“I can’t say—” she began. “No, Miss—” and again she hesitated—“I can’t say how it might be. They are very straightforward ladies—practical jokes, or wagers, or things of that sort that some people would think nothing of, they would judge very sharply.”
“But you misunderstand,” said Philippa, eagerly; “it is nothing of that sort at all. You will sympathise with my motives when you hear them, I know, however you may blame me for what I have done. Now, please, listen, and I will tell all exactly. To begin with, we are not at all rich, and lately, with my sister’s return home with the two children—all three far from strong—and other things, which will get easier before long, just lately we have had to be very careful and economical.”
Then with this preface she related to the housekeeper how the idea of accompanying her sister had first taken shape in her mind, and how one thing after another had combined to make it seem both desirable and feasible, with but infinitesimal risk of the secret ever being disclosed. And by the softening expression of the kind woman’s face, she saw that her sympathy was enlisted.
Then came the recital of the really extraordinary coincidences which had aroused her misgivings in the direction of the two Greshams, especially the younger.
“It is he I am so afraid of,” she said, in conclusion; “though he has never seen me before and could not identify me as his cousin could, I dread him far more. Hitherto, I have managed to keep out of Mr Bernard Gresham’s way, and we have only two or three days more here. But what I have just told you of this very morning, makes me almost certain that Mr Michael Gresham has guessed the whole, or very nearly the whole, and what is still worse, that in time we shall have a very severe judge—even now he may be speaking about it to his cousin or to the Headforts, probably thinking it his ‘duty’ to do so,” with a rather sarcastic emphasis on the word.
“Not to his cousin,” said Mrs Shepton. “I know enough to reassure you as to that. There is no great confidence between them.”
“They must be so very different,” said Philippa.
“Very different indeed,” said the housekeeper. “Nor,” she went on after this little parenthesis, “do I think it likely that Mr Michael will have said anything to my ladies as yet. The first person,” with a touch of importance, “he would come to about it, would, I think, be myself.”
An expression of great relief overspread Philippa’s face.
“Do you really think so?” she said. “That would be the very best thing for me. You see, you could now tell him you know the whole—that I have confided it to you, but,” with a sudden change of tone, as another aspect of the affair struck her, “do you mean, Mrs Shepton, that he has already talked me over with you?” And as the housekeeper did not negative the inference to be drawn from her former words, the girl’s face grew scarlet. “What did he say or think?” she said. “It does seem so dreadfully lowering! As if I were a sort of adventuress! Was he afraid of my letting burglars into the house? I think he must be a most—officious young man!”