"Mrs. Trevor is a most charming person. You will be delighted with her. They were both in great trouble when I found them at Chamouni—not alone from the death of Mr. Trevor. Mrs. Trevor had just heard of a lost lawsuit, which meant ruin to herself and her child—and to Julia also. Julia was dependent on her."
Hermione spoke at last in a low voice of displeasure. "Married! And without a word to my grandfather! Does he know?"
"I told him immediately. That was my object in coming here."
"But not till a month afterwards! And all the love and kindness he has shown—Marjory will not try to defend this!"
"Marjory's opinion can be of no possible importance," said Harvey, secretly irritated.
"Was that why he seemed so unlike himself when he brought you in? Yes, of course—I see now. I did not understand. Harvey, you will excuse me, please. I must go to him."
Harvey rose as Hermione stood up. "Remember," he said, "my uncle claims no authority over me. He could not claim it rightly. Whether I should have acted with greater wisdom in speaking to him earlier, is a question about which there may be two opinions. You, not knowing all the circumstances of the case, hold one view. I hold the other."
Hermione's eyes met his reproachfully. "Authority—no," she said. "But he ought to have heard: he had a right to know. It was wrong not to tell him. Nothing can alter that."
"In your opinion!"
"I cannot imagine any circumstances that would make me think differently."
"Possibly not."
"Right is right, and wrong is wrong. Nothing can change wrong into right."
"Nevertheless the question does occasionally arise—What is right, and what is wrong?"
"It may always be answered."
"Not always with absolute certainty."
"Yes; there is never any real difficulty where one is determined on doing the right. If one is merely bent on pleasing oneself—"
Harvey made a mocking bow.
"I am not jesting," she said, and the blue eyes, attractive in their soft gravity, were again lifted to his. "It is a serious question, not at all a matter for jesting. So much depends upon the way in which we do things. You know very well that a thing right in itself may be wrongly carried out."
The sweet incisive tones paused, for Mr. Dalrymple entered. He looked pale still, yet it was with a smile that he came forward, and laid a hand on the young man's shoulder. To Hermione's surprise there were no tokens of displeasure in his bearing.
"I did not intend to stay so long," he said. "More than an hour, is it not? I must have been asleep, I think. Slade announced callers, but I told him I would rest. My head is strangely heavy this afternoon as if thunder were near. Are you both inclined for a stroll on the terrace. Not a ride to-day, Hermione—somehow I do not feel equal to it. Besides, I must see the most of this dear fellow while he is with us. Perhaps on Monday a ride all together will be pleasant. He must renew his acquaintance with the country."
"Very pleasant," Harvey assented, privately wondering whether he would find it possible to carry out his plan of two nights only at Westford. If not, what would Julia say?
Hermione had drawn close to her grandfather, and was gazing wistfully into his fine clear-cut face.
"You have taken good care of your cousin," he said to her.
"Yes," she answered slowly.
"Come, then. Have you a hat at hand? I shall like a little fresh air."
The terrace, a broad gravel-walk with huge flowerpots along it at intervals, bounded one side of the house, and ran then for some distance round a lawn of green velvet, enriched by flower-beds. The roses were in full luxuriance, showing every possible tint from pure white to deep red-black; and geraniums bloomed in scarlet and crimson masses.
Hermione held one of Mr. Dalrymple's arms, unwontedly silent, as he paced the terrace. He too was still a little absent and dreaming, though he pointed out his favourite plants from time to time to the young man walking on his other side.
It might have been expected that the three would have had more to say one to another after eight years' separation. Conversation languished greatly. So long as Hermione declined to assist, Harvey's efforts seemed to be useless.
He gave her a glance now and then, growing provoked as the minutes went on. Evidently hers was a silence of judicial displeasure, acted out as a duty. She was looking wonderfully pretty in her white dress and straw hat, the summer sunshine lending brilliance to her pure skin. But after all, what business had she to take him to task in this fashion?—she, a mere child, only nineteen in age, two years younger than his young wife. And what did Hermione know about the matter? He could not of course explain to her the old man's intense desire for that which never could be, and never could have been.
No, never! Harvey felt this now more than ever. Fascinating as Hermione might be, formed by nature to reign over the hearts of others, she would never have done for him, even if he had not met with Julia. "Much too angelic and infallible a being for a lazy fellow like me!" he thought, with an inward laugh, while gravely responding to an observation of Mr. Dalrymple's; "The Baroness Rothschild, yes, a particularly fine specimen—splendid bloom—if only it had a scent."
But Hermione could not know of Mr. Dalrymple's long-cherished desire, once plainly uttered to Harvey. And Harvey would not have cared to admit even to himself, much less to anybody else, the undefined sense of weakness, which had made him so dread the moral coercion of a stronger nature and will than his own, that he had absolutely stayed away all these years from the fear of it. Then, when at length he was taken captive by Julia Pilchard, a half-cowardly dislike to the worry of possible opposition had come into play, and he had deferred speech until opposition should be useless.
He was not indisposed now to allow politely that a different course of action might have been on the whole better. But to submit his deeds to the judgment of Hermione was another matter. If she had excused him, he would have blamed himself—moderately. Since she blamed him, he stood upon the defensive.
There is a right and a wrong in all things, sometimes absolute and intrinsic, sometimes proportionate and relative. Some deeds are right or wrong always, in all places, for all people. Other deeds are right or wrong according to circumstances, and may at the self-same time be right for this person, wrong for that person.
Hermione, earnest, conscientious, decisive, saw plainly the bald fact of right being right, and wrong being wrong. Harvey, not half so conscientious, not half so earnestly bent upon doing the right, knew practically far more than did Hermione of the possible perplexities which may and do arise in connection with this ever-recurring question. But he knew also, if only he would have allowed it to himself, that there had been no such perplexity connected with the subject lately discussed.
So much for Harvey's train of thought as the trio walked the terrace side by side. Hermione's ran on a parallel line, being chiefly occupied with him. She was not grieved after the fashion of Marjory Fitzalan, for Hermione's was not, like Marjory's, a hero-worshipping nature. If Hermione worshipped any human being at all, it was all unconsciously her most sweet and attractive self. But then, of course, it was unconsciously. Other people she looked upon with a calm and gentle kindness, ready to administer praise, blame, or advice, as might be called for. Why not? Hermione was accustomed to find her praise welcomed, her blame submitted to, her advice followed. Almost everybody in her little world looked up to her, as Marjory had said.
It was a somewhat unwonted position for a girl of her age, enhanced by her extreme prettiness—not altogether a safe or wholesome position.
Mr. Dalrymple's train of thought was less definite than that of either of his companions. For he was grieving still over his shattered dream, grieving yet more over his unconquered wilfulness, and struggling against an unwonted sense of inertia and weariness. He wished to be kind and chatty with his great-nephew, but it was not easy.
