HERMIONE did not break down, as all around expected, under the fearfully sudden blow. When first they brought the news of what had occurred, she grew indeed pale as ashes, but neither fainted nor screamed.
"My grandfather taken ill, and I not told I how cruel! how wrong!" she said reproachfully, and for some minutes she seemed to hold at bay the dire truth that he was gone. When at length it gained entrance, she went resolutely straight to his room, undeterred by all remonstrances—and saw for herself.
Even then she bore up with a fortitude extraordinary in one so young. She turned to no one for comfort, leant upon no one for support. Only as she stood by the bed in tearless sorrow, she lifted to Harvey a pair of anguished eyes and said, "If you had written—if you had done differently—Harvey—your own conscience—" There she stopped, and he had again the curious sense of being called to account by this mere girl, so delicate in look, yet so inviolable in composure.
He made no attempt to defend himself. It was natural that at the moment she should ascribe her grandfather's death, at least in a measure, to the shock of Harvey's unexpected return. Had she known how unwelcome to the old man had been the news of Harvey's marriage, she would have counted the case against him yet stronger. Harvey could not think of this without pain and self-reproach, although for his comfort he already knew that during many weeks past both Mr. Pennant and Mr. Fitzalan had noticed distinct signs of failing in Mr. Dalrymple—so much so that Mr. Pennant had twice warned him to be more careful of himself. But of this Hermione was ignorant, and when, a little later, she was told, she did not seem to believe it.
"My grandfather was so well up to Saturday afternoon," she said mournfully; and after all, no reasoning could explain away the actual fact of a shock received. Mischief might have been brewing, but also the brewing mischief might have been hastened.
Hermione had her own bitter additional grief, but for which she would have blamed Harvey far more unreservedly. If she had followed Mr. Fitzalan's advice, and kept her grandfather at home—as she might have done, for he would always yield to his darling, if to no one else—and if she had followed Harvey's suggestions of sending for Mr. Pennant, who could say but that the fatal attack might have been warded off? This thought pressed upon her with leaden heaviness, yet she spoke of it to no one. She was very reserved, very reluctant always to admit blame to herself as due. Harvey made no allusion in her hearing to his rejected advice; such an allusion could now have been only cruel. Mr. Fitzalan said nothing of the message he had sent, which he supposed to have failed in its effect, for he would not needlessly add to Hermione's distress.
People hear grief in very different ways, and Hermione's fashion of grief-bearing was not to sink beneath it. Though so slight in appearance, she was healthy and vigorous. Where another might have been crushed, she seemed rather to be stimulated into an intense restlessness. She could not read, could not work, could not talk consecutively. No needless allusion to her loss ever passed her lips, yet when necessary she spoke of Mr. Dalrymple with outward composure, gave all needful orders, wrote countless letters, arranged everything, left no duties unperformed.
From the first she had not been known to shed a tear, and the usually smiling eyes had a dry look of fixed sadness; nevertheless she did weep when alone in her own room, and she was not utterly overwhelmed. She did not appear to be suffering in health, but only was always on the move, unable to rest, passing hither and thither incessantly, upstairs and downstairs, from one room to another, her soft step never varying in its style.
Harvey wondered at her. He was full of pity for the poor girl, and this sudden death of the kind old uncle whom he had not treated rightly came to him as a sharp blow. He would have liked to draw nearer to Hermione in her loneliness, to have shown brother-like sympathy, and to have tried to comfort her. But Hermione eluded all such attempts. She was his polite and cousinly hostess—nothing more. Any further approach drove her instantly to "letters that must be written," or "something that had to be done." Harvey acquiesced at length, taking long walks about the neighbourhood, and seeing a good deal of the Fitzalans, but holding very little intercourse with Hermione. And so the slow days wore away until the funeral.
Marjory was by far the more broken down of the two girls. From the moment of receiving the sad news she had scarcely left her couch. She could not sit up or stand without a sickening whirl of everything present. Parish work and other work had to wait. The girl seemed crushed by her friend's loss.
The two had not met as yet. Hermione kept strictly to the house, and Marjory could not go thither—the utmost she was able to accomplish being to dress herself and creep down to the drawing-room.
Harvey commonly found her there when he came in, as he did on some pretext or other once, if not twice, each day. Life at the Hall was dull for him, and he seemed glad to get out of the sombre atmosphere; and Marjory could detect a natural impatience to be with his young wife again. "I should have liked to send for her here," he said once, "but Hermione seems to disapprove; and I suppose, under the circumstances, as they are strangers—"
He looked doubtfully at Mr. Fitzalan, and the answer was, "I think you will be wise to wait." To Marjory's relief; Harvey acquiesced.
Friday came, and all the village followed the remains of the village-benefactor to the grave. Hermione was there, notwithstanding her cousin's opposition. Harvey thought that the ordeal must be too great, and would fain have had her remain at the Hall. But he needed not to have feared. Hermione was entirely composed throughout— "stoical" one person said to himself, and that person was not Harvey, for Harvey could not at all make up his mind about Hermione.
Marjory, who would fain have been present also, had to give it up. She was only able to lie on her couch, weeping passionately for her friend, while Hermione in deep black, with an angelic sweetness on her fair face, stood forward alone as chief mourner, the observed of all observers. Harvey was near, but she would not have his support. Mr. Fitzalan's voice shook, and his hand trembled, while Hermione never faltered. When they sang a hymn round the grave, by Hermione's express desire, her clear tones took the lead, and her blue eyes were uplifted as if verily able to see "behind the veil."
At the words, "I heard a voice from heaven—" brokenly uttered by Mr. Fitzalan, who seemed quite unnerved and scarcely able to struggle through the service, that look came again to her face. Then a sob was heard, but it did not come from Hermione. A young man stood behind her, stalwart in figure, his fine boyish face working with strong emotion. Even in that sad hour Harvey had cast from time to time interested glances at Harry Fitzalan, down in Westford for the day. There were many who could tell him of Harry's devoted affection for Mr. Dalrymple. It was an attachment which did the young man honour.
Over at last! and the crowd broke slowly up. Harry would not go to the Hall, as somebody asked him to do. He did not want to hear the will read, so he hurried off alone to the Rectory. Marjory saw him coming, to cast himself dejectedly into a chair in the darkest corner of the drawing-room, and she checked her own tears to rise and meet him. "Poor Harry must feel it so terribly," she knew. "After Hermione, it was worse for him than for anybody."
"And Hermione!" she whispered, standing by his side, a few words having passed. "And poor Hermione?"
The young man made a movement as if of impatience. He was very like his father and sister in face, having the same irregular cast of features, with loose brown hair and expressive eyes, but he was half a head taller than Mr. Fitzalan, and strong in build, with a sunburnt healthy look, therein a marked contrast to Marjory.
"Poor Hermione!" he repeated, with a touch of mockery. "You need not trouble yourself, Marjory. It was all graceful attitudes and lovely looks—nothing more."
Marjory's eyes filled. "O Harry! indeed you are mistaken."
