"There is a poor old woman down in the village, whom you and I both know well. She is lonely, poverty-stricken, forsaken by her only son, a great sufferer in body. Three days ago I went to visit her, and I found her very full of a call she had just had. Shall I tell you what she said?" Hermione made no sign. "I think you can guess who had called. She said, 'Sir, Miss Rivers has been, and she's done my poor old heart good. For she do speak like an angel to me, sir, a-telling me how I'm not to be afeared, for if so be I'm "yielded up" to the Lord, and has given up my will to Him, why, I needn't never mind nothing, but just rest upon Him, and take whatever He sends, and be joyful. And I'll do it too, sir, so please He'll help me.'"
Mr. Fitzalan waited a few seconds.
"Oh, I don't know—it all seems so unreal."
The words dropped from Hermione as if involuntarily. She stopped when about to say more, abashed by her own utterance.
"What seems unreal?" He had no reply, and he went on, "It was absolute truth that you spoke to the poor old woman. But, my child, was it truth for yourself, or was it only quoted from the knowledge of others?"
This question came searchingly, and Hermione made no attempt to answer it. She pressed her hands closer over her face.
"If the last—then perhaps a sharp test has been sent, that you may see how things really are."
Half-an-hour later Marjory came to her father's study, with the exclamation— "Has Hermione really been here?"
"Yes."
"Sutton told us, and Harry has rushed off, in hopes of overtaking her before she reaches home."
"Harry might have spared himself the exertion."
"Then you don't think he will succeed?"
"Hermione left me some time ago, and she is a quick walker."
"If only we had guessed that she might come! Father, does she seem happy?"
"What did you think when you left her?"
"I don't know—I thought her very worried. That child Mittie Trevor talked as if she and her mother were to live at the Hall. She is a dear child, I should fancy, but Hermione did not take to her."
"And Marjory did?"
"I can't resist children. She is very small, with a great mane of fair hair, and such a pair of winning black eyes. When she followed me through the garden, and threw her little arms round me, begging for kisses, I found her irresistible. Hermione is not like me in that. She only cares for children in a Sunday-school."
"Seated in neat rows, to be talked to," suggested the Rector, with a twinkle in the corner of his eye, for it did sound very much like Hermione, and Marjory's unconscious satire on her friend amused him.
"Hermione is so good at teaching!"
"Many people are much better at teaching than learning."
"But not Hermione! You did not mean Hermione."
"It comes to her more easily. So it does to a good many of us."
Marjory looked rather tried. "I must not interrupt you longer," she said, and she went away. Nobody heard the sighing utterance— "Strange, while my father is so dear and good to me, he never does appreciate Hermione!"
HERMIONE would never place herself in a false position by striving after that to which she had no lawful right. She had too much tact and sense, too much regard for her own dignity, and for appearances generally.
So soon as she saw clearly that Harvey and Julia were real master and mistress, that she herself was merely a subordinate member of the household, she withdrew all claims to authority, giving everything over into Julia's hands. There were no struggles, no clashings. The change was made at once, well and thoroughly. If Slade appealed to her, "I am not the mistress now, Slade," she would say meekly; "you must go to Mrs. Dalrymple." If Milton brought a complaint as of old, "I have nothing to do with it now, Milton," she would answer, with a touch of gentle sorrow. "I can only advise you to speak to Mrs. Dalrymple." If the head-gardener desired her opinion, "I think I had better leave it all alone," she would reply, sighing. "Mr. Dalrymple must decide. It is better for me not to interfere."
No doubt it was wise and right to refrain from meddling, and so far the change was made not only thoroughly but also well. Still, there are different ways of doing what is right—so different, that even that which is right may become that which is wrong simply through the mode in which it is done. Hermione might have abdicated her authority without giving the impression that she was an injured and suffering person.
Somehow her sweet sad look and pensive utterances had an unhealthy effect on those around. Hermione did not intend this, of course; people seldom do intend to do any harm. She only wanted sympathy, and liked to be interesting; and she did not measure the extent of her influence. But the Hall servants and the villagers began more and more to look upon her as one cheated out of her rights— "That poor dear young lady!" they called her—while in inverse ratio they grumbled over the "new master and mistress," not to speak of "that there furrin lady, with her flyaway hair—and she a widder!!" —this being usually the climax of rustic indignation. Harvey was aware of averted glances and grumpy answers as he came and went, but neither he nor any one, certainly not Hermione herself, knew how closely they were connected with Hermione's "touching sadness," as some neighbours called it.