This was Saturday. Harvey had purposed remaining until Monday, then spending one night in London, and starting for Paris next day. He had told his young wife as much, almost promising not to be longer away. Happily the promise had been modified by a condition— "if I can possibly help it." He began to see that he hardly would be able to help it.
"I do not think I can go into business matters to-night. My head is so heavy still—there must be thunder brewing," Mr. Dalrymple said after dinner. "I have always been sensitive to thunder. We must have our talk on Monday. You will stay with us till the middle of the week, at all events."
Harvey demurred, and Hermione's eyes rested upon him.
"After eight years!" she said.
"Not all brides would consent to even so much in the first month."
"That difficulty is not our fault," she rejoined in an undertone.
Harvey turned to Mr. Dalrymple. "I think I must say Tuesday," he remarked. "As you suggest, we can go into business on Monday morning; and a ride in the afternoon would be pleasant. I should like to visit old haunts."
"I must not ask more. We will be content with so much at the present moment. But you will bring your Julia to pay us a long visit soon. How soon?"
Harvey was touched again, as he had been before, with the old man's acquiescence in disappointment. "Then you will give her a welcome!"
"My dear fellow! You and she are one now."
Harvey wondered if the widowed sister and her child would be welcomed also. He did not care yet to confess having promised a home for the present to those two. Mrs. Trevor was, or could be, a very agreeable person; and since she had nothing now to live upon, his action was undoubtedly kind. Nobody could question that fact. But he had somehow a vague sense of having been "managed" in this arrangement, and he objected to others guessing what he suspected. After all, if he chose to add to his household, it was his own affair, certainly not Hermione's. Minor matters such as this could be divulged later.
Hermione seemed more willing to converse after dinner, though her first eagerness and warmth of manner had vanished. She showed Harvey all due courtesy and attention as to a guest, not sisterly affection as to a brother.
Mr. Dalrymple dropped asleep in his armchair, and Hermione remarked that he often did so in the evening for ten minutes, only this day it proved to be for a good deal longer. He slept on heavily, and when roused by the entrance of coffee he dropped off again, leaving his cup untasted. "I cannot think what makes him so tired," Hermione remarked uneasily; and Harvey was struck anew with Mr. Dalrymple's aged and wan look. He wondered that Hermione had never spoken in her letters of a change. Could it have crept on so gradually as to be unnoticed?
Sunday morning broke more cheerfully as to the household atmosphere, though outside in clouds and rain. For once Mr. Dalrymple did not appear until late. He had overslept himself, he said—the first time for years past—and he inquired curiously if nobody had heard any thunder. The air certainly had been charged with electricity the night before, and this morning he had quite a headache, so very unusual with him. But neither Hermione nor Harvey could speak of the most distant peal or flash, and Slade, when appealed to, stated the same in his suppressed tones.
"Well, well—it is an old man's fancy, I suppose!" and then Mr. Dalrymple sat down to breakfast, but did not seem able to eat.
He talked freely, however, and was markedly affectionate to Harvey. Hermione's manner too had thawed. Recollections of old days came up, and time went on wings till they had to dress for Church.
"You will not come to-day, I suppose, as you are not well," Harvey remarked to Mr. Dalrymple, but the old man seemed astonished at the suggestion. Nothing short of absolute inability would have been counted by him a sufficient reason for staying at home.
Rain had by this hour ceased, and the walk was pleasant in the soft grey June atmosphere, clouds still low, but a bright promise of future sunshine gleaming through them, and all trees and herbage rejoicing in the past downpour. Hermione wore one of her favourite white dresses, simple enough in make, and Harvey bore her waterproof on his arm.
"You don't use the carriage for this?" he asked as they neared the Church. It was a good half-mile of distance.
"No, no—not unless it were a matter of necessity," Mr. Dalrymple said. "I like my men and horses to have as much as possible of a Sunday, besides myself. Hermione and I are able-bodied people."
Then they were within the old building, replete for Harvey with childish recollections. He seated himself purposely on that same side of the square pew where he had been wont, long ago, to sit beside his fair young mother.
Mr. Dalrymple and Hermione occupied another side of the pew, where Harvey had them in full view. As the service went on, he was impressed with the old man's reverence of manner and look of deep devotion. There was no lounging, no seeking after positions of ease, no occupation with others present. Mr. Dalrymple, albeit pallid still and manifestly not well, stood and sat and knelt as required, with no apparent relaxation in his fixed attention. That was genuine worship, and Harvey knew it.
He did not trouble himself to question what manner of worship his own might be. Marjory Fitzalan claimed his attention next. She was in a pew near, and she too looked pale, even suffering. The long bout of continuous sitting and kneeling was a trial to Marjory's physical powers, and the body was not with her subservient to the spirit, as with Mr. Dalrymple. She wore a worried and depressed air.
Then there was Hermione. Harvey came back to her, casting little glances from the hymn-book which he decorously held open, without any attempt to join in or even to follow the words of praise. He could understand Sutton's use of the word "angelic." Hermione really did look lovely, her blue eyes bent upon the open page, her lips parted as she sang, her face lighted up with a glow of reverent devotion, which might almost have been a reflection of her grandfather's. Was it so genuine as his? and was she at that moment absolutely absorbed, absolutely unconscious of the pretty picture she made? Harvey was disposed to answer both questions in the negative. Like people who are very lenient to themselves, he was not very lenient to others; not disposed always to take the most charitable view of their actions or motives.
* * * * * * *
To Harvey's astonishment the service was at an end, and only the sermon remained. He had scarcely heard a word of the whole. As for any amount of prayer, praise, or adoration on his part, the less said the better, perhaps.
The sermon following was good, forcible, and well worked out. Harvey was not much in the habit, however, of listening to sermons. He sat through them as a kind of duty—whether a duty to himself, to the clergyman, or to society, he would have been at a loss to specify— but he did not commonly take in their sense. Listening means trouble, and Harvey disliked trouble. His attitude of polite endurance was a contrast to the earnest attention of the two seated opposite. Harvey did not even notice the text.
That window, how well he remembered it! The green ivy-leaves clustered around it outside still as of yore, and a gleam of sunshine came filtering softly through the leaves and the tinted panes. The vivid fancy of his childhood came back too, and once more in imagination he seemed to see his mother, clothed in white, mounting upwards by a pathway of wreathed leaves and glowing light— upwards to a far-off land of joy.
Only a child's fancy, of course; but Marjory had declared that children "see farther" sometimes than grown people. After all, why not? A child's picturing may well approach nearer to some grand reality than a man's forgetfulness of it.
Had Harvey any belief in such a land now? Well, yes, after a fashion, no doubt. Practically he knew that this little life may not go on for ever, and he hoped for something agreeable beyond when that beyond had to be reached. He was in no hurry at all to go to heaven; still he did not, of course, wish to go anywhere else after death except to heaven.
"But now 'tis little joyTo know I'm farther off from heavenThan when I was a boy!"
"But now 'tis little joyTo know I'm farther off from heavenThan when I was a boy!"
"But now 'tis little joyTo know I'm farther off from heavenThan when I was a boy!"