"I wish I were. She didn't shed a tear—but tears are not becoming, you know." Harry spoke somewhat doggedly, as if determined to stand by his own opinion. "I never do understand female stoicism. It is unnatural. And such a man as Mr. Dalrymple!" The words ended in a groan.
"It is not stoicism—indeed it is not. It is only that she will not give way before others."
"And now she will go home, do her duty to everybody, and be as charming as if—" Harry broke into a sigh. "Well, we needn't discuss the matter. It does no good—only worries you. We never shall think alike about Hermione, I suppose. That six months abroad spoilt her— and I see it, but you don't. I can't see why you need, either. After all, she's a lovely creature, Marjie—nobody knows it better than I do. Sometimes I wish I didn't know it quite so well. I should like to get her out of my head altogether—and I can't. He counted her perfect, dear old man! Only, one does look to see him mourned differently—"
"Don't!" Marjory entreated.
"Poor little woman!" He kissed her brow in tender fashion. Harry was a full year older than Marjory, though in looks four or five years her junior. "Too bad of me, isn't it? I'll never accuse you of being a Stoic, Marjory. And as for Hermione, perhaps you and I agree better than we seem to do on the surface."
"You know very well that nothing would grieve you more than to see her unhappy."
Harry made no response to this. He was so long considering what to say that he ended by not saying anything at all. He knew that Marjory spoke truth; yet quite as truly he could have added, "Except not to see her unhappy when she ought to be so." But this would have pained Marjory; and after all, how could he or any one say that Hermione did not grieve? He could only be sure that she was not overcome by her grief; and the question of being outwardly overcome depends, not only upon kinds and degrees of sorrow, but upon the mode of expression natural to each person in sorrow, upon the condition of health, and upon the strength of will, where that will is bent to the task of self-repression.
Marjory broke the long silence. "Did you speak to Harvey?"
"A few words. There was no need for more."
"He was kind—?"
"Why should he be anything else?" Harry spoke captiously.
"You have heard about his marriage!"
"Harvey Dalrymple's!" Harry spoke in a voice of amazement now, and he stirred himself to an upright posture, as if startled out of his depression.
"Yes."
"But I say, Marjie, I always thought—" Harry hesitated. "Mr. Dalrymple's wish—"
This was the first thought which occurred to every one who knew Mr. Dalrymple. The marvel was that he had never divulged it to Hermione herself.
"I say!" reiterated Harry, in blank boyish astonishment.
"He was married abroad nearly a month ago. He had not written beforehand, and he came home on that account to tell them here."
A curious revulsion of ideas was going on in Harry's mind, a revulsion the nature of which was not distinct even to himself. He sat staring at Marjory with those big grey eyes of his. "Then—Hermione—" he uttered.
"Hermione only cared that Mr. Dalrymple was not told, because it was a slight to him. Otherwise she would have been delighted. She told me so herself."
"And she will live with them?"
"My father does not know what else she can do, and Harvey expects it. But we want her to spend a quiet month with us first, to get over the shock."
Harry sank into a dream, making no response. Marjory had her own theory as to the subject of his dream.
HERMIONE was not in the library when the will was read. Somehow she could not make up her mind to it.
As they drove home she grew paler, and the tearless eyes had a strained look. If Harry had seen her then, the severity of his judgment on her want of feeling would surely have relaxed. When Harvey handed her out she gave a bewildered glance round as if suddenly missing something. Did she only then begin in very truth to realise her loss?
"Must I come too? Is it necessary?" she asked of Mr. Fitzalan in her gentle voice, when a move was made to the library; and without waiting for an answer she added, "I should like to go to my own room. You can tell me afterwards anything that I ought to know." Before he could protest she had glided away.
The library interview came to an end, and all, with the exception of Hermione, knew the state of affairs. It seemed a strange state, considering Mr. Dalrymple's great love for Hermione.
For everything came to Harvey—everything without exception, beyond a few small legacies. The will had been made and signed twenty years earlier, before the birth of Hermione, and while Harvey's father was living. The bulk of Mr. Dalrymple's possessions had been then left to his only brother's son, Henry Dalrymple, and to his heirs—Henry's son, Harvey, being the next heir. Later codicils named the sum of one hundred pounds for Harry Fitzalan, and various lesser legacies for old friends and retainers, but nothing touched the original arrangement. Hermione was not so much as mentioned.
"Inexplicable! extraordinary!" Harvey said more than once, when talking afterwards in subdued tones with Mr. Fitzalan, and with the lawyer, Mr. Selwyn; yet he was not without a secret clue to an explanation.
"Mr. Dalrymple's fixed intention has been to make ample provision for Miss Rivers," Mr. Selwyn said. "I happen to be well aware of this fact. He spoke of the intention repeatedly, delaying only until your return."
"Why should he have delayed?"
Mr. Selwyn bent his head slightly.
"It was a fancy of Mr. Dalrymple's—I can hardly give a more weighty name to his reason—an old man's fancy. I have used influence to bring about an immediate settlement, but without result. He always insisted that there was no need for haste, that a few months more or less could not signify; and he appeared to live in a constant expectation of your coming. In a man of his good sense and good business habits, this procrastination has been the more singular."
"And Hermione has nothing of her own?" Mr. Fitzalan observed.
"Not much. About one hundred and twenty pounds per annum, the amount which was settled upon her mother. Unfortunately, the remainder of Hermione Dalrymple's marriage portion lay at her husband's discretion—and William Rivers made short work with that, as with everything else that he possessed."
"Miss Dalrymple was averse to any larger settlement on herself," said Mr. Fitzalan.
"Yes—woman-like, trusting one who was not worthy of her trust. Mr. Dalrymple yielded to her wishes—weakly, I have always thought. Her child is the loser now, though not according to her wish or intention."
"I only wish I had come home sooner," Harvey almost said, but somehow he changed the sentence into— "I wish Hermione had been present. How can one tell her?"
Mr. Fitzalan wondered silently— "Will not Harvey feel bound to carry out his uncle's intentions?" The same thought was in Mr. Selwyn's mind, less hopefully couched. The lawyer had perhaps seen even more than the clergyman of the money-loving side of human nature, and he knew from experience how gold-greed is apt to grow with gold-possession. Moreover, both were well acquainted with the mental indolence which made Harvey slow in arriving at any practical decision.
Mr. Selwyn drew a letter from his pocket, and handed it to Harvey— an opened envelope, addressed to himself. "I think you ought to see this," he said. "I received it by the morning post on Monday."
The sheet within was written upon as follows, in a tremulous hand:—
"WESTFORD HALL, Saturday evening.""DEAR MR. SELWYN,—Can you spend Monday nighthere? I wish for some conversation with you.My nephew has returned, and will remainuntil Tuesday. He is lately married.""I have resolved to settle the sum oftwenty thousand pounds upon my grandchild,Hermione, at once.""Pray telegraph an answer. I have actedreprehensibly in delaying so long, andI am impatient to have everything in train.—""Yours sincerely,""GILBERT DALRYMPLE."
