“And the other?” said Philippa.
“The other is an old woman,” said Mr Gresham. Miss Raynsworth said nothing, but probably she thought the more. Something in her companion’s manner gave her the impression that he did not wish to prolong the conversation in its present direction. And just then an exclamation impulsively escaped her. They had turned a corner sharply, in their progress round what had once been the ramparts of the little fortress, and below them lay a charming view—for the château stood on high ground, though the ascent to it was so gradual that one hardly realised its importance.
“How lovely!” she exclaimed.
“Yes,” Mr Gresham agreed, “this is one of the attractions of the place. I wanted to surprise you—it bursts on one so suddenly,” and he began to point out to her the landmarks of interest to be more or less identified from where they stood.
“Don’t you think,” he added, in conclusion, “that this smooth bit of grass here would be our best dining-room? The view would give people something to talk about and quarrel over—no two would agree as to what places can be seen and what not, if other topics of conversation fall flat.”
So the stretch of old turf—as much moss as grass, perhaps, but none the less charming on that account—was decided upon for the luncheon. And after all, the day turned out a pleasant and amusing one for Philippa, in spite of the shock of the unlucky “rencontre.” In the interest of talking about Michael Gresham; apart from all personal feelings in connection with him, she had forgotten her nervous dread of him. More than once during the day, his cousin’s remarks about him, vague as they had been, recurred to her memory.
“I wonder what it was he did, or sacrificed, to make Mr Gresham speak of him as ‘a bit of a hero,’” she thought.
He was once alluded to in her hearing in the course of the day, and that was by Mrs Worthing, whom Philippa recognised as one of the visitors whom she had often caught sight of from her watch-tower at Wyverston. Mrs Worthing was the type of woman whom one is pretty sure to meet in any “society,” using the word in the narrowly conventional sense. She was of indefinite age and appearance, well-dressed and well-bred, an affectionate though somewhat tyrannical mother, to an, for these days, unusually submissive daughter. There was a papa Worthing too, who appeared in orthodox fashion on orthodox occasions, such as his wife’s dinner-parties and receptions, but he was a very busy man, and, apart from his own line, uninteresting. So when “the Worthings” were alluded to, it could be taken for granted that the mother and daughter only were meant.
Aline Worthing was undoubtedly pretty, and, so far, her blue eyes were without the hard metallic light which was often to be seen in her mother’s. But she was by no means a clever or original girl. Mrs Worthing, of better birth than her husband, came from the north, not far from Wyverston, and old family associations had been kept up to some extent between the Headforts and herself. It was at Wyverston that she had first met the Greshams.
She spoke graciously to Miss Raynsworth when the young girl was introduced to her, a certain reflection of the Headfort lustre being associated with Mrs Marmaduke’s sister. But there was a touch of condescension, not to say patronage, mingled with the graciousness, which made Philippa doubly glad that her meetings with the mistress, as well as the maid, were not likely to recur.