“Well, mother,” said Evelyn Headfort, one morning, a fortnight or so after the return of the two wanderers to Greenleaves, “I hope you are satisfied now that it was not my fancy about Mr Gresham? I have not said anything hitherto about it. I thought I would wait till you could judge for yourself; but I am sure you have had time to hear everything Phil has to tell by this.”

“But,” began Mrs Raynsworth, “if there were anything of that kind to tell, Philippa would be more likely to tell nothing.”

She smiled a little at her own rather “Irish” way of expressing herself.

“Of course, mother dear,” said Evelyn, with a touch of impatience. “Of course I know that. What I mean is, that you can judge. I don’t dream for a moment that she is the sort of girl to tell even you of the conquests she has made. But to me—and I don’t suppose Philippa has said as much to me as to you. I have been so busy, you see, getting ready for Wyverston,” for the Marmaduke Headforts were on the eve of starting for a visit to the north, “and Duke wanting me every two minutes—but even judging by what she has said to me, I feel no doubt about it whatever. It is in her own hands. He fell in love with her that first afternoon at Dorriford. I shall always say so.”

“Well, time will show,” replied Mrs Raynsworth. She seemed slightly nervous, or rather disinclined to discuss the subject. But Evelyn, though a little disappointed, was not suspicious of there being any other reason for her mother’s reticence than Mrs Raynsworth’s extreme, perhaps exaggerated delicacy.

“I don’t know about that,” she replied. “There are ways and means of preventing ‘time’s showing.’ It does not do to be a fatalist in such matters, any more than in any others, mamma. If Phil chooses to—well, to discourage its going any further, either actively or tacitly, nothing is easier than for a girl to discourage a man; no one will ever believe there was anything in it! At least no one would ever be sure that there had been. I do not call that ‘time’s showing;’ I should call it girl’s perversity.”

Mrs Raynsworth hesitated.

“I think you can trust Philippa,” she said. “There is not a touch of a flirt or coquette about her. If she had real grounds for believing that any man she felt she could care for, cared for her, she would behave with simplicity and straightforwardness, I am sure.”

“Perhaps she would,” rejoined Mrs Headfort, “but how about what you call ‘real grounds?’ Short of putting it into so many words, I doubt if she ever would believe it, and till she did, she would be tacitly discouraging without meaning it, and then the ‘so many words’ would never come! It is a vicious circle, when you have to deal with any one so fantastic as Phil.” And to herself she added, “And I do believe mamma rather encourages it in her. They are both too impracticable.”

Poor Evelyn, she was feeling put out. For she had, to tell the truth, been putting considerable restraint on herself not to cross-question her sister. And she had only refrained from doing so in the hope of being rewarded by a good comfortable “talk over” of the whole affair with her mother before leaving for Wyverston.

And Mrs Raynsworth understood her perfectly, and was sorry for her disappointment. But there was another motive for her own uncommunicativeness. Philippa had told her all that had happened—the last annoying “rencontre” with the maid, Bailey, as well as the first. And the mother’s heart was sore—sorer than she would for worlds have allowed Philippa to suspect. Was this miserable piece of girlish folly never to be forgotten? Was it to cloud her daughter’s life and prospects always? For Mrs Raynsworth knew the world and society much better than might have been supposed from her present quiet and almost isolated life. Her youth had been spent in a very different milieu from the simple though refined home which was all that her scholarly husband was able to give her. And she knew how the least breath of anything against a girl—any, even harmless, piece of fun or thoughtlessness may be magnified or distorted—above all, where there is any element of spite or jealousy present—into grotesque, but none the less fatally damaging proportions.

“I almost wish,” thought Philippa’s mother, “that I had not made her promise never to tell the story without first consulting me. Had she been free to confide in Maida Lermont, for instance, Maida might have found some way of telling it to Mr Gresham, simply and unexaggeratedly; if, that is to say, Maida has noticed anything on his side of what Evey suspects. Maida is very clever and tactful—could I write to her?” But this idea was dismissed as soon as it suggested itself. It was too repellent to all Mrs Raynsworth’s instincts—as if her child, her noble Philippa, needed “explaining,” apologising for!—not to speak of the, to such a woman as herself, inexpressible indelicacy of presupposing any special interest in her daughter, before the man in question had unmistakably declared it!

“No,” she decided, “I can do nothing. I could speak to Maida, possibly to her mother. But writing anything of the kind, putting it on paper, I cannot.”

Perhaps she was wrong. A great many things in this often crooked life of ours might be put straight if people were less timorous of speaking out, of their doing so being misunderstood. But for many, life-long suffering, death of every hope, seem preferable to even the shadow of indelicacy. And of such were Philippa and her mother.

And then again came a species of reaction to Mrs Raynsworth, much as had been the case that last evening at Cannes with Philippa.