"WESTFORD HALL, Saturday evening.""DEAR MR. SELWYN,—Can you spend Monday nighthere? I wish for some conversation with you.My nephew has returned, and will remainuntil Tuesday. He is lately married.""I have resolved to settle the sum oftwenty thousand pounds upon my grandchild,Hermione, at once.""Pray telegraph an answer. I have actedreprehensibly in delaying so long, andI am impatient to have everything in train.—""Yours sincerely,""GILBERT DALRYMPLE."
"WESTFORD HALL, Saturday evening.""DEAR MR. SELWYN,—Can you spend Monday nighthere? I wish for some conversation with you.My nephew has returned, and will remainuntil Tuesday. He is lately married.""I have resolved to settle the sum oftwenty thousand pounds upon my grandchild,Hermione, at once.""Pray telegraph an answer. I have actedreprehensibly in delaying so long, andI am impatient to have everything in train.—""Yours sincerely,""GILBERT DALRYMPLE."
"WESTFORD HALL, Saturday evening."
"DEAR MR. SELWYN,—Can you spend Monday night
here? I wish for some conversation with you.
My nephew has returned, and will remain
until Tuesday. He is lately married."
"I have resolved to settle the sum of
twenty thousand pounds upon my grandchild,
Hermione, at once."
"Pray telegraph an answer. I have acted
reprehensibly in delaying so long, and
I am impatient to have everything in train.—"
"Yours sincerely,"
"GILBERT DALRYMPLE."
Harvey read the letter twice, and gave it back without comment.
"I telegraphed, as you know, to say that I would come," observed Mr. Selwyn. "The answering telegram from Miss Rivers, probably sent by yourself in her name, acquainted me with what had unhappily occurred."
"No; I heard nothing of any telegram," Harvey said, in a tone of surprise.
"Then Miss Rivers acted independently. She is quite capable of standing alone. A clever girl, with remarkable self-command."
"The sum named in that note would have been a heavy drag on the estate," Harvey said gravely, as if to quash any hopes for Hermione which the other might entertain.
"Possibly; but it was the amount which lay at Mr. Dalrymple's own disposal—which it may be he has always destined for Miss Rivers— unless—"
Mr. Selwyn left his sentence unfinished, and Harvey made no inquiries.
It was of course needful that the true condition of affairs should be revealed to Hermione, but nobody was anxious to undertake the task, and Hermione was long in reappearing. Mr. Fitzalan had to depart, on account of another engagement; and Mr. Selwyn was compelled to catch a certain train to London from a similar reason. Therefore, when Hermione did at length come downstairs, Harvey alone was at hand.
He could not make up his mind to go into the question with her. Harvey always shirked disagreeable duties if possible, and this duty seemed to him especially disagreeable.
No doubt there lay lurking at the back of his disinclination a distinct consciousness of what would be expected of him. He did not suppose for a moment that Mr. Selwyn would publish the fact of the twenty thousand pounds which might have been Hermione's. Probably no living person except himself and Mr. Selwyn would know it. The letter had not been shown even to Mr. Fitzalan, seated in the same room with themselves. But everybody would be aware that Mr. Dalrymple had not intended to leave his darling portionless.
It would have been an easy thing for Harvey to say to his cousin, "Hermione, your grandfather meant to make ample provision for you, and as he has been taken away before carrying out his intention, I will do it instead."
The difficulty in the way of such a speech was that Harvey had not made up his mind. He meant to do something, certainly, but the question was—what?—how much?
He would consider the matter, would perhaps consult Julia. Apart from the specified twenty thousand pounds, "ample provision" could mean no paltry sum. And the estate was not one which would endure unlimited demands. Harvey had been a degree disappointed at the income which would be his. He had expected more.
Not that he was an avaricious man in the bold sense of the world. He was simply a man who valued money for what it would buy, who liked to get and to have whatever ministered to his comfort or pleased his fancy, who never could be happy with less than the best of everything. This of necessity means the command of considerable wealth. Harvey would do any kindness to anybody, so long as it was not too much trouble—Mr. Fitzalan had spoken thus of him truly— but his own needs were always first supplied, and his own wishes might never go unfulfilled. The word "self-denial" did not exist in Harvey's vocabulary. He would now have Hermione on his hands, besides his wife's relatives. These things had to be weighed in the scale. While Mr. Dalrymple yet lived, he had of course the right to settle what he chose of his own upon Hermione; but Harvey counted twenty thousand pounds an unduly large amount, considering the heavy expenses involved in the keeping up of Westford estate—an amount so large that it really seemed as if the old man's mind must have been a good deal weakened before he could arrive at so startling a decision.
This was a comfortable view of the question for Harvey, helping him to shake off the incubus of the private letter to Mr. Selwyn, together with the feeling that in some measure he might be counted morally bound to carry out his uncle's intention. Legally of course he was free. The law could not touch him. But there is a moral side to everything as well as a legal side, and the question of right and wrong thrust itself obtrusively before Harvey's averted gaze, insisting on being seen whether he would or no.
Well, and he meant to do his duty, of course—who could doubt it?—his duty as a gentleman and a man of honour. Opinions might differ as to what constituted his duty, as to what was for him "the right," and there he must be permitted to decide for himself. Certainly he did not intend to subtract twenty thousand pounds from the estate, neither would Mr. Dalrymple have contemplated any such step but for the weakness of old age. Harvey very soon regarded this as a settled truth. But he meant to make "ample provision" for his young cousin.
If "ample provision" for Hermione should imply a call for the curtailing of his own expenditure—
No, Harvey declined to face that question. It was easy to take refuge in vagueness and delay. He would do all that duty and kindness demanded of him. He had not the smallest intention of curtailing his own expenditure for Hermione's sake or anybody's sake. But people seldom say definitely, "I will do what is wrong." It is always a roundabout road which leads to this goal. Harvey only told himself that he would "think," and then he tried as much as possible to drive thought away.
Hermione seemed scarcely to have begun to realise her own position, or to look forward. It was not till late in the evening that she remarked, as if casually, "Are you going back to Paris?"
"For a short time—a month or so," he said, seizing on the opportunity. "You know that the Fitzalans have kindly asked you to the Rectory until we can come."
"Mr. Fitzalan spoke of it," she said doubtfully. Her eyes were a little heavy, as if from tear-shedding, but her manner was composed.
"It will be best. You cannot stay here alone, and the break will be a good thing."
She said slowly, "You are willing to come now—when he—and all those years—"
"I don't know about being willing. I like the Continent best. But of course we shall have to spend part of the year at Westford." Hermione made no answer, and he felt himself impelled to add, "You know about the entail."
"Yes."
Hermione stood up, as if to move away, and Harvey said, "I think we ought to settle something. Julia will be expecting me."
"Why do you stay away from her?"
"I must know what day you can go to the Rectory before I can settle anything. Of course your home will be with us now, Hermione."
She did not thank him, but said simply, "When you are at Westford."
"I hope—always. It would have been his wish for you."
Hermione went away, offering no response. "Impracticable girl!" he muttered impatiently. She might almost have heard the words. At the door she lingered to say, "Mr. Fitzalan asked me to go to the Rectory to-morrow. You can arrange what you like about your own plans."