"But now 'tis little joy
To know I'm farther off from heaven
Than when I was a boy!"
Marjory's quotation flashed up suddenly; he had heard the words years before, and had forgotten their existence till Marjory recalled them. Now they obtruded themselves persistently, not to say impertinently. He could shut off the sermon, but he could not shut off Marjory's quotation. It haunted him, buzzed about him, so to speak, drowning the quiet voice of Mr. Fitzalan, winding in and out of the green ivy which circled the window, saying itself over and over, dying away and reviving again.
"But now, 'tis little joy—little joy—now—now—now—'tis little joy— to know I'm farther off—farther off from heaven—farther off from heaven—than when I was a boy—a boy—than when I was a boy!"
Harvey roused himself with a slight start at the sound of Mr. Fitzalan's "And now—" to find the sermon ended, the congregation rising. He had been sound asleep in his corner. He could only hope that nobody had observed the fact.
But Hermione's eyes wore a look of rebuke, and Marjory's quotation stayed by him still.
"MR. DALRYMPLE did not look quite himself to-day," remarked Mr. Fitzalan, as he sat down with Marjory to the cold early dinner usual on Sunday at the Rectory.
"I don't wonder," rejoined Marjory.
Mr. Fitzalan asked "Why?" not following her train of thought.
"Harvey!" was the comprehensive answer.
"Harvey! You mean the fact of his marriage. Yes, that might worry Mr. Dalrymple in some measure. Hardly to the extent of affecting his health."
"I don't know. There must be the feeling that he can never trust Harvey again."
"Trust him—how?" Mr. Fitzalan was fond of delving to the roots of things and words.
"Father, you know what I mean." Marjory's tone was a degree petulant, and a dent appeared on her brow.
"There are degrees and varieties of trust. You suppose that Harvey will be henceforward materially lowered in Mr. Dalrymple's opinion. I am not so sure."
"He must be lowered; he cannot be anything else."
"That depends upon the stand which he has taken hitherto,—in Mr. Dalrymple's opinion, I mean. He is not lowered in mine."
"Father!" The expression of the emotions in Marjory could at this moment no further go.
"I don't say that I approve of his action. I merely say that my opinion of him is not altered. He has always been a very pleasant fellow, willing and even anxious to please everybody, after himself. So much as that I have trusted him, and so much I may trust him still. He does not wish to distress anybody, and so far as is convenient he will make up for any distress which he may have given. It is not all men who would run away from a bride of three weeks to soothe the feelings of a great-uncle."
"Why did he not bring her with him?"
"Rather a startling step, under the circumstances. Suppose he had telegraphed, 'Expect my wife and myself by such-and-such a train!'"
"But if he had written earlier—if he had written at first."
"Yes, there it is. I don't defend the action, Marjie. I only say that it is nothing new, that it is the same Harvey whom we have known. He does not object to doing what is right, but he will do what is wrong rather than be inconvenienced. And he is ready to do any amount of kindness, after a lazy fashion, only self must be considered first."
"I don't think his hurrying home from Paris was lazy."
So Marjory had actually begun to defend her quondam hero.
Mr. Fitzalan laughed to himself in a noiseless style.
"Laziness has a variety of developments," he said, and the subject was dropped.
Not, however, for very long. Dinner over, Marjory had one of her necessary short rests on the couch, for she was far from strong. She lay perfectly still, after her usual wont, with shut eyes, and long thin fingers lightly crossed, not knowing, and for the moment not much caring, what other people were after. Very soon she would have to rise and bestir herself for afternoon Sunday-school. The short intervening space had to be utilised to the utmost.
Mr. Fitzalan's voice in the passage broke in upon her stillness.
"Hermione! How do you do? You are early to-day, and alone."
"Yes; I came to make excuses for my grandfather," Hermione's silver voice answered. "He seems to feel the heat so much, I have persuaded him to stay in for once, and Harvey is there too, so it really is best. Can you possibly manage without my grandfather?"
"Certainly. If no one else can take his class, I will do it myself. Come and see Marjory. You need not start for a few minutes."
"No. I thought you would rather know in good time."
Hermione entered, fresh, fair, and smiling, not in the least heated with her hot walk. Somehow she always looked the same. Marjory did not rise, for Hermione was never treated as a guest here. The younger girl bent in her graceful manner for a kiss, and then sat down near the couch.
"It is a lovely day," she said.
"Too hot for Marjory," Mr. Fitzalan observed. "Mr. Dalrymple was not quite himself this morning, I think, was he?"
"No. It is the worry about Harvey."
Marjory's eyes opened more widely for a glance at her father.
"So Marjie has been saying," he remarked, "But Mr. Dalrymple has not been entirely as he should for some weeks."
Hermione wore an incredulous air. "He is very well and strong generally," she said. "Nothing was wrong with him until Harvey came."
"You have not noticed any difference? Well, I would keep him quiet. Don't let him exert himself. He is not so young as he was. And tell him from me not to think of Church this evening. Perhaps I may look in afterwards to see how he is."
Hermione was not so fond of receiving as of giving directions. Mr. Fitzalan often aroused in her a small spirit of opposition. She could not have told why, even if she was aware of the fact. Perhaps it was because he did not exactly rank as one of her devotees. Hermione was so accustomed to be "looked up to," as Marjory expressed it, that she could hardly understand being looked upon in any other mode; and though Mr. Fitzalan was most kind and fatherly, he did not bow to her opinion, nor did he cease treating her somewhat as if she were still a child. Hermione loved him as a dear old friend, but sometimes without doubt he did provoke her a little.
She would not pursue the subject of Mr. Dalrymple's health, but said with her pretty girlish dignity, "Harvey has behaved very wrongly. I do not wonder that my grandfather is unhappy."
"Has he told you any particulars about the lady of his choice?" asked Mr. Fitzalan, rather anxious to ward off an exciting duet of condemnation between the two girls. Marjory looked worn enough already. He knew that a very little more would incapacitate her for the afternoon's work.
"Not much. I have not cared to ask," Hermione answered. "He does not deserve that we should show interest. Her name is Julia— Julia Pilchard it was-and she is two years older than I am."
"Ah, a mere chicken," murmured the disrespectful Rector.
Hermione would not notice the interruption. She held herself a little straighter, and proceeded, "Two years older than I am, and Harvey does not seem to know whether she is pretty. That means of course that she is plain. She has only one sister, a widow with one little child. They lost all their money lately. Harvey says I shall like the sister; but I do not know; I do not much care. All this is beside the mark. Harvey has forfeited all right to our sympathy. My grandfather is most kind and forgiving—far more than Harvey deserves. But for me it is different. I have to show what I think for my grandfather's sake, not for my own."
"Take care, Hermione. Self is very subtle."
Mr. Fitzalan hardly spoke the words, he breathed them rather. Hermione's colour deepened a little.
"You do not understand me," she said in a voice as low as his, with a touch of reproach.
