again with a strong effort, and he, instinctivelydivining that she was just the sort of girl to detest anythingapproaching to a "scene," drew back quickly and went on speaking as ifhe had not noticed the passing weakness which had come over her.
"You have not wandered so very far after all," he said. "Every turn inthese woods has been familiar to me since I was a child, so I can soonset you right. But,"--and here he was forced to allude to her exhaustedcondition--"do you think you can possibly walk back all the way toPalden?"
He did not in the least allude to her returning to Merle, there to joinher friends, as would have seemed natural under the circumstances. Atthe moment Philippa scarcely realised the tact which prompted thisomission, or rather in some unconscious way she took it for granted, asindeed, on looking back afterwards, she saw that she had accepted withtacit confidence the strong and kind support of his presence.
A few minutes dexterous steering among the trees brought them out on tothe path she had originally meant to follow, which led directly to thehigh-road.
Arrived there, Michael stopped short and looked at her consideringly. Alittle colour, he was glad to see, had returned to her cheeks; there wasno longer the ghastly pallor which had made her look as if on the pointof fainting.
"She is a strong girl," he thought to himself, "physically and morally,but she has been through a bad bit of experience. Disillusionment, ifit has been that, goes hard with such as she."
And disillusionment he had reason to suspect it had been.
"Bernard would never have left her alone in this way, selfish as he is,unless he had been made to feel himself very small. As things are, Imust risk annoying her by my officiousness; she is not fit to walkfarther alone."
Philippa was unconscious of his scrutiny. She was gazing up and downthe road half vaguely.
"Which way--" she was beginning, but Michael interrupted her.
"Miss Raynsworth," he said, "you mustn't mind my saying that I reallycan't let you go all the way home alone. It is getting dusk, and youown to being very tired."
"Very well," said Philippa, simply. "I mean--I should say `thank you,'"and again she smiled, and to Michael there was something more patheticin her smile than if there had been tears in her eyes. "How far is itto Palden? Somehow I am really not as tired as when you first met me."
"If you don't mind cross-cuts and skirting one or two ploughed fields,"he said, more lightly, "it need not be more than a mile and a half."
"I should like to get back as soon as my sister, if possible," saidPhilippa. "I don't want them to be frightened about me."
She made no attempt at any explanation of the complications she hadrisked. She felt now a curious but satisfactory indifference to whather companion thought of the whole affair, rather perhaps anunacknowledged reliance on the kindliness of his judgment. And when heleft her within fifty yards or so of the entrance to the Grange, and shehad said good-bye, with a word of thanks, she felt amazed at herself.
"What am I made of?" she thought. "An hour ago I felt as if everythingworth living for had gone from me--as if I could never trust any oneagain, or dare to believe in happiness. Is this a phase I must passthrough? Will that terrible mortification and disappointment come backagain blacker than ever?" She shivered as she thought of it. "Or," asshe stood still for a moment and looked after the sturdy figure ofMichael Gresham striding away with little Solomon at his heels, "or am Ionly extraordinarily superficial and impressionable, or"--yet another"or"--"is there something invigorating about that man? He does feel so_true_."
From whatever source her new-found strength had been derived, it stoodher in good stead that evening.
Five minutes later the Merle dog-cart drove up, and Duke and Evelyn gotdown with disturbed faces, which scarcely cleared when they caught sightof her at the hall door, where she had purposely stationed herself tomeet them.
"I am so glad I got home first," she said. "I was afraid you might beuneasy about me. I have only just come in."
"Uneasy," repeated Evelyn in a peculiar tone of voice, as she came intothe house, Captain Headfort remaining behind to say something to thegroom who had accompanied them from Merle, after a furtive and somewhatself-conscious glance in his sister-in-law's direction. "`Uneasy!'that's scarcely the word to use, Philippa, under the circumstances. Youmust know better than that surely."
"What do you mean?" said Philippa, quietly, already scenting war. "Comeinto the drawing-room, there's a good fire there, and I daresay you arefeeling cold."
She had felt uncertain how to meet Evelyn; a word of tenderness orsympathy would have disarmed her, and she would probably have given hersister the fullness of confidence she had been longing to pour out toher mother. But Mrs Headfort's tone braced her to composure anddignity. For the moment, perhaps, she did not allow herself to dojustice to the latter's natural and by no means altogether selfishdisappointment and anxiety.
"It is better," Philippa thought quickly, "as some explanation isinevitable, to have it out at once, and done with, as far as Evey isconcerned. Poor Evey!" she went on to herself, with a sudden revulsionof sympathy towards her sister, as her glance fell on the lines ofdistress which never seemed natural on Evelyn's soft, childlike face.But to this sort of feeling she felt she must not yield, "Why are youannoyed with me, Evelyn?" she said, directly, "for of course I know youare so. It is better to speak plainly."
"It is not candid of you to try to turn the tables in that way," saidEvelyn, hotly. "You know perfectly why I am angry with you. You havebehaved--you _must_ have behaved in the most extraordinary way to MrGresham, after--encouraging him as you have done."
Philippa bit her lips to keep back an indignant reply, "What has he saidto you?" she asked, composedly. "Very little," said Evelyn. "Very fewmen would have behaved as well as he has done. He only told me that youhad insisted on going home alone, and that he was completely at a lossto understand you. Of course I knew what he meant--that you had refusedhim." Then, with a sudden change of tone, "Is it too late, Philippa?"she added, almost in entreaty, "Can I do nothing to put things right?"
Her eagerness touched Philippa.
"Listen, Evey," she said, almost solemnly, "and then never let us alludeto this matter again. I cannot go into all the details of what passedbetween Mr Gresham and me. It would be no use. I doubt if _any one_,except perhaps mamma, would quite enter into what I feel. But I mustjust tell you this. I am as convinced as if I had thought it over foryears that he and I are entirely, radically unsuited to each other, andso there is an end of it. Do believe that I absolutely mean what I say,and know what I mean." Evelyn's eyes filled with tears. Something inher sister's manner carried conviction with it.
"Oh, Phil," she said, "you are a far stronger character than I, I know,and I must, I suppose, give in to you; you must know best. But it doesseem such a pity--such an awful pity! And what can have changed youropinion of him so suddenly?"
"Was it suddenly?" said Philippa, dreamily. "Some things seem to havenothing to do with time, and, after all, was it not,"--but here shestopped abruptly--"was it not," finishing the sentence in her own mind,"lurking there already, the doubt of him? the suspicion of there notbeing any real sympathy between us?"
"Don't misunderstand me, Evey!" she went on aloud. "I am terribly sorryto have been the cause of anything,"--she hesitated--"mortifying ordisappointing to him, though I daresay it will not last long," with alittle smile. "I do him full justice, and I hope he will marry some onewho will make him far happier than I could have done," she ended,earnestly, and the complete absence of bitterness in her tone was moreconvincing to her sister than anything else could have been that hercastle in the air was doomed to no tangible existence.
Of all those concerned in the little drama which had that day beenenacted at Merle-in-the-Wold, perhaps the one the least painfullyaffected, full of sympathy though he had been for the girl whom heseemed fated to meet under such curious circumstances, was MichaelGresham.
CHAPTER TWE
NTY FOUR.
CHARLEY'S FRIEND.
Two years! A very short time to the old, but not so to the young,especially in anticipation. That autumn day when Philippa Raynsworthbade good-bye to her kind friends at Dorriford, she little expected thattwice twelve months would pass before she returned there, and had thisperiod been then alluded to, it would have seemed to her half a lifetimeoff.
What might not happen in two years? To her, standing at the verythreshold of life, with every possibility before her, two years wouldhave been almost like two