"THERE'S something stopping at the hotel, Mittie—look!" cried Julia, who was at the farther end of the room, while Mittie sat close to the open window.
The child skipped out upon the balcony, and cried in shrill tones, "It's Uncle Harvey!"
"Now, Julia, pray don't rush madly out, and—" Francesca's exhortation came to an abrupt conclusion, fur Julia was gone.
"She wouldn't hear you, mother," commented Mittie, standing in the open window, while a slight breeze lifted her clouds of flaxen hair and swept them round her face. "Aunt Julia always does scamper when Uncle Harvey comes. I think she's too big to scamper, ever so much. But I like him, too—don't you? I like him better than Aunt Julia, 'cause he doesn't get cross."
"Mittie, there's a spot of grease on your sleeve," said Mrs. Trevor, perhaps not anxious to discuss the respective merits of her sister and brother-in-law.
"So there is," assented Mittie. "And here's another. I can't think why spots of grease come. Don't you like Uncle Harvey too, mother? He's got such a nicey sort of way of doing things, and he always looks kind. He doesn't never frown, you know—does he?"
"Doesn't ever, you mean. Uncle Harvey will frown if you talk bad grammar."
"No, he won't. He hasn't got that kind of pucker on his forehead like Aunt Julia has got when she's cross. Most men have got big puckers, and he hasn't. His forehead is as smooth as yours, mother."
"Well, Mittie! How do you do, Francesca?" Harvey's voice said, as he came in, Julia clinging to his arm with an upturned face of brilliant happiness, undeniably handsome at that moment. Mittie flung herself on him with a little shriek of delight, but bounded off at his kiss, exclaiming—
"Don't scrub! I hate moustaches!" and Francesca extended a hand graciously, without troubling herself to rise.
"So you have had a dismal time of it on the whole," she said.
"Not worse than I have had!" murmured Julia.
"Foolish child!" he said softly.
"Only two days short of a fortnight. It has seemed endless."
"I could not come sooner. It was not my choice. There was no getting away from Westford till late on Saturday, and a day in London on business proved imperative. As I told you, I was not sure of coming even to-day."
He threw himself into the corner of a couch, and Julia sat on a low chair close by, watching him with eager eyes and clasped hands. She could not understand his look. Was he bored, or vexed, or worried? Mittie, too, was gazing in evident perplexity, for upon Harvey's smooth brow lay two upright ruts not wont to be there.
Julia took refuge in the wifely question—
"Are you very tired?"
"No—yes; I believe I am. It has been a trying time altogether. Well, Mittie, what mischief have you been after?"
He held out an arm, and she came near cautiously, with the proviso, "Then I won't be scrubbed?"
"No; all right. I'll take care. How will you like a pretty young cousin to live with?"
"She isn't my cousin," said Mittie. "What have you got those ugly puckers for?" and her small fingers endeavoured to do away with the dents.
Harvey laughed, and the puckers disappeared. "If Hermione is not your cousin, you must adopt her."
"Is it settled that she lives with us?" asked Francesca.
"I believe so. We take it for granted."
"Is she really pretty?"
"Uncommonly."
"And—good?" Julia said, in a hesitating tone.
"Desperately."
"I shall be afraid of her. I don't like people of that sort. Must she live with us? Has she nowhere to go?"
"No."
"But if she has plenty of money?" put in Francesca.
"She has not." A curious metallic sound came into Harvey's voice, and the "puckers" were again apparent. Mittie endeavoured once more to smooth them out, and he turned from her as if teased.
"Mittie, do be quiet," said Julia.
"I'm quiet. I don't want Uncle Harvey to be ugly," Mittie said, in an injured tone.
"Oh, of course the estate was entailed," Francesca observed, not noticing the by-play. "Still, one fancies the old gentleman would have taken care of her future, if he were so devoted to her as you have thought."
"He has not."
"And she is dependent on you?"
"At present—in a measure."
"How does she like that?"
"She does not seem to know it yet."
"You did not tell her?"
"That was not exactly my business."
"I should think the kindest plan would have been to speak out."
"Her friends can do so. Of course she is aware of the entail."
"Uncle Harvey is frowning most awfully," murmured Mittie.
"I should never have expected Mr. Dalrymple to leave her unprovided for. It is not as if you had been quite the most attentive and devoted of heirs," Francesca said, with a little laugh.
"Your experience of life has not taught you one thing, seemingly."
"What thing?"
"That people are always doing exactly what nobody would have expected of them."
"Well, yes—sometimes; but still, in this case—"
"In this case you wouldn't have expected it? Just so. That only points my doctrine. A 'well-drawn character' in a novel always does what one expects of him, but individuals in real life are not so obliging."
Julia's large black eyes were examining her husband's face.
"Have you been very much bothered? You don't look like yourself—" and her hand stole to his coat-sleeve caressingly.
"Oh, by-the-bye, are we really to be buried alive in that country place?" inquired Mrs. Trevor.
"I shall have to take Julia there in a month or six weeks. You must please yourself about accompanying us."
A touch of irritation showed in the manner, and Francesca's colour rose. She gave him a good look, and stood up, saying coldly, "That was not precisely in your best style, when you know my circumstances. Come, Mittie—it is about time to dress for table d'hôte."
Harvey evidently felt the rebuke. He went to open the door for her, and said as she swept past, "I beg your pardon. I spoke carelessly."
"So I supposed!" —and she was gone, Mittie following in her rear. Harvey came back to his seat, and there was an involuntary motion of his fingers through his hair. Julia watched with eyes of soft sympathy.
"Poor Francesca! I shall have to make my peace with her," he said, half smiling.
"Oh, no need. I have no patience with Francesca. She takes everything as a right, and shows airs when she ought to be only grateful. And just now, too, when you are so worried! Harvey, have things gone wrong? I can't quite make you out; you are not like yourself."
"I shall be all right now I am with you again."
The words were a great delight to Julia. She had the anxious clinging temperament which craves for much outward show of affection, and cannot trust without such evidence. Her cheek came down on his hand, and she said, "Then I don't mind anything—even Hermione."
"You and Hermione will get on well enough."
"Only if she is so very good—desperately, you said."
"I used the word in jest, of course. You don't wish her to be very bad, of course."
"No, no—but in that way—you know what I mean. One can't help being rather afraid of people who talk a great deal very religiously—don't you think so? Though, perhaps—" Julia hesitated— "I am not religious, but sometimes I think I ought to be, and I wish I could be different. If I were like you, it would not matter. You are always so true, so exactly what you ought to be in everything; it seems as if you always did right as a matter of course, not because it is right, but because you can't help it. I can't even imagine your doing anything really wrong. You have your little faults, I suppose, but I cannot see them. I never see any one else quite like you. But I—oh, I am so different."
"You are talking great nonsense, Julia."
"No, I am not; things are just as I say. You are always good, and I am not, and I wish I were. It frightens me sometimes. I had such a dreadful shock one day since you left. Francesca promised that she and Mittie would not tell you, but I should not be happy unless you knew. I could not endure the feeling of something being hidden. Harvey, I nearly killed Mittie."