"It may be so. But is it certain that you and I perfectly understand Harvey?"
"I understand the circumstances of the case. There can be no mistake, and no excuse."
Mr. Fitzalan made one negative movement of his head, the expressive eyes saying much that he did not put into words. He at least knew more of those circumstances than Hermione could know; and while not at all disposed, as he had said, to defend Harvey's manner of proceeding, he could make allowance for the difficulties of Harvey's position; he could believe that this sharp cutting of the Gordian knot had been done from motives not altogether thoughtless or unkind, though in his estimation mistaken. His view of the affair was perhaps even more indulgent than Harvey's own view, just because he was better acquainted with the strength of Mr. Dalrymple's desire, and the persistency of Mr. Dalrymple's will.
But he was aware that to argue the question with Hermione would be fruitless, and he turned from her towards the couch.
"Marjie, are you fit for school this afternoon?"
"Yes, father. Is it time to go?"
"Nearly. Time for you to get your hat, I am afraid. Would you not rather stay at home?"
"O no. I can't be spared."
She went at once for hat, parasol, and books, struggling against a degree of lassitude which even her father did not suspect, or he would have insisted instead of only suggesting. There were no lounging airs or gestures of fatigue, such as many people adopt in not very strong health; and she would not allow herself to lag behind the other two in their ten minutes' walk to the schoolroom. Rather oddly it had been built at the farther end of the village, not near the Church.
Clouds were gone, and the June sun blazed in through the schoolroom windows, not much softened by yellow blinds. Children and teachers were alike languid that day, with the exception of Hermione, who sat upright in her white dress, cool and collected, speaking with ready words and earnest persuasive looks. She was a very successful Sunday-school teacher. The worst children in the school were by common consent handed over to her, and Hermione could do what she chose with any of them.
Marjory, a few yards off, just struggled through her lesson and no more, the last half hour being one long haze of exhaustion. Once a rush of sounds filled the air, and the row of little sleepy faces receded into a far distance; but Marjory talked on resolutely, not in the least knowing what she said, and somehow things came back to their normal condition. She said nothing to anybody about herself; only hoped she had not spoken utter nonsense, dismissed her children, collected books, and did various small things which always fell to her share. Then she crept home uncomplainingly through the hot sun, wondering at each step how many more would be possible, and on reaching the Rectory dropped down upon her couch. She had done her utmost for that day.
Hermione had farther to walk, but her light step never faltered. She found her grandfather seemingly better, strolling in the garden with Harvey, and enjoying a long chat. Hermione did not give Mr. Fitzalan's message. She was rather averse to doing so, she could hardly have told why, and she decided that there really was no need.
After all, "Grandfather was the best judge."
THE evening service was over, and so was the cold evening meal which followed. Mr. Dalrymple had been by no means sorry for the help of Harvey's strong arm on the way home. His head felt "heavy" again, he said, and once or twice he seemed not able to walk straight. "It was only the heat," Hermione decided; "such extreme heat for June." And, as she told herself, he was less knocked up than Marjory.
But physical weakness was with Marjory the ordinary condition of affairs, a part of herself, a thing to be regretted, yet not to cause alarm. Sudden feebleness, coming upon a strong and healthy man, is altogether another matter; and young as Hermione was, she might have known that difference.
She did for a moment feel uneasy when Harvey remarked, "You ought not to have gone to Church this evening;" and her grandfather answered, "No; I almost wish I had not." Would it not have been better if she had given the message? But Mr. Dalrymple might not have followed the advice; and a good-night would restore him. On the whole, however, Hermione hoped for the non-appearance of Mr. Fitzalan.
They were out upon the terrace now, enjoying the still twilight. Mr. Dalrymple was in a comfortable easy-chair, which Harvey had insisted on dragging out of the library. He did not mind trouble of that description, being too thorough a gentleman not to undertake small courtesies. As Mr. Fitzalan had remarked, laziness takes different forms, and certainly Mr. Dalrymple had found his great nephew most kind and attentive all day, ready to anticipate every wish.
None of the three showed at first much inclination to talk. After a while, Harvey broke in upon the silence, remarking, "Delicious scent of roses."
Mr. Dalrymple offered no response, and Hermione started another subject, "What interesting sermons we have had to-day!"
Another irresponsive pause.
"Did you not think so?" she asked, looking at Harvey.
Was the question malicious? Harvey was too honest to answer in the affirmative. He said only, "Were they?"
"This morning's particularly. Yes, I thought so. Did not you?"
"I am not a very good judge," Harvey replied carelessly.
"Were you talking about this morning's sermon?" Mr. Dalrymple asked, rousing himself. "What was the text? I cannot recall."
"I must refer you to Hermione," said Harvey, at whom the question was directed.
"Hermione is sure to know," the old man uttered lovingly.
"Yes, grandfather;" and in silvery tones she repeated, "'Know ye not, that to whom ye yield yourselves servants to obey, his servants ye are whom ye obey; whether of sin unto death, or of obedience unto righteousness?' With part of a verse just before, 'Yield yourselves unto God.'"
"Yes, my dear."
"Mr. Fitzalan spoke about the nature of the service as bondservice. Don't you remember, grandfather? That if we yield ourselves to God, we are bound to obey Him in everything; and if not yielded to Him, then we must be yielded to evil, bondservants to the Prince of Evil. I thought all that was very striking, the way he put it. And about the mastery of self too, the being slaves to self, or freed from self." Hermione hesitated an instant, recalling his utterance at the Rectory, which she had not so well approved; then she went on— "He spoke about the choice being left to us, though God has of course absolute right to our service—but still we are told—'Choose you this day whom ye will serve,' and then, 'Yield yourselves unto God.' Yes, it was very beautiful. And all about what is meant by yielding— real yielding—having no care for our own will, but only caring to please God."
Harvey counted an after-abstract of the day's sermons highly unnecessary. He was not interested in the said sermons, and to sit through them without listening seemed to him a sufficient tax upon his patience. Moreover, he was no more disposed to take Mr. Fitzalan's teaching secondhand from Hermione, than Hermione was to submit with meekness to Mr. Fitzalan's dictum, except as uttered from the pulpit. So he stirred restlessly, causing the wicker-work of his chair to utter long creaks, as a vent to his dissatisfaction.
"Would you not like another chair?" asked Hermione, disturbed by the squeaks.
"Thanks—no. This is very comfortable."
Mr. Dalrymple spoke next in quiet tones. "Yes, it is a blessed service," he said. "But the yielding of ourselves is not a matter of one moment's resolving or doing, as some would have us believe. It is a long battle."
"Only there has to be first the yielding of our will, grandfather. We have to give ourselves to Christ; and then, once yielded to Him, will He not keep His own?" She had an air of quiet certainty, and her face was bright in the twilight.
"My child, yes, He is faithful. But He will send tests. He will allow us to learn our weakness. That is part of the whole—part of the battle. Yours is only beginning. Mine is nearing the end. 'I have fought a fight,'—not 'a good fight' like St. Paul's, only a long fight with many failures. And He has been with me throughout. The 'crown of glory' is laid up—ready—safe in His keeping."
