“It is really on my way,” said the master of Merle, with the graciousness of manner which, when he chose to exert it, was almost irresistible, “and as I must be home by the end of this week, a day sooner or later is immaterial. There are two routes, you see,” he continued, “and your way only takes about an hour longer. So pray let me look after you as far at least as Wrexhill.”
Evelyn was aghast; for a moment or two, realising her own folly, she could not speak. Bernard Gresham saw her annoyance, and attributed it, fortunately, to a cause very foreign to the real one. He imagined that she was vexed at not being able to invite him to accompany her to her father’s house and spend a night there by way of breaking his journey. And with what he believed to be consummate tact, he hastened to set her mind at rest. For though few invitations would have suited him better, he knew that the Raynsworths were far from rich, and thus readily explained Mrs Marmaduke’s not suggesting what in many cases would have seemed a very simple arrangement.
Little did he suspect what was really passing through poor Mrs Marmaduke’s mind, and it was with some surprise that he noticed the still troubled expression on her face, even after he had, as he imagined, reassured her, by remarking that he must go straight through from Wrexhill, however late it was, as a new purchase of a valuable young horse was to travel by this train; a horse which he wished to keep his own eye on both at the start and on arrival at its destination.
Evelyn scarcely heard what he said. She murmured confusedly something in the way of thanks, and then hastily changed the subject till she could fly up-stairs and consult her sister as to how to steer clear of this new and most uncalled-for complication.
But up-stairs she found Philippa fast asleep and looking so ill that to awake her would have been cruelty of which, with all her thoughtlessness, Evelyn Headfort was entirely incapable.
So it was not to be wondered at that when the young lady got down to the hall where most of the household were already assembled for tea, she glanced round her in trepidation, earnestly hoping that her favourite Mr Gresham might not be one of the company.
“He is sure to begin again about the journey,” she thought, “and I do not know what to say or what excuse to give. And I must fix the day; Mrs Headfort, kind as she is, does not, I can see, like people to hang on indefinitely, and it is an undignified thing to do. I wonder what Phil would advise. I am really ashamed to tell her what a fool I was.”
Her hopes were not realised. Both the Greshams were among the group standing round the tea-table, where Christine Headfort was handing cups. Nor did a letter, which had come by the afternoon post, and which her hostess begged her to read at once, help to cheer her.
“I must go—decidedly—on Thursday,” she exclaimed, impulsively again, as soon as she had run her eye down the few lines it contained.
“No bad news, I hope?” said Mrs Headfort, senior, kindly.