Harvey looked incredulous.
"Yes, it is true. It was an accident, of course—I mean it would have been—but it was temper too." Julia told him in smothered tones of the arrival of his letter, of the struggle in the balcony, and of Mittie's narrow escape. "It seemed so awful," she said, "to think how I should have felt if it had happened. And it might if Francesca had not been so near. I never have much strength in my arms, and the fright seemed almost to paralyse them, so that I felt Mittie sliding away, and I could not keep her. I can't tell you what a horrible moment that was. It comes back to me now, and turns me cold."
"No wonder; but after all, Mittie is a troublesome little puss."
"Yes; only that was no real excuse for me. Then, when I opened the letter, I found the news about poor old Mr. Dalrymple. And I suppose it was the two things coming so close together—I could not shake them off. I felt for days after as if there was nothing to rest upon, and no safety in looking forward. Do you know what it is to have such feelings? But of course you don't, because you never do anything so wrong. Perhaps the feelings will go now I have you again."
"I hope so. You have certainly been in a morbid state, my dear."
"So Francesca told me—not that she knew anything of what I am saying now. She would only have laughed. And you don't think I ought to become more religious?"
"You are enough so for me."
"But if I ought—"
"I shall leave you to settle that point for yourself. Only, pray don't adopt Hermione as your model."
"Why? Don't you like her?"
"She is charming, as a girl. I do not admire her particular style of goodness."
"No; but you will help me?"
Harvey laughed, perhaps to hide a sense of embarrassment.
"I am not a very religious person myself, Julia. No use to come to me, I am afraid. Come, I really shall begin to suspect you of a small craze on the subject. It is time that you should dress."
"Yes, I am forgetting; no, it will do in ten minutes—I never take long."
"Better not be late; and I have my bag to unpack."
"I'll unpack it for you. Do let me—and then you can be quiet a little longer. Is the key upstairs? Oh, thanks; I'll be very careful with everything."
Harvey had remained a bachelor long enough to prefer unpacking for himself, but a stronger sensation at that moment was a desire to cut short the talk. He would not have had Julia know this for the world, so he fell in with her proposal.
"I'll put everything out ready, so as to save you trouble," she said, hastening away.
For ten minutes Harvey was alone, and during that short interval he came to a weighty decision, reversing a former intention. He would not speak to Julia about the letter from Mr. Dalrymple to Mr. Selwyn, or about the "ample provision" which had to be made for Hermione Rivers. At least—not yet. Harvey's determinations were apt to be somewhat vague. He did not resolve never to speak, but only not to speak "at present." After all, Julia was a mere girl, unversed in business affairs. The matter rested with himself; he would wait and consider. There was space enough ahead for action—why do things in a hurry?
Perhaps Julia's loving belief in her husband's "goodness," had to do with this decision. If she knew all, she might not feel quite so convinced of his excellence. He had no wish, naturally, to lower himself in her eyes. Everybody likes to be esteemed and admired—or, as we are apt to express it, "to be appreciated."
No, he would keep the matter quiet for a while, till he should "see his way."
Somehow Marjory's face came up, pale and reproachful, and her voice seemed to mingle sadly with the busy sounds of the gay street below, quoting the words she had quoted before:—
"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."
"Stuff! nonsense!" exclaimed Harvey, almost aloud. "I declare I am as bad as Julia—positively morbid. As if that had anything to do with the question. One would think Marjory had bewitched me! I have to consider my duty to the estate. If my poor old uncle's idea had been carried out, the property must have been completely wrecked—hampered for years at all events. Hermione shall have what is right, but I must have time for consideration. By-and-by I shall know better what really lies at my command."
SEVERAL weeks had glided by when, one day towards the middle of August, Harvey Dalrymple and his party were to arrive at the Hall.
He had not even yet plainly told Hermione that the widow and her child would be permanent members of his household. There was "time enough," and Harvey always deferred the unpleasant till to-morrow. So Hermione only knew that another bedroom had to be prepared.
"A strange time to come—before Harvey and Julia are even settled in," she said, sighing. "Things would have been bad enough without that."
Hermione had slept at the Rectory hitherto, but this night she would occupy her old quarters. Better so; the plunge had to be made, and the sooner was the wiser.
These past weeks had gone very peacefully, and to Hermione not unhappily. The sorrow had been a gentle sorrow, and she was surrounded by kindness. She was so young, and so attractive in her deep mourning, that few could look upon her unmoved. Wherever she went she met glances and words of pity or sympathy, alike from rich and poor. Mr. Fitzalan had never been more fatherly and kind than now in her time of severe loss; Marjory was nothing less than her abject slave; and Harry, returning home for his long vacation, forgot his own past strictures, to place himself, metaphorically speaking, at her feet. Why not? He was no longer bound, in loyalty to Mr. Dalrymple's desire, to hold aloof. Hermione could never belong to Harvey.
There could be no doubt that Hermione was soothed and comforted, that she liked this kind of thing. To find herself a centre of thought and care, of love and adulation, did not beget a conceited mood or manner, but had a gently lulling effect. She accepted all the petting, the care, the admiration, with a soft humility of demeanour which deceived almost everybody, herself certainly included. "So simple and unconscious," was the general verdict. Perhaps nobody in the place saw deeper except Mr. Fitzalan; for, if Harry could have seen, Harry would not see. He put on tinted glasses, and gave himself blindly up to the infatuation of her sweet presence. And Mr. Fitzalan said nothing. He knew that no words of his could make Hermione see herself as she was, and he knew that Hermione's time of trial was yet to come.
She kept well in health, able to sleep, eat, and walk as usual. She had taken to looking gently pensive and depressed, but this was only correct. Perhaps, if it did not sound cruel, one might even suggest that she looked so because it was correct—because she found that it was expected of her. And the pensive sweetness was very becoming. But Harry, poor fellow, was past seeing that now, and Hermione herself was unaware that she looked aught which she did not genuinely feel.
There was cause enough, undoubtedly, for a saddened face. Nobody would have been surprised at any amount of sorrow on her part. If she had been utterly crushed, it would have been considered only reasonable. But then she was not crushed at all. She was as much interested as ever in people and things, and in surrounding life, and as willing to be "appreciated" by everybody with whom she came in contact. People in overwhelming grief do not care much about appreciation, at least for the time.
There had been no talk as to business. Hermione asked no questions, and the subject had been carefully avoided by the Fitzalans. Mr. Fitzalan supposed that she had learnt from Harvey the true state of affairs, and while inclined to wonder at her silence, he respected it. He was not at all disposed to enter into any discussion about the will, or about what Harvey's duty might be.
But, in truth, Hermione knew little as to the state of affairs. She was vaguely aware that the estate had been left to Harvey, and that he possessed a right to live at the Hall. It never so much as occurred to her that she had a right to live there no longer, except with his permission. She was very young—only nineteen years old—and accustomed to have whatever she liked for the asking. All her life had been spent at Westford, except an occasional month at the sea side, and one long bout of six months on the continent with her grandfather; which six months had transformed her from a complete child to a complete young woman. She went away spoilt, passionate, impulsive, yet pretty and most lovable. She came back lovely, composed, self-restrained, confident, and charming.