Harvey could listen now without any inclination to fidget. There was a humble reality in the old man's confidence which touched him, and even aroused in him a vague wish to possess the same—unlike Hermione's confidence. It vexed him that she should break in upon the dreamy soliloquy—
"But, dear grandfather, you don't really think that one never can have yielded up one's will and one's all to God until after very long fighting? Why should there be delay? Why not yield one's all at once?"
He smiled at her tenderly.
"The sapling doesn't grow into a great oak in one hour, Hermione. Yes; yield yourself now—self, will, and all, keeping nothing back. But you will find more and more to yield as you go on—hidden depths of self, unsuspected forms of wilfulness; and much that you have thought yielded you will find not yielded. That has been one of my latest lessons. It may be one of your latest."
"Would you say that we are never to have a will or a wish of our own?" Harvey asked unexpectedly.
Hermione began, "No, never—" but he turned from her, with two words which plainly directed the question to Mr. Dalrymple— "Would you?"
"Yes, my dear boy, any amount, only never apart from God's will. Give over everything to Him, and He will give back to you tenfold what you have yielded up."
Harvey seemed to be thinking. Hermione, a little offended, remained silent. Mr. Dalrymple presently moved, as if to stand upright.
"I almost think I will go in, if you will both excuse me," he said. "I am over-tired to-night. We will discuss everything to-morrow."
"Are you going to bed, grandfather?"
Hermione had never known such an event before as retirement before his usual time.
He put an arm round her waist, kissing the fair brow, and holding out a hand to Harvey.
"Yes; it is fatigue, I suppose. I shall be all right to-morrow, after a good-night. I do not feel that I can stay up any longer."
Harvey offered his arm, and they went, all three, through the conservatory into the lighted drawing-room.
"Thanks, my dear boy. It is a great comfort to have you here. You must come again very soon, and stay long, you and your Julia. I begin to feel that I am an old man, and it is a comfort to know that my Hermione has a kind brother—a brother and sister too—who will care for her."
"Yes, indeed," the young man said heartily.
"Yes, you would do it—would do all—will do all when the need arises. I have complete trust in your kind feeling. You will be a true brother to my darling—always!"
"Always!" repeated Harvey.
The word was very simple, but it had the force of a solemn promise in his estimation, he could hardly have said why.
Hermione stood somewhat apart, not moved by this as Harvey would have expected, but rather seeming not quite to approve of it. When Mr. Dalrymple turned for another "Good-night" of peculiar tenderness, her response was even a little cold. Whether Mr. Dalrymple noticed the fact it was impossible to tell. He went quietly from the room.
Half-a-minute of silence followed. Hermione remained motionless, the lamplight falling upon her dropped eyes. Harvey wished she would be so good as to sit down, that he might do the same, but she did not. The silence was broken by her voice.
"My grandfather is not well."
"I am afraid not."
"He was perfectly himself until you came. It is the worry."
"Are you sure he has not been failing at all? One does not always notice at first, but he has a worn look—hardly the result of one day's worry."
Mr. Fitzalan's words recurred to Hermione, but she put them aside, and answered in resolute tones, "Quite sure. I have never seen him like this before."
"In that case, I think you would be wise to have advice for him without delay. Yes; to-night—why not?"
"What is the use? It is only that he is unhappy."
"I don't wish to contradict a lady, of course, but he seems to me to be thoroughly unwell."
"Only because of that," she persisted.
"If you are absolutely certain to be in the right, discussing the matter will do little good," Harvey could not help saying. "But I have seen something of illness."
"He is worried, not ill. It is enough to upset him. If only you had written openly from the first! I do not wonder that he feels it so much."
Harvey ignored this.
"Then you will not even ask if he would like to see Mr. Pennant?"
"Now? No; it is half-past nine. I shall see how he is in the morning, of course. Will you read prayers to-night, as he cannot?"
She did not speak curtly. Voice and manner were always soft and gentle, yet Harvey knew that every intonation meant displeasure.
"I have no objection, if it is a matter of reading only."
"Yes; we always have a short psalm on Sunday, and I will show you the prayer that my grandfather would use."
Hermione seated herself with a book, and little more passed between the two until the bell sounded and they went to the library. It was the first time within Hermione's recollections that she had ever been there for this purpose without her grandfather. His absence gave her a desolate feeling. She wished she had kissed him more tenderly, had asked more anxiously after his condition. Mr. Dalrymple was an old man, and not given to unimportant ailments. What if anything at all serious were impending? Might it not even now be best to send for Mr. Pennant, and ask him to look in for five minutes, just to see that nothing was really wrong? Mr. Pennant was so kind, he would not object, even should the errand prove to have been unnecessary. But, on the other hand, it was getting late, and most likely there was no need, and Mr. Dalrymple would dislike a fuss; and, besides—besides— why should Harvey manage things? He had behaved so ill—had forfeited all right to interfere. No, she would wait till the morning, and then certainly Mr. Pennant should be summoned, if Mr. Dalrymple were not better.
Hermione wore a reverent manner, but she heard not one word of the psalm which Harvey read, or of the prayer which followed.
After that they went to bed.
A soft rapping at Harvey's door roused him next morning from comfortable slumbers.
"All right," he answered drowsily, under the supposition that boots and hot water would be deposited outside. But the rapping went on, and in another moment he was wide awake.
A glance at his watch showed him that it was only half-past six, a full hour and more before he was usually called. He had a trick of locking his door at night, the fruit of foreign travel, therefore to say "Come in" was useless. He sprang up, flung on his dressing-gown, and turned the key.
Slade entered, subdued in manner and suppressed in voice, according to his wont. It was not Slade's way to get into a flurry. But the line across his forehead had grown into a deep rut, his hands trembled, and he shut the door behind him, as if fearing to be overheard.
"Anything wrong?" asked Harvey.
"Yes, sir—I am not sure," Slade answered under his breath. "I am sorry to disturb you so early, sir, but would it trouble you very much to come and take a look at my master? Mrs. Milton and me don't know what to make of him, sir; and it don't seem right to frighten Miss Rivers without there's good reason."
"No, certainly; don't say a word to her. I'll come in three minutes. He is not ill, I hope?"
Slade went into a brief explanation. At six o'clock punctually Mr. Dalrymple expected to be called, and this office was always undertaken by Slade himself—more from love to his master than because it appertained to his post. Personal attendance upon Mr. Dalrymple was Slade's delight.
As a rule the old man was found to be already wide awake by six o'clock, and it was rarely indeed that, as on the previous day, he should fall asleep again. But this morning Slade had rapped and rapped in vain. No voice answered, so at length he went in. He found Mr. Dalrymple in a heavy slumber. Slade spoke, and Mr. Dalrymple murmured indistinctly something about— "My head!—don't disturb me—" dozing off again immediately. Slade did not think very much of it at the first moment, and left the room; but presently a sense of uneasiness crept over him, and he sought the housekeeper, who took alarm at once.