There could be no doubt that Mrs. Trevor, the dependent "wielder," had the upper hand of her sister and brother-in-law. Where a woman is bent on managing she can generally succeed in doing so, and Mrs. Trevor was bent upon it. That which is tersely expressed by the old saying as "playing second fiddle" was not at all in her line. Julia was nominal mistress, but Mrs. Trevor ruled through Julia.
Though Harvey saw and disapproved, he was too lazy a man to stand out, except where his own comforts were concerned, and he had not much chance against Mrs. Trevor. It would have been his wish that nothing in the house should be altered during at least some weeks, having regard to Hermione's feelings, and Julia had no wish in the matter apart from his. Nevertheless, before a week passed the drawing-room had undergone a complete transformation at Mrs. Trevor's hands. Harvey shrugged his shoulders, but submitted, and Hermione said nothing. She only held aloof, determined to make no sign of pain.
This proud distance of bearing was noted by Julia Dalrymple with a sense of strong disappointment.
For, despite what her husband had said about not taking Hermione as her model, Julia had looked forward much and wistfully to Hermione's companionship.
She was growingly conscious of something lacking in herself, something which she could not at all define, even while she was aware of the want. There was a sense of dissatisfaction, of insecurity, of worthlessness, in all she had to do; express it how one will, it came to this, that Julia hungered after what she had not, and she saw no means of getting it unless through Hermione.
No use to go to her husband. Julia had learnt so much by this time— had learnt it with a new pain. Dear as he was to her, passionately as she loved him, they were in touch only as to the things of every-day life. Beyond all was haze. Julia stood alone and lonely in her higher cravings, for if he ever experienced the same he would not avow it. To consult Harvey on any question of religious import she had found to be almost as useless, though not so impossible, as to consult Francesca.
But here was Hermione Rivers, good, really good; a thoroughly religious person; one who read her Bible regularly, and believed in the power of prayer; one who taught in the Sunday-school, and found pleasure in Church-going, and went in for good works. Julia might have a certain dread of over-much religious talk, yet that dread had gone down lately before the stronger desire to learn. After weeks of delay, she had come to Westford Hall, full of the thought, anxiously expectant of what she might gain from Hermione.
Then disappointment fell. For the first greeting was chill, the after-companionship was nought, the religions atmosphere was nowhere. This excellently good and devoted girl, from whom Julia had expected so much, was hardly more to her than a pensive and lovely shadow, coming and going indeed among them, but keeping aloof, living a life apart, seldom speaking needlessly, persistent in a gentle icy sorrow.
Julia's loneliness grew upon her as time went by. Harvey was very busy, riding about the place, looking into necessary matters which did not interest her at all, except in their connection with him. Mrs. Trevor largely undertook household arrangements, only requiring a nominal assent from Julia. Callers came, but Julia did not take to these new people; they were Hermione's friends, and too plainly pitied Hermione, whereas Julia counted herself the person most to be pitied. Position and wealth went for little in her estimation. She did crave often for a true friend, one who would sympathise and understand below the surface, not merely meet her politely and kindly above it; and though she resisted the craving as almost a wrong to her husband, it sprang up anew.
For there was no getting below the surface with him. He distinctly repelled any attempt on her part to do so, distinctly shrank from it. Julia became more and more aware of a certain something in him which she could not fathom. There was a locked door, and she might not glance through the door.
So weeks passed, and two lonely hearts walked side by side under the same roof—one a girl's, and one a wife's—never touching, for Hermione never guessed that the other needed her love.
Mittie ran wild these summer days, delighting in the country; yet not so wild as some thought, for a new influence had crept into her life, and already the plastic child-nature was responsive to the moulding touch of that influence. A governess was talked of, but Francesca said tranquilly, "No hurry; she might as well enjoy herself first;" and neither Francesca nor any one else at the Hall knew how the child haunted the Rectory. Even Hermione hardly realised it. Perhaps because she had not been herself to see the Fitzalans so often lately as usual.