As for money matters, Mrs. Milton, the housekeeper, managed all household expenses, with merely a nominal reference to Hermione. Up to seventeen years old Hermione had been in the hands a governess—and a troublesome handful that poor governess found her. Since seventeen she had been her own mistress, and had been permitted to buy whatever she pleased, Mr. Dalrymple paying her bills and keeping her purse filled. She was about as well acquainted with the practical value of money as most children of eight or ten. When Harvey was at Westford Hall, he would occupy the same position that Mr. Dalrymple had occupied; and if there were bills to pay, no doubt Harvey would pay them. Hermione could dismiss the question thus easily. She was a clever girl, well-read, and with opinions on abstract subjects at least as decided as opinions are wont to be at the age of nineteen, but in regard to money matters she was complacently ignorant.
Mr. Fitzalan remarked one day that it was "kind" of Harvey to give her a home. Hermione opened surprised eyes. "Why?" she asked, and Mr. Fitzalan spoke of something else. Though he did not know of the letter to Mr. Selwyn, he knew enough of Mr. Dalrymple's intentions to count Harvey morally though not legally bound to provide for Hermione; he knew quite enough, therefore, to deter him from discussing things with Hermione.
Morally, but not legally! So it was the old question again of right and wrong—of what a man would like to do versus what a man ought to do! But money is very blinding to the moral eyesight where legal freedom exists. Mr. Fitzalan wondered often how Harvey would view his own position.
Marjory had afternoon tea at the Hall with Hermione, the day on which the travellers were expected. Hermione did not seem nervous or timid, as Marjory would have been in her place—as, indeed, Marjory was now. She only looked pensive. Milton had arranged abundance of flowers in the drawing-room, and Hermione altered the arrangement here and there, with some critical remarks. Then she went for a walk on the terrace with Marjory, to while away the time.
"I suppose we shall hear the bells ringing soon?" she said.
"If only that need not have been!" sighed Marjory. "Harry has gone for a long walk to get out of the way. He said he could not stand it."
"Poor Harry!" Hermione observed, in her elder-sisterly tone. "He was always so fond of my dear grandfather."
"Do you think Harvey will keep up things as he did?" faltered Marjory.
"I hope so, indeed. I shall use all my influence, Marjory, and if Harvey did not, I should think it right to speak to him plainly."
Hermione, the girl of nineteen, might speak, but would Harvey, the man past thirty, listen? Marjory, with all her devotion to Hermione, was conscious of something a little out of joint here, of something not quite as it should be. For, after all, everybody is not called upon to set everybody to rights. There are limits to our duties.
To suggest that Hermione was labouring under a mistake lay beyond the reach of Marjory's capabilities. She said only, "You like Harvey really, do you not? in himself, I mean."
Hermione wore a look of thought. "Yes," she said; "I like him certainly—as my cousin. That does not always mean much, does it? A cousin may be a great deal to one or nothing at all. He wishes to be a brother to me, and I have no objection, so far as it is possible, though he did not behave as he should to my grandfather. The past cannot be undone, and he was willing to pass it over. I believe it is wisest to drop the thought of the past, and to begin afresh. If Julia will let me, I shall be a sister to her. Only I cannot help wishing that this Mrs. Trevor had kept away just now. Hark, the bells are beginning."
Marjory was in tears. Hermione slipped a hand through her arm.
"Dear Marjory, I know you feel so much for me," she said.
Marjory could not have told whether she felt most keenly for Hermione or for herself at that moment. She was one to suffer keenly from every "new departure" in life.
"I must go, Hermione. They will be here directly."
"Not yet. Cannot you stay with me to receive them?"
"My father thought it best not. I have no right, and it might seem like intrusion."
"Intrusion? If I ask you to stay?"
Yes, even if Hermione asked it, for Hermione was no longer mistress. But Marjory could not suggest this. She did not know what to say. Her own instinct was strongly opposed to the step, yet she could not bear to leave Hermione alone at such a trying moment. They took one more turn together, and when at the farther end of the terrace a sound of wheels stopping at the front door was heard.
"They have come!" exclaimed Marjory, flushing.
Hermione paused. "Impossible," she said. "It is some caller. Slade will say that I am engaged."
"But everybody knows—nobody would come to-day. Had I not better go home?"
Hermione hesitated, sure that her own conjecture would prove to be in the right. The train was one proverbially behind time, and Hermione had not looked for the travellers to arrive until a full quarter of an hour later. Besides, the bells had only just begun to ring.
For once, however, the late train was early; and the bell-ringers, as well as Hermione, were taken by surprise.
THE conservatory door was flung open, and a child came flying along the terrace, her lissom figure bending forward, her flaxen hair streaming, cloud-like, behind.
"Mittie, Mittie! Come back, you naughty child!" sounded from within doors, in faint shrill tones.
Mittie paid no regard to the sound. She rushed on, till within three yards of Hermione and Marjory. There she stopped abruptly.
"Are you the pretty cousin?" she demanded, fixing her black eyes fearlessly on Hermione, whom she seemed to select at a glance with a precocious child's penetration. "Uncle Harvey says I have got to adopt you, because you're not my cousin really, you know. But I think—" and the black eyes roved to and fro between the two faces— "I think I'd rather adopt the other!"
The words sounded comical from those rosy lips. Hermione was gravely silent, wearing a checked, even a displeased look, as if the infantine frankness were annoying. Marjory's heart went out towards the small engaging creature, so daintily delicate in figure and dress.
"Don't you think you might adopt both of us?" she asked adroitly. "We are very much like sisters. No, I am not Hermione—this is Hermione—I am only Marjory Fitzalan. And you are Mrs. Trevor's little girl?"
"I'm Mittie Trevor, of course." That seemed a self-evident fact to the eight-years-old maiden. "And Mrs. Trevor is my mother, and we've come to live here—but I wish it was you that had got to be my cousin. What makes you call yourself 'only' Marjory? I like Marjory for a name, and you are not a poor person."
Marjory could not resist stooping to give the kiss which Hermione ought to have given.
"Not a rich one, at all events," she said.
"Oh, but you know what I mean? I don't mean that, of course—mother isn't rich either, because she's lost all her money, and that's why we've come to live here; but she isn't a poor person, of course, don't you understand? What makes you look as if you had been crying? Grown-up people oughtn't to cry about nothing, mother says, because it makes them ugly—only you are not ugly. I mean to tell Uncle Harvey. I like you ever so much the best. The other looks like Aunt Julia when Aunt Julia is cross."
"Hush, you must not speak so," Marjory said hastily. But Hermione did not seem to hear the utterances. She was standing as if lost in thought.
"Impossible!" she said aloud. "He could never intend such a thing without consulting me."
"Don't you think you ought to go? I had better say good-bye," suggested Marjory.
"If you must. Yes, I have to go in; but—" Hermione faltered, looking at the child. Should she question Mittie? No, she could not stoop to that. Harvey, and Harvey alone, must answer for himself.