"And we went back, sir, but we couldn't get any answer, not either of us," Slade continued. "And Mrs. Milton pulled up a blind, and let in the light—and then we saw, sir!" Slade's voice shook, and his face grew paler. "And Mrs. Milton said I'd best call you directly, for we don't like his look."
"Wait outside for me—three minutes," Harvey answered.
Scarcely more than the three minutes passed before he appeared, already dressed. The two went down the passage silently, entering Mr. Dalrymple's room.
Milton stood beside the bed, watching, and she turned upon Harvey a pair of distressed appealing eyes. Harvey gave her a glance, but at first he said nothing, only stooped to examine the face, to lay his fingers on the wrist. Slade waited near the door, trembling still with agitation, almost sobbing.
But that changed responseless face!—no wonder they had not "liked his look."
"Send for Mr. Pennant," Harvey said.
"Yes, sir. Sir, you think—" faltered Slade.
"Send at once—not a moment's delay!"
Yet as Slade vanished, he bent again to look narrowly under the half-closed eyelids, and almost unconsciously a mutter passed his lips—
"No use! Poor Hermione!"
Mrs. Milton burst into tears.
"FRANCESCA—"
"Yes."
"What time did Harvey say he would arrive?"
"My dear! as if you were not a great deal more likely to know than I am. Now, Mittie—you are after some mischief with my work-basket."
"Yes; but I want to see if your recollections agree with mine. He was in such a hurry just at last. I don't think I quite heard what he said."
"Harvey generally is in a slow hurry just at last. Like most men who always put off everything as long as possible. Oh, he will appear some time this evening, never fear. Unless he changes his mind, and puts off till another day. Not so very unlikely, after all. He has not seen this ancient uncle of his for a good many years."
"Harvey will not put off. I want to meet him at the station."
"Julia! What nonsense! You and I are going for a drive on the boulevards."
"I don't care for a drive. I want to meet Harvey."
"And go through an ecstatic meeting in public! All very well if he were a Frenchman or a German. Unfortunately he is English, and doesn't appreciate gush. Depend upon it, he will be much better pleased if you leave him alone to walk in when he chooses. Mittie, come away from that basket."
"He said he would be with us in time for table d'hôte, I know."
"Well—then, that is all right. We shall manage our drive first. I have some shopping to do, which I can't possibly put off. Mittie! do you hear? Leave that basket alone."
The little girl just glanced up with an air of placid independence, and went on fumbling. The raised tone of her mother's order, and the slight stamp of her mother's foot, produced no impression whatever. Mrs. Trevor was plainly not "used to command" successfully with her only daughter.
The ladies occupied a comfortable private sitting-room on the second floor of a first-class Paris hotel. The windows, thrown wide open for air, looked down upon a busy, not to say noisy street. It was not one whit too busy or noisy for Francesca Trevor, whose idea of happiness was to live in a whirl. Julia Dalrymple's tastes were not altogether the same.
Little resemblance might be found between the two sisters in outward appearance. Julia was tall; not slight, but very well proportioned, and in colouring a decided brunette. Whether she could be called pretty or no, might be, as Harvey had told Hermione, "a matter of opinion," probably depending a good deal upon passing moods. If so, the present mood was hardly favourable. She seemed restless and teased, and the black eyes, by nature soft, had a strained look which could not be called beautiful.
Mrs. Trevor was half a head shorter than Julia, rounded and plump in make. While really years the older, she was still far too young-looking for the mother of a child of eight. Though strictly not in the least handsome, she nevertheless managed so to make the best of herself as never to be entirely passed by. Of all earthly horrors, that of "being passed by" would have seemed to Francesca Trevor one most to be dreaded. So she had cultivated attractive manners, and every item of attire that she wore was always carefully studied with a view to effect. Of course she had still to wear mourning, but too much soberness was obviated by sparkling jet, and her flaxen hair was elaborately arranged under the slight apology for a widow's cap which rested on the summit.
Mittie Trevor, standing near a window, calmly searching with small fingers in her mother's work-basket, had inherited an abundance of that same fair hair, rising in flaxen masses over her brow and falling in flaxen masses to her waist; while with this she had inherited the same large black eyes, soft and serious, as her Aunt Julia. Mittie was an extremely pretty child, and just the child whom a weak mother would be disposed to spoil. Francesca Trevor had character enough of a certain stamp, but she never seemed to possess the slightest notion of training a child to obedience.
Few would have guessed Mrs. Trevor to be a ruined widow, almost wholly dependent for herself and her little girl upon the kindness of a brother-in-law. Not absolutely dependent, since she possessed some eighty pounds a year of her own; but Mrs. Trevor counted eighty pounds a small allowance for dress.
"You can drop me at the station, on your way to the shops, Francesca."
"I am not going in that direction, thanks."
Julia was silent. Certainly no one would have imagined on the face of things, that she was the woman of property and Mrs. Trevor the poor dependent.
Mrs. Trevor looked once more towards the child.
"Mittie!"
"Yes, mother."
"Leave my basket alone." "Yes, mother. I want a bodkin."
"Well, you have bodkins of your own. I don't want my basket tumbled in that fashion." A pause. "You should have asked leave first."
Mittie searched on undaunted, and presently extracted the desired article from a tangle of silks and cotton.
"Now just see, you naughty child, the state my things are in. I have a great mind to make you put them straight."
"I am sure I would," murmured Julia, as Mittie went off to the window and there sat down.
"Mittie! Do you hear? You ought to put my basket tidy." No response from the cloud of flaxen hair, which was now about all that could be seen of Mittie beyond a table. "Well—I suppose I shall have to do it myself."
"I would not," Julia said in an undertone.
Mrs. Trevor paid no attention to the remark, but perhaps it was not without effect, for she presently remarked, "You have been a very naughty disobedient girl, Mittie. I have a great mind not to take you for a drive."
Mittie did not stir. She only answered placidly, "If you don't, mother, I shall cry."
Mrs. Trevor seemed to count that threat conclusive, for she allowed the matter to drop; and half-an-hour later, when the two ladies dressed, Mittie too put on a picturesque hat and a pair of dainty kid gloves.
"I can't think why you should object to driving alone with Mittie, and letting me go to the station," Julia broke out at the last moment.
"Because I prefer to have you with me, my dear. Driving alone makes me nervous. Besides, it is quite useless your going. Nobody knows what hour Harvey will really arrive."
Julia submitted, but she proved to be of little use in the conversational line. All through the drive she seemed distraite, as if her mind were elsewhere, and when Francesca wanted an opinion on different qualities of black silk, Julia had none to give. Her one desire was to get back early, lest Harvey should arrive and find empty rooms. It would be so forlorn, so chilling, for the young husband to have no welcome. Julia judged him by herself, knowing how she would feel in his place, not perhaps allowing for his more phlegmatic and even temperament. She loved him passionately, all the fervent warmth of her nature, which for years had found no outlet, flowing in the new-made channel. The short necessary absence, which he counted so very short and so very necessary, was to her a long and severe trial; and she reckoned the hours, almost the minutes, to the time when he would be with her again, with something of a child's impatience.