“I am surely after all exaggerating it,” thought she, “I am letting myself get morbid; at the very worst there is nothing to be really ashamed of in what the foolish child did, and in the motives which led to her doing it there is much to be proud of. Any man who was worthy of Philippa, who could rise above conventional notions of propriety where higher feelings called for doing so, would understand and would scarcely blame her, though as we—as her father and I do—he might regret, bitterly regret, that she had been so rash. No; I will not let myself be unhappy about it, for there is no real reason, and Philippa would find out if I were so. Her intuitions are so quick and accurate. And, above all, she must not be allowed to grow morbid about it.”

It would have been an unspeakable comfort to the mother to have confided the whole story, with its sequence of anxieties and misgivings, to her eldest son. But this she had deliberately decided not to do. Charley was so proud of Philippa; he loved to guard her from every touch of roughness or coarseness, as if she were too good for common life at all; it might be exaggerated, but it was very sweet and tender all the same, and his mother could not face the thought of his pain and indignation did he ever come to know what his sister had done, and the detestable gossip and comments that even now might result from it. No, Charley must never know.

And the unselfish determination to keep her uneasiness to herself made Mrs Raynsworth even more consistently cheerful than usual, so that Philippa felt herself justified in dismissing her misgivings, and now and then, though rarely, for the girl knew the complexities of her own character and its weaknesses, when few would have suspected them—just now and then she allowed herself a little day-dreaming, of radiant, rose-coloured possibilities, whose beauty any more definite picturing would, to such a nature as hers, have destroyed.

And some weeks passed, happily and peacefully. Evelyn and her husband stayed nearly a month at Wyverston, and Philippa enjoyed to the full her mother and elder brother’s society. Little Vanda was no trouble now, for she was fast outgrowing her delicacy, and the weather was lovely. And the letters from Wyverston were cheering in the extreme; nothing could be more satisfactory, wrote Evelyn, than the progressing friendship between the squire and her husband.

“They all like him, I can see,” she wrote, “and who could help it? Duke is so good and so simple and single-minded. I feel almost certain something will be arranged before we leave this, so that we need never go back to that dreadful India again.”

“Is not that good news?” said Mrs Raynsworth, looking up from the letter which she had been reading aloud.

“Excellent,” said Philippa, heartily. “I wonder where their home will be. Does Evey say,” she went on, rather thoughtlessly, for Charles was present, and the subject of her sister’s maid was always a somewhat nervous one, “does she say how Berthe is getting on?” Berthe was a French maid whom Miss Lermont had found for Mrs Marmaduke Headfort.

“Very well, indeed,” said her mother, consulting the letter afresh. “Ah, yes, here it is: ‘Berthe is shaping very satisfactorily. There have been several inquiries as to why I had parted with—’ Oh, yes, nothing of consequence,” Mrs Raynsworth went on, confusedly; “let me see, what more does Evey say? ‘I am so extremely glad that Berthe neither speaks nor understands English at present. It prevents all possibility of gossip, and—’”

“Gossip,” interrupted Charley; “what can Evey mean? She—we—have no reason to fear servants’ gossip. Surely,” and he flushed a little, “surely Evelyn is not vulgar-minded enough to be afraid of her maid’s talking of the simple way we live—of our not being rich?”

“Charley!” said Philippa. “How can you dream of such a thing? Of course not; but Duke’s position among his relations is a rather delicate one. There might be plenty of gossip about it.”

She felt herself crimson as she spoke; she hated herself for the species of subterfuge she was condescending to, and afterwards she felt that it had been scarcely necessary. Charley was not of a suspicious nature.

Her suggestion of a natural reason for her sister’s fear of gossip seemed to serve its purpose. Charley gave a kind of grunt of semi-apology to the absent Evelyn, and no more was said.

But later in the day, when Philippa and her mother were by themselves, Mrs Raynsworth alluded again to the letter.

“There are one or two things Evelyn asked me to tell you, Philippa,” she said. “One was that, as I knew she intended to do, she managed to pay a private visit to that good Mrs Shepton, and to give her the little present I sent her. And she says she had a ‘charming talk with her,’ and feels so much happier now that Mrs Shepton knows more about how it all happened.”

“I am sure I was candid enough about it,” said Philippa. “I scarcely see what more there was for Evey to tell.”

“Not much, I daresay. But I think too that it is satisfactory and only fair to you yourself, under the circumstances, that what you told should have been, as it were, endorsed by a member of your family. And who so well able to do it as Evelyn? I know for her own sake, she was anxious to show Mrs Shepton that she had not joined you in planning the thing, though she had not resoluteness enough to stop it. And I am glad for the housekeeper to know very distinctly what your father and I felt and do feel about it.”

There was a touch of coldness in Mrs Raynsworth’s tone, and a slight inference of reproach which her daughter’s tender conscience felt to be not entirely undeserved. She had not answered as gently as she might have done to her mother.

“Oh, mamma,” she exclaimed. “Of course I know you are always right and wise, but somehow any allusion to that—that time at Wyverston makes me nervous and cross.”

Mrs Raynsworth patted her gently. Philippa had crept up close to her. Evelyn’s letter was still lying open before her.

“There is a long postscript, I see, mamma,” she said. “You did not read it aloud, did you? Is it anything private?”

Mrs Raynsworth hesitated.