She was a little shy of another tête-à-tête with Mr. Fitzalan. It was impossible to forget that he had been allowed an unwonted glimpse into her true self, and Hermione could hardly forgive herself for certain things she had said.
Harry Fitzalan was not much at Westford through his long vacation, not half so much as he wished to be. He had made other arrangements in the spring, and they could not now be broken through.
"You look uncommonly dismal this afternoon, my dear," Mrs. Trevor remarked to Julia one autumn day.
"Do I?" Julia had been yawning covertly behind a book. "I suppose there is nothing to be cheerful about."
"Because Harvey is out? You don't expect him to give up shooting, and sit at, home all day?"
Julia merely said, "No."
"Perhaps you will like to hear that I asked him this morning if we were to spend the rest of the year in rural captivity?"
"Did you?" Julia privately thought this question ought rather to have emanated from herself. "And he said—"
"Said he didn't know, of course. Harvey would not have been Harvey if he had made any other answer."
"He was talking of Scotland the other evening-only he seemed doubtful about Hermione."
Julia regretted her own words as soon as they were spoken. Mrs. Trevor rounded her eyes with horror.
"Scotch moors! After this! Very well for Harvey of course, out shooting all day—but imagine our condition! No, no, I had set my heart on Brighton."
"Harvey can't endure Brighton."
"My dear, a man will commonly like what he is told he likes. That is my experience. You leave it all to me, and I'll manage. We don't go to Scotland this autumn."
"But, Francesca, if Harvey and I wish to go—"
"You don't. Neither of you has any real wish that way. Imagine us three—you and Hermione and I—stranded in some dismal inn on a desolate moor, with nothing to do, nothing to see, nothing to read, nothing to think about! We should quarrel all day for sheer lack of occupation. No, no—Brighton is the thing. Plenty going on there. We all are getting positively stupified with the lack of a little wholesome excitement. As for Hermione, nothing would do that girl more good than to be shaken out of her pet rut. She has nothing on earth to do now, except to pity herself; and to go gossiping round with the villagers. Mischief-making, in fact."
The door opened slightly and was shut again, nobody coming in.
"Francesca, do be careful. If that was Hermione, she must have heard."
"She will only have heard a home-truth for once. Do her no harm—that."
Francesca snapped her fingers lightly, with a little laugh not quite agreeable in sound.
Mrs. Trevor had a certain desire to "get hold of Hermione," as she tersely expressed it, to feel Hermione in her power, and she had not yet succeeded. Endeavour as she might, Hermione always slid gracefully away, and the effort failed.
"I don't want her to hear home-truths from us. Harvey would be vexed. He is always so anxious that we should make her happy."
"She doesn't make herself so, whatever we may do. I'll tell you what, Julia, if people profess to be religious, they ought, in sheer common sense, to recommend their religion by being civil and pleasant, to say the least. I've no patience with this sort of nonsense—setting up for being a saint, and making everybody wretched with her airs and tempers. And, what's more, I don't believe in it. If religion itself isn't humbug—and I have sense enough to know it is not—then Hermione is a humbug. That's the long and short of the matter, and I believe I shall end by telling her so one day."
A red spot rose to either cheek as Mrs. Trevor burst into these unwonted utterances.
Julia gazed with astonished eyes. "Why, Francesca!" she said.
"Oh, you don't know—you don't understand half. You never see what is before your eyes. I know exactly what it all means, and how we are looked upon here. It's a case of angelic sweetness oppressed by hardhearted relatives! Want of home-sympathy, and all the rest of it! I wonder how long you expect it to be before you get beyond a distant acquaintance with all the people round about?"
"But you don't suppose—"
"My dear, I suppose nothing. I know only that Hermione acts her part consistently and cleverly. She doesn't count it to be acting, of course. Nobody does, except my naughty self. It is genuine depression, broken-heartedness, et cetera."
"I wish you would not sneer at everything and everybody," Julia said, standing up. "I shall go for a walk."
She went alone, for Mrs. Trevor did not offer to accompany her. There had been a shower, and Mrs. Trevor objected to country mud.
A solitary ramble was not ill-suited to Julia's taste. She liked time for thought, and there was a good deal to think about just now in her life.
Francesca's words rankled considerably. Could there be truth in them? Was Hermione unreal?