But Francesca would not be hurried. The choice of a few yards of silk was, in her estimation, a serious and weighty business. She bestowed upon it all her powers of thought and attention, utterly disregarding Julia's stifled agony of impatience.
However, everything comes to an end in time, and so did Francesca's shopping. Then they were driving in the direction of the hotel, Julia leaning well forward, as if she could thus urge the horses to the speed she desired. Her eyes gazed fixedly ahead, and Francesca's observations were unheard.
"You are a lively companion, I must say," the latter remarked, as she alighted.
Julia turned from her to hasten up the wide staircase. Francesca paused to make inquiry, and before Julia reached the top of the first flight Francesca's voice followed her. "He has not appeared yet! I told you so."
Nor did he appear. Dinner-time arrived, but no Harvey, and no letter from Harvey. Through the evening Julia watched in vain. She grew heart-sick with disappointment—such a tiny disappointment Francesca thought it, while Julia hardly knew how to face the prospect of another long night and day without him. She was hurt and grieved too that he had not written. He might surely have sent one line.
Till bed-time came Julia kept up pretty well, but when once alone tears were allowed full swing. Nobody would be any the wiser, so why not? The old desolate feeling, often hers in years gone by, resumed its sway, and with it was a new pain. Did Harvey really care for her as intensely as she loved him? If he did, could he stay away one hour longer than was absolutely necessary in this their first month of married life?
Julia knew practically nothing of the help from Above which may be had through these fretting cares. Even theoretically she knew very little. Religion for Francesca Trevor meant going to Church once every Sunday in a fascinating costume, and occasionally adding her name to some benevolent subscription-list headed by a marchioness or an earl's daughter. And since Francesca had had the main part of Julia's religious training in her hands for twelve years past, it is not surprising if Julia's religious education were defective.
As a child indeed she had been somewhat better taught, not personally by her parents, who were in India from her infancy until their death, but by a certain lady who had charge of her till after her ninth birthday. Francesca then, on the death of her parents one after the other, came home—she had not been out more than a year—and the two sisters went to live with an old uncle, Francesca setting herself thenceforth to the deliberate undoing of Julia's early training. She was resolved to prevent all "particularity of views," as she would have described it, in her young sister. By which Francesca simply meant that it mattered not at all to her what was or was not truth in questions touching a life to come. All she desired was that Julia should think nothing, believe nothing, do nothing which might one day stand in the way of "a good marriage."
Francesca's efforts, followed out with a perseverance worthy of some better cause, met with proportionate success. There were unhappily no counter influences. The old uncle left everything in Francesca's hands; and when Francesca married— "well" as she said, looking on the matter purely from a money and society point of view—Julia lived with her still. So by this time Julia really had no "particular views" at all on the subject of religion. She did not know what she thought, or what she ought to think.
When Harvey Dalrymple asked her to marry him, it never even occurred to her to consider whether he were a good man, or what manner of principles he held. She only knew that she loved him, that to know of his love for her filled life with happiness, that she wanted nothing and cared for nothing in addition.
Yet in her secret self she did want, did care. For no purely human love can ever absolutely satisfy the heart which is made for higher things, and in the brightest floods of mere earth-sunshine the question must still arise—What lies beyond?
To that question, old as the human race, Julia had never even attempted to find an answer. She put it aside, thrust it out of sight. She lived solely in the present—a bright present of late, but a cloud had come over the brightness already. She had little expected on her wedding-day to have to sob herself to sleep alone scarcely four weeks later.
Another long and dull morning followed; Julia would not go out. Francesca ordered, argued, and coaxed in vain. Julia held to her point. She must and would be in, she said, when Harvey should arrive. Francesca at length went off with Mittie, not in the best of tempers, and Julia kept solitary watch at the window.
Nobody then could have called her pretty. She looked dejected and careworn, her cheeks pale, her eyes drooping and lustreless. Francesca, coming in before lunch, shrugged her shoulders, and said, "I declare you might be forty years old when you get into this state."
"I can't help it. My head aches," Julia answered.
"No wonder, when you sit mumping indoors the morning. How can you be so ridiculous? Very likely he will not arrive for a week!"
Julia shuddered at the idea. She would not eat any lunch, and how to get through the afternoon was a difficult problem.
"A LETTER for you, Aunt Julia."
Mittie danced into the room, holding out an envelope; then danced back, holding it still. Julia started up.
"Mittie! give it to me," she cried.
"It's from Uncle Harvey! I know his writing. And it has got the English postmark."
"Mittie! how dare you? Give it to me this instant!"
Julia made a forward step, and Mittie sprang to the open door, where she stood as if meditating flight.
"Don't get cross, Aunt Julia, 'cause, if you're cross, I won't give it you at all," the child said saucily, and she shook her great mane of flaxen hair, looking out from the bush with soft black eyes. "Mother always says people have got to keep good-tempered, whatever anybody does. It isn't lady-like to be cross, you know."
"Francesca! make her give it to me!" gasped Julia, not daring to advance, lest child and letter should vanish.
Mrs. Trevor laughed. "Come, Mittie, don't be a little plague," she said.
"I like being a little plague," asserted Mittie.
"I daresay you do; but just give the letter up now, without any fuss— there's a good child."
"Then Aunt Julia isn't to be cross."
"Of course she won't. Do be quick, Mittie."
Mittie hesitated still, and Julia could endure the suspense no longer. She made a rush forward, and caught the child's dress. Mittie struggled furiously, broke loose, and fled to the window. Before Julia could overtake her, she was out in the balcony, hanging over the slight parapet.
"Aunt Julia, if you touch me, I'll drop the letter! I declare I will."
But Julia's grasp was on the hand which held the letter. Mittie fought fiercely, her lissom figure bending more and more outwards. Suddenly she overbalanced herself. There was a scream, a clutch, a sound of something tearing,—and Mittie was all but precipitated on the pavement below. She had actually gone so far as to hang suspended, with no support but Julia's arms. Even the letter could not be thought of in that moment. Julia held on with all her force, in response to the child's convulsive clinging; but to lift her back over the parapet unassisted was not possible, Julia's muscular powers being less than one might have expected from her height and build. Fortunately Francesca at hand. Mittie's shrill cry drew an answering shriek from her as she ran forward, and after one moment of terrible suspense the child was safely landed.
For three seconds no one spoke, only each looked at the deathly white faces of the other two. It had been a frightfully near escape. Julia seemed stunned, hardly able to stand, and Mrs. Trevor was panting.
Mittie broke the silence. "It's gone!" she said. "It's down in the street. And I'm glad! Aunt Julia nearly killed me."