“It is and it isn’t,” she replied. “But of course Evelyn would leave it to my discretion to tell you or not. She does ask me not to speak of it to your father or Charley, as Duke wants to tell them himself, once it is settled. Did you know, Philippa—no, I am sure you did not—that the Headforts have considerable property in —shire, not far from that place of Mr Gresham’s, Merle-in-the-Wold?”

Philippa looked up with interest.

“No, indeed,” she said. “I had no idea of it.”

“Nor had Evelyn; it is natural enough, however, that she should not have heard of it, for it is not what agents call a ‘residential estate.’ There was no house. But quite lately the old squire has bought more land there, and on it there is a small house, a sort of good farm-house, which might easily be converted into a very charming little place. And with the increased size of the property he wants some one there to look after it. This is what he is talking about to Duke; his idea is for Duke to leave the army and settle down there. They are talking it over busily, Evey says. Of course, Duke is sorry to give up his profession, but then, as the squire truly says, there is the future to think of—his children and—” Here Mrs Raynsworth consulted the letter. ”‘He says, too,’ Evey writes, ‘that if Duke’s future is to be that of a country proprietor, the sooner he learns some details of the business the better. That is the way he puts it, you see—half jokingly. But he is too kind and good to mislead us. And in many ways —shire would suit us better at present than farther north. I shall get quite strong in time, no doubt, but India has tried me, and Vanda is not too robust either. Phil will remember what a lovely part of the country it is near Merle-in-the-Wold.’ Ah, yes,” Mrs Raynsworth went on, “that shows that she meant to tell you. She adds also something about Mr Gresham’s being such a pleasant neighbour.”

“It does sound delightful,” said Philippa, with sparkling eyes. “I do hope it will be soon decided about I shall have to try to forget about it, or I shall be able to think of nothing else.”

“It is not likely that we shall be kept very long in suspense,” said her mother, “for Evelyn and Duke will be back in a week, and by that time they are sure to know.”

Even a week, however, seems to extend itself magically, if one—especially if “one” is young and eager—has any great reason for wishing it over. But the first glance at her sister and brother-in-law’s bright faces as the familiar old Marlby fly drew up at the Greenleaves door told that all was right, and Philippa’s heart rebounded with joy.

“Isn’t it too lovely, Phil?” whispered Evelyn already, as they were crossing the hall. “Mamma has told you what we have been hoping, hasn’t she? I told her she might, though Duke wanted to tell papa and Charley himself.”

“And is it really settled, then?” asked Phil; “if so, it is almost too lovely as you say.”

“Yes, it is settled, quite settled. Duke wrote about retiring before we left Wyverston. That is the only melancholy bit of it, for he has been so happy in his regiment, and he loves his work. It was better for him to do it there—on the spot, as it were—when the family feeling could keep him up to knowing it was right. Poor old Duke! The squire did so understand and liked him the better for it, I could see. And I was glad for them all to feel that there is sacrifice even in his accepting the position of future head of the house. And—but I must wait till afterwards to tell you everything. I think I shall have to talk for a week without stopping, once Duke lets me.”

They were in the drawing-room by this time, where all the others were waiting to receive the travellers. For the Raynsworths were “old-fashioned” enough to be a very united family. The comings and goings of any among them were of interest to the others; their joys and sorrows were common to all, and Duke Headfort, from his somewhat lonely and isolated position before his marriage, seemed at Greenleaves, for the first time, to learn what home life and home affections are.

And even now, when his own kinsfolk had so unexpectedly made those friendly overtures to him, and his future position bade fair to be a prominent and prosperous one, Captain Headfort was far too steady and loyal to change.

“Whatever the squire does for me, and however kind and cousinly they all are,” he said to his wife, “I can never but know that the first reason is that I am a Headfort. They thought little and cared less about me till fate, in a sense, forced them to do so. And I don’t in the least blame them. It was only natural, and I am grateful to them now for the kind and hearty way in which they are acting. For at best it must be terribly bitter to them to see a stranger in their son’s place. But they can never be to me what your people are, Evey. Your dear people, who welcomed me as a son and a brother, as cordially as if I had been a duke or a millionaire.”

“Far more than if you had been either one or the other,” said Evelyn, adding, with a smile: “but then, you know, Duke, it was partly for my sake, because I had fallen in love with you.”

“Well, what is done for your sake only doubles its value in my eyes,” he said.

It can readily be imagined, in such circumstances, how very good the good news the young husband and wife brought back seemed to the little circle at home. Almost indeed at first it sounded “too good to be true,” and it was not till Captain Headfort, with the practical matter-of-fact grasp of things which was a part of his character, went on to give details about going down to see the place and settle what had to be done, and how soon they could take up their residence there, and so on, that they all began to breathe more freely and feel that it was real.

“You must come with us, Phil, when we go to spy the land,” said Evelyn. “We shall be ever so much the better for your advice and taste.”

And this time Philippa brought forward no excuses for not falling in with her sister’s wishes, though Brierly—Evelyn’s new home—was within a drive of Merle-in-the-Wold.