"Come to live here!" Those four words rang in Hermione's ears as she turned towards the house, forgetting even to respond to Marjory's good-bye. Mittie stayed behind, to pursue her new acquaintance through the garden, and Hermione entered the conservatory alone.
At the drawing-room door she paused, partly to observe, partly to rally her powers of self-command. For all in a moment it rushed over her how great a change had come in her life.
A tall lady-like girl, handsomely dressed, stood in the bow-window, studying the view. Hand-bags and small packages lay about the room, and Slade with his usual cautious air was carrying something away, it did not matter what. Hermione caught the tone of his assenting "Yes, sir," in mild response to an evident order from Harvey, who stood near the fireplace, with the air of one taking possession, albeit in his usual insouciant and gentlemanly style. A smaller and plumper individual than Julia—somehow Hermione knew at once which was Julia, though the widow's attire was by no means strongly marked as such—had thrown herself into Hermione's own especial easy-chair, and was remarking in distinct tones—
"Rather comical, isn't it, to desert the premises, and give nobody a welcome? But I suppose one may expect a certain rusticity of manners here. My dear Julia, I don't know what your sensations may be, but I am dying for a cup of tea. Do pray ring and order it. That man is a very embodiment of slowness; he will be an hour at least carrying up the tray. Yes, pray ring, Harvey; thanks. And this is the drawing-room! Not a badly-shaped room on the whole,—quite capable of being made pretty. Of course there is no sort of arrangement now. Everything seems to have been plumped down once for all exactly where it stands, and left there for twenty years. Not a vase that hasn't its exact match on the other side—and the way those curtains are draped is antediluvian, to say the least. I'm not sure that it isn't pre-Adamite. As for that row of chairs, with their backs against the wall, they are enough to give one the nightmare. Nous allons changer tout cela, I suppose, and the sooner the better."
"Francesca!" her brother-in-law uttered, in a warning undertone. He had caught sight of Hermione standing in the conservatory doorway, and he went forward to meet her, not without some secret embarrassment, but with a kind brotherliness of demeanour. For he wanted very much to make Hermione happy. He had set his heart on doing all that he possibly could to repay her for what she was losing, short of adequate money-repayment. He did not of course allow that she was a wronged individual, or that she had any actual claim upon him. He had reasoned himself by this time into looking upon the £20,000 settlement as an absolutely preposterous notion. It seemed to him a doubtful matter whether the estate would stand the strain of losing even half of that sum; and after all he was, legally, free to do or not to do exactly as he chose. Still there was a distinct wish to "make up" to Hermione for something—he did not define what!
Hermione's manner could not be called sisterly, and when she allowed him to lead her to his wife there was no warmth in her welcome. Mrs. Trevor's words, involuntarily overheard, did not heat her into outward anger or freeze her into rigidity; and she came forward gracefully as usual, with only a slight deepening of colour; but there was a calm dignity, a displeased distance, in her bearing, curious in one so young.
Julia did not know what to make of it. Her face, which had lighted up, fell quickly, and she scanned Hermione inquiringly as their hands met. Mrs. Trevor's lips wore an odd expression, like one bracing herself for a conflict. She had expected a pretty young girl, whom she might patronise agreeably out of the plenitude of her worldly experience; and this stately young creature seemed hardly susceptible to patronage. Hermione had often looked sweeter, sunnier, more lovable than at this moment, but perhaps seldom more beautiful. And Mrs. Trevor did not like beautiful women. She objected to being outshone.
Remarks trickled slowly from one to another, Hermione speaking just so much as was necessary, not more. She seated herself on the sofa, as if receiving guests, and she made polite conversation in a chilled and chilling manner which Mrs. Trevor thoroughly understood. "That girl has been spoilt, and needs putting in her right place," the widow thought. "Julia will never succeed; she lets things go too easily. I shall have to take her in hand myself."
Queries as to the journey were answered, and Hermione explained her own absence at the moment of arrival, apologising for it in quiet tones. She had not expected their train to be so early, she said. Then Mittie's name came up, with wonderings as to what could have become of her, in the midst of which Mittie herself came flying through the conservatory, to deposit her little person in the big armchair which had always been Mr. Dalrymple's.
Harvey saw and understood Hermione's look. "Come here, you witch," he said; "I want to know what you have been about." But Mittie declined to be dislodged.
"No; I like this best," she said. "You always kiss me, and scrub so with your moustache. I mean to sit here. I've been out in the garden, and it's very pretty. It's a nice place to live in, I think. And there's a person that I like very much. Her name is 'only Marjory,' she says. That does sound so funny, but I love her. She's just as pale as can be, and her eyes look so big and tired, and she's not like nobody else I ever saw. I like her ever so much better than cousin Hermione."
"That child wants bringing into order, Francesca," Harvey said, in a displeased tone.
"She's too much for me. Hold your tongue, Mittie, and don't be rude, or I shall send you to bed."
Mittie did not hold her tongue. She responded simply, "Then I shall cry, mother!" and examined Hermione in a prolonged gaze.
The entrance of tea effected a diversion. Slade hesitated a moment where to place the basket-table, glancing from his former to his present mistress; but Julia paid no attention, and Hermione, as a matter of course, signed him to the usual place. Mrs. Trevor noticed this, with a strengthening of her previous determination. She noted, too, the calm air of possessorship with which Hermione dispensed tea and offered cake. Unmistakably the young girl was, in her own eyes, hostess still. The time had scarcely come yet, however, for speech, and nothing would have been said but for the presence of that embarrassing child. Mittie munched and considered, curled up in the big armchair, with her tumbled mass of flaxen hair and her soft wide-open eyes.
"Does everything here belong to cousin Hermione? I thought Aunt Julia was to be the mistress. Mother said so."
"Mittie, you are a very rude impertinent little girl! If you don't hold your tongue, you shall leave the room," said Harvey, with sufficient sharpness.
"I know mother said so," murmured Mittie, very nearly in tears, for a real rebuke from her uncle was rare, and she loved him dearly enough to mind it.
No further notice was taken, and Mittie subsided into silence. Hermione scarcely seemed to have heard the childish utterance, yet it had stung severely. Her hand trembled, causing one cup to clash against another, and an unwonted flush became fixed in either cheek. Once or twice, when addressed by Harvey, she appeared lost in thought.
For Mittie had done at last what all these weeks since her grandfather's death had failed to do. Hermione's eyes were opened to see in a flash, and that no welcome flash, her new position in the household.
Not for worlds would she have had those around guess what she was feeling. She kept her seat and her quiet manner, doing what had to be done, only a little flushed and grave and silent. Harvey knew that the unconscious arrow had sped, and he was very uneasy in his knowledge; but the two ladies, not being aware of her usual looks and ways, were not struck with the variation. They only thought her cold and proud—pretty in no common degree, but not attractive.
"Can you manage without me for a little while? I have something that must be done," Hermione said, rising when tea was over.
"Pray don't stay on our account," Mrs. Trevor said at once.
Harvey followed Hermione into the hall, with intent to apologise for Mittie's rudeness, but she was too quick for him. He only saw her out of reach, passing up the broad staircase.