A difficult question this for any outsider to answer with respect to another, difficult enough for Hermione herself. For with many people self-knowledge is very small in amount, and there are almost unlimited capabilities of self-deception. Reality and unreality are often strangely intermixed, and entire transparency is as rare as it is beautiful.
"MARJORY, you dear!" a soft voice said.
Julia had been for a good ramble, and was now on her way homeward, through the meadow which bounded the Rectory kitchen-garden. It was a low-lying meadow, sloping downward to the willow-fringed border of a small stream, and Julia went among the willows to the very edge, regardless of mud. She had on thick boots, and the trickle of water proved attractive. While standing there, bent forward in the attitude of observation, the lovingly-uttered words reached her from behind.
"Marjory, you dear!"
Julia straightened her back, and glanced round. She recognised Mittie's voice, of course, though the tender intonation was not usual.
Just beyond the willow-margin Mittie had taken up her position on a slight grassy rise, her ungloved hands clasped, her black eyes glowing, her rosy lips pouting as if in readiness for a kiss.
But as Julia turned Mittie's face fell.
"Oh, I thought it was Marjory! Aunt Julia, you'll go right into the water if you stay there. It's as slippery as anything."
So Julia found when she attempted to beat a retreat. The mud was in a half-dry slimy condition, not favourable to upward progress, and the child's prediction was very nearly fulfilled. Julia grasped at the willows, and had a struggle to reach firmer ground.
"What made you go down there, Aunt Julia? Marjory told me I mustn't never, if I was alone."
"I suppose I went because I was not under orders. What made you look so sorry to see me, Mittie?"
Children do not often mince matters, and the reply came unhesitatingly, "I wanted Marjory. She's such a dear."
"You ought to call her Miss Fitzalan."
"Marjory says I needn't."
"Well, it is getting late. You had better come home with me now."
"O no, I can't. I want to see my Marjory."
"But it is too damp for you here. I am sure your mother won't like it."
Julia said her say, and was about to go on, not in the least expecting compliance from the spoilt child. To her surprise a deep sigh sounded, and Mittie's hand stole into hers.
"Yes, I'll come. Though I do want most dreadfully to see my Marjory, but I promised I wouldn't be naughty."
Here was something new, certainly. Julia revolved the matter in her mind for some seconds, as they proceeded by the muddy footpath. Mittie's voice interrupted her cogitations.
"Don't you love Marjory, Aunt Julia?"
"I hardly know Miss Fitzalan," Julia answered.
"Well, I do. I love her, oh, ever so much. She is as good us can be, a great deal gooder than cousin Hermione, only Marjory won't let me say so, but I know it all the same. There's a funny old woman down in the village, and I went to see her with Marjory, and she calls cousin Hermione an angel. Isn't that funny? O yes, and so does old Sutton. He says cousin Hermione only wants wings. I did laugh so; I couldn't help laughing, though Marjory made a face at me to stop. It was so funny to think of cousin Hermione having wings; but I think Marjory is a great deal more like an angel than cousin Hermione, because you know she is so kind to everybody, and cousin Hermione isn't kind to everybody. She isn't kind to you, nor mother, nor me. I don't mean that she's 'xactly unkind, you know, but she makes up a sort of proper face, like that—" Mittie pursed her lips together and stared solemnly ahead for two seconds, "and she won't smile nor have any fun. When she speaks to the servants or anybody that's poor she smiles as pretty as can be, but not to us, Aunt Julia."
"Little girls must not make remarks on grown-up people," Julia replied, somewhat startled by the amount of infantine penetration.
Mittie looked thoughtful. Was she impressed by the rebuke?
"Aunt Julia," came at length, with portentous seriousness, "should you think the angels haven't never any fun?"
"Really, Mittie—"
"Well, I asked Marjory one day, 'cause I wanted to know. And Marjory said there was lots in the Bible about singing, and laughing, and being merry—only she said it has got to be the right sort. I suppose cousin Hermione hasn't learnt the right sort. I think she's dull, and Marjory says the angels are never dull. Marjory is dull sometimes, when her back aches so; but I do think she's a great great deal more like the angels than cousin Hermione. She's always so good and dear, and she never grumbles, and she does such lots for everybody, and she loves me, and I love her—heaps!"
Then, after a long pause—
"And Marjory is going to teach me how to be good too."
