The fact which, naturally, was the most difficult for the mother to bear with equanimity was that of the necessity which Philippa had felt herself under of appealing to Michael Gresham.
“I could not have done it myself,” she said; “it came on, you see, mamma, through his knowing the housekeeper so well. Though what would have happened if he had not been told, I really do not like to think.”
“He suspected something, then, you think?” said Mrs Raynsworth, uneasily.
“Suspected,” Philippa exclaimed. “I beg your pardon, mamma, for repeating your words. Far more than that, he knew there was something not straightforward about us. And the worst of it was that he thought poor Evey so double and insincere. Oh, mamma, I was mad to do it.”
Self-blame disarms any kindly judge. Mrs Raynsworth could say nothing more to add to her daughter’s keen regret. On the contrary, she gently stroked her hand. They were sitting by themselves in Philippa’s own room after Evelyn had gone to bed.
“We can only hope,” she said again, “and, I think we may do so, that no harm will ever come of it. I am very grateful, truly grateful, to that good Mrs Shepton, and I should like her to know it.”
“I can write to her,” said Philippa, eagerly. “I should like her to see that I have told you everything, and I can say it all without—without mentioning names, or anything that would matter if by any accident the letter were seen. Oh, yes, as far as the housekeeper is concerned, I have no misgiving or sore feeling. It is that—that Mr Gresham I have such a horror of ever meeting again.”
“The one that Evelyn liked so much—who has asked you both—Evelyn and Duke at least,” (Mrs Raynsworth interrupted herself hastily, recalling certain injunctions in the confidences her elder daughter had already found time to give her as to the “impression” Philippa had made on Bernard Gresham at Dorriford), “I should say, to stay with him at his place, the place with the queer name?”
“No, I don’t mean Mr Gresham,” the girl replied; “but, mamma, you need not hesitate. I know he spoke of me to Evelyn and said something about her bringing me—me in my proper character, of course,” with a somewhat rueful smile. “And, if it had not been for all this, I daresay I should have liked to go. Evelyn says he is charming. But it is not he I am afraid of meeting again; he suspects nothing; as I told you, mamma, by some lucky chance he never caught sight of me once at Wyverston, and at the end, you know, when there was that risk of his travelling with us, I strongly suspect his cousin put a stop to it on purpose.”
“That was kind of him,” said her mother. “It shows you can trust him.”