions, he would have told me exactly how my dresseswere to be made, and my hair done--"
"He might have saved himself the trouble as to the last item," saidPhilippa, consolingly. "You never have been and never will be able todo your hair decently, Evelyn."
Mrs Headfort's pretty face grew still more dejected in expression.
"I really don't think you need be such a Job's comforter, Philippa," shesaid, reproachfully, "just when mamma and I have been longing so for youto come home. Duke _didn't_ write about my hair, so you needn't talkabout it. What he did write was bad enough, and the worst of all is--"
"What?" said Philippa.
CHAPTER TWO.
"WHAT?" SAID PHILIPPA.
"He says," replied Mrs Headfort, glancing round her--"dear me, where ishis letter? I would like to read it to you. I must have left itup-stairs."
"Never mind," said her sister, with a touch of impatience. Evelyn'sbelongings were rather apt to be left up-stairs or down-stairs, oranywhere, where their owner happened not to be at the moment. "Nevermind about it, you can read it to me afterwards; just tell me the gistof it just now."
"If you mean by that the most perplexing part of it, I was just going totell it you when you interrupted. Duke says I _must_ take a maid. Hesays his cousins would never get over it--be too scandalised for words,if I arrived without one. Such a state of things could never occur tothem, even though they knew how poor we are!"
"Naturally enough," said Philippa, "even if Duke hadn't spoken of it, Iam sure we should have thought of it ourselves. And I don't see anysuch tremendous difficulty about it."
"I might have managed it in another way," said Mrs Headfort, "if theyhad invited Bonny, for then I could have taken nurse, and--well, withoutsaying what wasn't true--let it be supposed that I didn't want to bringtwo servants. And nurse would really have done all I need fairly well."
"But they haven't asked Bonny? And I suppose you can't volunteer totake him?"
"Oh, dear, no," Evelyn replied, gazing vaguely around her again, as ifby some magic her husband's letter could have found its way down to thetable beside her. "That's just what Duke says. Bonny, you see,Philippa, is the crux. Bonny must not be obtruded. Duke lays greatstress upon that, and, of course, my own sense would have told me so ifhe hadn't. Oh, no, of course I can't take nurse and Bonny, even if youand mamma could have accepted the responsibility of Vanda withoutnurse."
"Of course that would have been all right with Dorcas," said MrsRaynsworth. "I have suggested Evelyn's taking Dorcas, Philippa, but--"
"It would _never_ do," said Evelyn, hastily. "I'm sure you'll say so,too, Philippa. That's one reason I'm so glad you've come back. Do tellmamma it would never do."
"Honestly, I don't think it would," said Philippa. "To begin with,one's never sure of her rheumatism not getting bad--and then, thoughshe's the dearest old thing in the world, the wildest flight ofimagination couldn't transform her into a maid."
"I was sure you would say so," said Mrs Headfort. "You see, mammadear, everything is so different from all those years ago when she wasyour maid."
"Dorcas herself is different, certainly," Mrs Raynsworth agreed, "andno wonder when you think of all she has done for us, and made herselfinto for our sakes," and she sighed a little. "But otherwise, maidswhen I was young, I assure you, had to be quite as competent asnowadays."
"Of course," said Philippa, detecting the tiniest touch of annoyance inher mother's tone, "Evelyn didn't mean it quite that way. But stillDorcas certainly wouldn't do. It would be very disagreeable for her ather age to be thrown into a household of that kind, and perhaps made funof by smart servants."
"And besides that," said Mrs Headfort, "I don't see how you could dowithout her here; and she is so clever about the children, it is asatisfaction to know you have her to consult if anything was wrong witheither of them while I'm away. I mean," she went on, with ahalf-unconscious apology for her maternal egotism, "for your sake, too,mamma, it lessens the responsibility."
Mrs Raynsworth did not at once reply; she was thinking over things.
"There is Fanny," she said; "she is a quick girl; she might be betterthan no one."
"I scarcely think so," said Philippa, "and she is inclined to be achatterbox. She would entertain the servants'-hall at Wyverston withall the details of our life here, and, of course, it would be terriblyundignified to tell her to hold her tongue, as if we had anything to beashamed of. It would seem to her that we wanted her to be untruthful--oh, no, it would never do!"
"There's nothing to do that I can see," said Evelyn, "
except for me togo alone. There is just a chance of Dorcas hearing of some one--a girlin the village--who was coming home between two places, or something ofthat kind. Failing that, I see nothing for it."
"I think a perfect stranger would be worse than anything," saidPhilippa, "she would be so utterly unused to your ways, and yet--Ithoroughly agree with what Duke says about it!"
"Oh, dear," said Mrs Headfort, throwing herself back in her chair."What a bother it all is! I almost wish the Wyverston people hadcontinued to forget us. And yet I should be so proud and pleased if anygood came of it for Duke, as it were, you know, through me, I mean, if Icould make a good impression on them;" and her face flushed a little.
"How could she fail to do so?" thought her younger sister to herself,glancing at Evelyn with fond admiration.
Mrs Headfort looked very pretty, the slight additional