Philippa. Molesworth Mrs.
She would entertain the servants’-hall at Wyverston with all the details of our life here, and, of course, it would be terribly undignified to tell her to hold her tongue, as if we had anything to be ashamed 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 to go alone. There is just a chance of Dorcas hearing of some one – a girl in the village – who was coming home between two places, or something of that kind. Failing that, I see nothing for it.”
“I think a perfect stranger would be worse than anything,” said Philippa, “she would be so utterly unused to your ways, and yet – I thoroughly 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 had continued to forget us. And yet I should be so proud and pleased if any good came of it for Duke, as it were, you know, through me, I mean, if I could 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 colour brightening up her fair complexion advantageously. She was very pretty, and her beauty was of the kind that bears criticising – looking into minutely – for her features were all delicate and regular, her expression sweet though far from insipid, making a charming whole, though, as a rule, perhaps somewhat wanting in colour.
“Don’t let us talk about this tiresome maid question any more just now,” the elder sister continued. “I’ve lots to tell you and ask you about my clothes, Philippa. You must have seen all sorts of beautiful dresses at Dorriford, though I’m afraid there’s too little time for me to profit by any hints. And, by-the-by, I’ve not let you tell anything about Dorriford yet, rushing at you with my affairs.”
“It is so very interesting about your going to Wyverston,” said Philippa. “It has almost made me forget what I had to tell you. Nothing really exciting, perhaps! But it was all so new to me, and they were so kind. I did enjoy it thoroughly.”
Some details of her visit followed – about the people she had met, and descriptions of the place itself – the latter made more distinct by questions from her mother, who had stayed there once in her young days long ago.
“And they say – Mrs Lermont and Maida especially – that I must go back there before long. And oh! mamma,” she went on, “about the money! Wasn’t it kind of Mrs Lermont?” and she related what had passed between herself and her hostess just before she left Dorriford.
“It was very kind, very kind and thoughtful,” said Mrs Raynsworth, cordially.
“I’ve got ever so much money over,” Philippa continued. “The whole of Mrs Lermont’s present, of course, and some of what you gave me, mamma.”
“You may give me back the remains of mine,” said her mother, “but you must certainly keep what your cousin gave you for yourself, however you do another time. You father must certainly pay it this once.”
As she said the words, the door opened and Mr Raynsworth came in. He was tall and thin, fair like his elder daughter, and with the slight bend in his shoulders inevitable in one of his scholarly habits. He smiled brightly as he caught sight of Philippa, who started up to meet him.
“Well, my dear little secretary,” he said, affectionately. “Safe back again. You’re not sorry to be home, I hope.”
“No, indeed,” said the girl, “though I’ve been very happy. It was quite time for me to come home, as Evelyn is going to start off so soon. You would have been left with nobody at all!”
“I haven’t been much good to him,” said Mrs Headfort, deprecatingly.
“Oh, yes, my dear,” said her father, with amiable condescension, “you’ve been very good, very good indeed. You did your best, and who can do more?”
Mrs Headfort smiled. She knew she was much less clever than her sister, but the knowledge never roused in her the faintest sensation of jealousy.
“And à propos of my secretaries,” continued Mr Raynsworth, “it’s going to be an embarras de richesses. There’s a letter from Charlie by the second post” – he held out an envelope as he spoke – “to say that he may be coming next week instead of a fortnight later.” Philippa’s face fell a little. Fond as she was of her elder brother, it went somewhat against the grain with her to think of so soon giving up the post of amanuensis to her father, which she had filled for the last two years.
“So,” Mr Raynsworth went on, “so far as I was concerned, my dear, you might have paid a longer visit at Dorriford.”
“Or you might come with me to Wyverston! How I wish you were coming!” said Mrs Headfort, quick to perceive the slight disappointment in her sister’s face called forth by her father’s speech, though it had been made in all innocence.
“I wish I could go with you,” said Philippa. “I shall have nothing to do when you’re away.”
“Oh, yes, dear, you will,” said her mother; “Charlie will be wanting you all day long, to begin with.”
“And I want you dreadfully now,” said Evelyn. “I am longing to show you my clothes and what I’m arranging about them – several things I couldn’t fix about till you came back.”
“I’m quite ready,” said Philippa. “I’m not the least tired,” and she rose to accompany her sister up-stairs, but again the door opened, and this time two pairs of arms were thrown round her with exclamations of delight.
“Oh, Hugh – Leonard! one at a time, please,” she exclaimed, laughingly.
“We’re so glad you’re back,” said the boys together, “and we’ve such heaps of things to tell you – and to show you,” added Leonard. “Are you too tired to come out to-night? I’ve got the other guinea-pig I was hoping for – one of the feathery kind, you know; he is such a beauty. Do come – ”
He got hold of his sister’s sleeve and began tugging at her, while Hugh on her other side was evidently bursting with some equally important communication he was longing to make to her.
Evelyn interposed, partly through selfish motives, partly, it is to be hoped, through pity for her sister.
“You mustn’t drag Philippa out to-night, boys,” she said. “It would be inhuman! Don’t you see she has had her hat on all day; you forget she’s been travelling since the morning. I’ve been selfish enough myself in keeping you here all this time talking – come up-stairs with me, Philippa,” and she passed her hand through her sister’s arm.
“I am really not tired,” said Philippa. “Perhaps I can come out later to see the guinea-pig, Leonard;” but she did not resist Mrs Headfort’s persuasive touch. The latter glanced at her once or twice as they slowly made their way up-stairs. Philippa’s face had an absent, grave expression, which made her sister feel somewhat self-reproachful.
“You are tired, Philippa, whatever you say, and it is greatly my fault. It is horrid to be rushed at the moment one arrives, with a lot of home worries.”
“They are not worries in the first place,” said Philippa, rousing herself; “I am feeling nothing but the greatest interest in your plans. I am only thinking it all over.”
“I hope you include my clothes in the ‘it,’ then! There are some patterns I must decide about before the post goes out. Will you come to my room as soon as you’ve taken off your things?”
“I must just peep in at the children for a moment,” said Philippa, “but I’ll come down again directly.”
The nursery was next door to her own room, a floor higher. For on Mrs Headfort’s return from India with her two babies more than a year ago, Philippa had given up to her sister the room which had been her own since Evelyn’s marriage.
Joyful