Once within her own door, safe from observation, a change swept over Hermione. The fair face grew white and wild, with a look of inexpressible loneliness. She stood in the centre, her eyes cast down, her arms drooping listlessly, her lips moving with scarcely articulate utterances.
"How can I bear it? How shall I be able? Oh, grandfather—oh, grandfather—so utterly alone! Must I stay? It is my home, but so different now! Everything altered! I cannot understand; but I must ask the Fitzalans—not Harvey. Those people to live here, and I not even told! Oh, it was cruel of Harvey—cruel of everybody. And Julia the mistress! Yes, I suppose so; but I did not see before what it meant. O God—oh, God, must I bear it?"
Then there came a sharp struggle with a very storm of sobs, which seemed almost as if they must rend the slight figure. Hermione writhed and bent beneath the agony, yet pride was strong, and she would not yield. Mrs. Trevor and Julia might not, should not, see that she had been weeping; and she did not weep. Not a tear was allowed to force its way from her eyes. The strife was soon over. Strange to say, Hermione did not pray, as one might have expected. She spoke half aloud, to herself, as it were, with but that one brief appeal which could hardly be termed prayer; and then, having conquered the bout of strong emotion, she stood up, going to the looking-glass.
"No, they will not know," she murmured, examining the face reflected there. She even smiled gently to herself. "Yes, that will do. I shall not be overcome now."
Five minutes later she was passing alone through the garden on her way to the Rectory.
"MISS RIVERS wishes to see you, sir."
"Miss Rivers!" The Rector was rather astonished, knowing how short a time had passed since the arrival of the travellers. "A messenger from Miss Rivers, do you mean?"
"No, sir; Miss Rivers is here, her very own self," the girl answered with emphasis, as if appreciating his surprise. "And Miss Marjory is out with Mr. Harry; but Miss Rivers says it don't matter, because she don't want to see nobody except you, sir."
"Show Miss Rivers in here."
The maid vanished, and with a slight sigh Mr. Fitzalan put aside his sermon papers, wondering whether he would find himself so well in the mood for work after a delay. Mr. Fitzalan was an extempore preacher, in the sense of not reading from a written sermon, but his subject was always well worked out beforehand upon paper.
"May I come in? You are not too busy?" asked Hermione at the door.
"Not at all." Mr. Fitzalan would not even suggest haste, whereby the interview might be shortened. Most people would have counted that Hermione looked exactly the same as usual, as she glided gently in, taking a proffered chair, and letting her black draperies fall gracefully. But Mr. Fitzalan saw a difference.
"Harvey and his wife come yet?" he asked.
"Yes; and the Trevors. Mr. Fitzalan, did you know about those people— Mrs. Trevor and her child?"
"Marjory said something."
"Marjory only knows what I told her—that they were to be here for a visit. I thought it bad taste to ask them just now, but I had no idea of anything further—no idea of their always living with us."
"Is that to be the plan? Well, the Hall is large enough," Mr. Fitzalan said cautiously.
"Harvey has told me nothing. But from what the child says—"
Hermione's voice was not so calm as usual, not by any means so calm as she wished. It trembled, and a bright flush rose anew in her cheeks, filling the eyes with a troubled light.
"I remember being told that Mrs. Trevor had lost her money. It is a generous act on the part of Harvey to give her a home. He has the right if he chooses."
"Without consulting me!"
Mr. Fitzalan knew that the time had at last come for speaking out. He answered steadily, "In strictness, yes, without consulting any one except his wife."
"Julia! I don't suppose Julia cares. Mrs. Trevor is her sister. But I!"
The emphasis on the pronoun was unmistakable.
"It might have been a matter of kindness to tell you his intentions beforehand, but perhaps he thought it kinder not to worry you. It is not a matter of right, my dear child. I think you have to resolve to face that fact. Harvey is master here now. The place belongs to him."
"And I! I have nothing to do with anything!"
"Not more than your cousins choose."
"No rights of my own?"
"With respect to the estate—none."
For a full minute the clock ticked busily, with no accompaniment of human voices. Mr. Fitzalan sat with his eyes bent downward. He knew a struggle to be going on opposite, and he knew that Hermione would shrink from observation while it lasted. She would speak as soon as she was able. Till then he waited.
"Must I live there?" came at length.
"I think so; for the present. Harvey offers you a home, and no other home has presented itself. I believe it would have been your grandfather's wish."
"Yes—he—but I don't understand. I don't think I know how things really are. I did not hear the will read. He would wish me to be happy," Hermione said in short sentences, broken by agitation. "If I would rather live somewhere else, I suppose I could. I must have enough of my own. Could you tell me about that?"
"There is your mother's marriage settlement of one hundred and twenty pounds a year."
"And besides—"
"Nothing more."
"Nothing at all. But from my grandfather—"
"No." Mr. Fitzalan spoke feelingly. "He fully meant to make other arrangements, but unfortunately he put off too long. His will was made before your birth, and your name has never been inserted."
Another silence followed, longer than the last.
"It seems so strange, so extraordinary," she broke out at length, in a voice almost resentful. "I could not have thought it. He did love me; but to leave me dependent on Harvey and Julia—"
"He only knew of Harvey's marriage at the last."
"Yes—but Harvey alone—how could he leave me so?"
Tears of wounded feeling could no longer be kept back, strive as Hermione might. She stood up and went to the bookcase, remaining there with her back turned. Mr. Fitzalan would speak no hasty words. He feared to make mischief between the cousins.
"And there was nothing for me, nothing at all?" she repeated, coming back to her seat. "He forgot no one else—only me!"
"He did not forget. Don't let yourself wrong him, even in thought. He had spoken to Mr. Selwyn sometimes of his intention to provide for you more fully, and the day before his death he wrote summoning Mr. Selwyn from London. But—too late."
"He ought not to have put off. It was wrong," Hermione said in distinct accents. Then, with a change of tone, "Does Harvey know this?"
"Yes. He offers you a home; and I think that at present your duty is to accept his offer."
Hermione's face quivered. "I don't know how to bear it all," she said. "Anything else would be easier."
"Anything, except what is given you to bear?"
"You don't know, you don't understand. Nobody outside can guess what it will be. I don't expect to have no trials. One must have them, of course. But to live on there in the dear old home as a mere dependent—as nobody—after what has been!" She broke into her own words with a start, "I am saying this only to you—only for yourself. Others must not know how I mind it, not even Marjory. I can't endure to be pitied. But oh, it is hard—very very hard!" and a sob seemed wrenched from her.
"Poor child!" Mr. Fitzalan said, despite her repudiation of pity. "My dear, it is of no use for me to tell you that things will not be so bad as you expect. Lower comfort is no good at such times. Better take the pain and the help both together straight from God Himself."
She shook her head mutely, placing both hands over her face.
"Think," he went on, "how often you have told others to trust in His love, not to doubt Him in sorrowful hours. Now is the time for you to put your own words into practice."
"I don't think anybody ever had anything like this to bear!"
He did not smile, as he might have done. He knew that she knew little of life yet, and that her loss was very great in her own eyes.