The excitable child flung herself on her mother in a tumult of sobs, and Francesca too was in tears. Julia still said nothing. She did not feel as if she could speak. The peril had been so very imminent, and the results might have been so very terrible. Her throat felt rigid, and black specks were dancing still before her eyes. But the letter— Harvey's letter—that must not be lost! Julia went downstairs slowly, her limbs shaking under her, and was met at the foot of the stairs by a waiter.
"Mademoiselle had dropped something," he said, presenting her with a muddy envelope. "It had been seen to fall from the window." Julia thanked him, and returned to the sitting-room.
"So you have got it," Francesca said coldly, as she entered. The child was clinging to her, and sobbing still. "I think you might have been content to wait half-a-minute, instead of behaving like a wild cat. Poor darling Mittie! It was awful."
Julia sat down, the letter pressed between her hands. "Mittie was wrong," she said.
"I dare say! A little innocent fun! And you were right, of course, as you always are."
"No. But—"
"Well, you may as well read your precious document now you have got it. After all this fuss! Mittie, my sweet, don't cry any more. You will make such a fright of yourself. Come, it's all right now. We'll have a drive to-morrow, and you shall have a franc to spend in chocolate."
This proved consoling, and Mittie's weeping ceased with astonishing speed. She sat up and began to smile, casting curious glances at her aunt, who had not yet opened the letter, but remained with fixed eyes and cheeks white as paper.
"What is the matter with you?" Francesca asked at length, and Mittie echoed the question in another form— "Aunt Julia, are you cross still?"
Julia could not have answered the first question. She did not know what was the matter with her. It was not crossness, but the moment's horror had stunned her faculties. Suppose Mittie had gone over, and suppose—suppose—only a little corpse had been brought up from the street below! What would life have been after? and how must Francesca have felt? and what would Harvey have thought—nay, what must he not think now? Of course the child was wrong—wilful, pert, disagreeable; but what of her own ungoverned excitement? Julia grew paler and sadder as she thought. And it was all on account of this letter, of her love for Harvey! She did not feel worthy to open and read it yet, though her heart was craving for news.
"Do see what Harvey says, and don't sit staring at nothing in that absurd way," Francesca at length said impatiently.
To Julia's surprise, Mittie spoke up in her defence. "Mother, Aunt Julia isn't absurd. I expect she's only sorry."
Mittie quitted her mother, and went across to the chair in which Julia sat.
"Are you sorry, Aunt Julia?" she asked. "You're not cross with me now? I won't plague you again."
"Kiss me, Mittie," whispered Julia.
A cloud of flaxen hair descended round her in prompt reply; but the very pressure of those little soft arms only brought up more vividly than ever the terrible thought of what might have been the child's condition if—only if—Julia's strength had not sufficed to hold her up. Julia shuddered as she pressed her lips to the smooth cheek.
"Why, you are quite cold, I do declare; and I'm as hot as fire with kicking you," Mittie asserted, with childish frankness and exaggeration. "Is that why you're so pasty-coloured? If I had a letter I wouldn't keep it shut all this time."
Julia became conscious that she could "keep it shut" no longer, and her fingers broke open the closed envelope. As she read the sheet within, she drew one or two long breaths of relief, and a glow rose in her cheeks.
"He could not help it," she said.
"Couldn't help what? The delay?" asked Francesca. "Of course not. What man ever could, if he wished to stay away longer?"
"Francesca, you don't understand. He has not stayed for pleasure. He could not get away."
"Of course not," repeated Mrs. Trevor.
"His uncle is dead—suddenly."
"Julia!"
"Yes; early on Monday."
"Strange! What did he die of?"
"He was not well on Sunday. Then on Monday he woke quite early, and said something about his head, about not wanting to be disturbed. After that he never spoke again. Some sort of attack like apoplexy, Harvey believes. Poor fellow!"
"Poor old Mr. Dalrymple?"
"Yes—no—I meant Harvey. He has had to go through all this, and I have been thinking—"
Julia did not end the self-reproachful sentence.
"Why did he not write sooner?"
"He says he could not, and he thought a telegram would frighten me."
"He doesn't think you a greater goose than you are, my dear." Then, after a break, "Was this what made you look so happy over your letter? To be sure!—Westford will belong to your husband now."
"Francesca! how can you?"
"Well, if you had seen your own face—"
"I never thought of that or of any such thing. I was only glad to know that he had good reason for staying away—not glad, of course, for what has happened."
"What about Miss Rivers?"
"Harvey does not say much. Only that she bears up well, and that he cannot possibly get away till after the funeral. Nothing can be settled till then."
"And then—hélas!—we shall all have to be buried alive. Don't look so dismayed; I only mean a figurative burial. What else can life at Westford be?"
"I don't see—" Julia began, and stopped.
"You very soon will see, my dear. Depend upon it, that is to be our future." Francesca sighed audibly again.
"Mother, shall we live in England?" asked Mittie.
"In a horribly triste country place, Mittie, with nothing but muddy lanes and cows and sheep. I never did think I should come to that, but beggars can't be choosers."
"Harvey always speaks of Westford as such a beautiful place."
"There's an ancestral glamour about it for him—not for me! I detest ancestors almost as much as cows."
"I like lanes better than streets," announced Mittie, as if her opinion were conclusive.
Julia did not care to enter into an argument. For her part she was content to be anywhere in the world, so long as Harvey was there too. Paris, Westford, Kamskatka, or Zululand, mattered little. A few minutes later she slipped away to her own room, and re-read more than once the hurriedly-written letter-one sentence especially.
"I am much afraid from what I hear that Hermione is left totally unprovided for. I do not think she is aware of this herself, and it is almost inexplicable with a man of such business habits as my uncle; but it appears that he has constantly put off, waiting for my return. I could wish now that I had gone back sooner. Regrets are useless, however. We shall have of course to give Hermione a home, though you need not at present mention this to Francesca, as it will not be known until after the reading of the will. Hermione is a pretty creature, and quite a saint, only perhaps a shade difficile in some of her ways. She bears up splendidly, and one cannot but admire her fortitude. I do not know how she and Francesca will suit, still I have no doubt that we shall shake down together somehow. I must stay here till after the funeral, as it is impossible to leave Hermione alone. You will understand this, my dear Julia, and will, I know, bear the disappointment bravely. After that we shall see what to do."
Julia sat long by the window, thinking. Hermione occupied but a small share of her attention. This sudden death in her husband's family touched her keenly, coming so soon after the shock of little Mittie's narrow escape. She could not yet turn from that recollection, could not shake off the horror of it. A sense of insecurity crept over her, of personal helplessness, of a wide surrounding abyss into which at any moment she or her husband might drop away from the other. For after all, life is not meant only for self-pleasing; and a butterfly existence cannot satisfy; and human love may fail; and there is a beyond to the present which may not be always ignored. Julia had a glimpse of the far beyond in that quiet hour, even while the next few days without Harvey seemed to her apprehension hopelessly long to wade through.