Julia's clasp tightened round the small fingers.
"How is she going to teach you, Mittie?"
"I don't know." Another pause. "I think Marjory is different from everybody. Don't you?"
"Different in what way?"
"Why—it makes her so sorry when she's done wrong, 'cause she can't bear to do what makes God sorry. Aunt Julia, I don't mean never to do wrong again. And that is why I'm coming home now, when you tell me."
"I am sure you will be a much happier little girl if you always do what is right," Julia said sedately, not prepared for the prompt return-question—
"Are you happy, Aunt Julia?"
Julia's heart throbbed in quick response. She could not say "Yes," and she would not say "No."
"What makes you ask?"
"'Cause you don't look as if you was—so very?"
"Perhaps I am not," Julia admitted. "But you mustn't repeat that to anybody."
"Not to my Marjory?"
"No, certainly not."
Mittie pressed her little self closer to Julia's side in affectionate wise. "I do love you to-day,—ever so much. And I know quite well why you're not happy. It isn't because you're naughty. You're good."
"No; not good. No; I wish I were."
"Then, Aunt Julia, if you aren't good, why don't you tell Jesus?"
The childish question, falling reverently from those rosy lips, dropped like dew of heaven upon the arid plain of Julia's heart. She said nothing for two or three seconds, only turned the words over in her mind. But a counter-query rose, and she spoke it out, "If I did—what then?"
"Why, Aunt Julia! Don't you know that everybody who came to Him was always healed? Marjory says so."
Julia offered no response. They walked through the village in silence which was broken only by an occasional remark from Mittie, scarcely heard. "Tell Jesus—why don't you tell Jesus?" sounded in Julia's ears like some exquisite refrain, and she would have liked to ask, "Why should I? Would He care to hear?" —but the utmost she could resolve to say was, after they had entered the Hall grounds, "Sometimes you can talk to me about what you learn from Miss Fitzalan."
"Oh, may I? Yes, I'll talk lots. Marjory won't mind."
"Marjory need not know. I don't want you to be chattering about me to her—making her think that I am not happy," Julia said, with questionable prudence, considering the age of her little companion. "Mittie, what did you mean just now by saying that you knew quite well why—"
Julia hesitated how to express herself, but Mittie caught up the sentence with cheerful promptitude.
"Oh, I only meant, Aunt Julia, that when you're not happy it's because of Uncle Harvey being such a naughty man."
"Nonsense, Mittie! What are you thinking about?" cried Julia, indignant at the suggestion.
"I know! Old Sutton told me yesterday."
"Told you what?"
"About Uncle Harvey. He's got all cousin Hermione's money, and it is very wicked of him." Julia was for the moment voiceless, and Mittie proceeded calmly, "Old Sutton says cousin Hermione bears it like an angel, and everybody is so very sorry for her, and nobody likes Uncle Harvey. And I don't like him neither, not near so much as I did, and I think I won't let him kiss me so often."
"Mittie! for shame! You don't know what you are saying!" Julia panted rather than said. She could almost have shaken the child, yet she restrained herself, not even setting free the little hand which she held. Mittie was unaware of her wrath.
"But old Sutton told me, Aunt Julia, and he knows. Don't it make you sorry, Uncle Harvey behaving like that?"
"Mittie, listen to me!" Julia turned upon the child a livid face, spotted with red. She could hardly hold in her passion. "Listen to me! You are never never to say such things about your uncle—never! They are false and cruel. Sutton has been talking wicked untruths. He must be a very bad old man. Uncle Harvey is a dear good uncle to you, and I wonder you are not ashamed to listen to anything against him. The money is his rightly—not Hermione's. It never was or could be Hermione's. The estate was entailed; which of course you can't understand; but it means that Hermione has no sort of right to the place. Your uncle gives her a home, and he is not obliged to do even that—it is all kindness. Will you remember what I am saying?"
Mittie might be in no danger of forgetting, but perhaps she was not fully convinced.
"Sutton said he knew quite well," she murmured.
"If Sutton puts such notions into your head, we shall have to forbid you ever to talk to him. I am sure Miss Fitzalan would not be pleased. Did she hear all this?"
Mittie shook her head.
"I haven't seen my Marjory since Sutton told me. But Marjory does love cousin Hermione, oh so dearly, and she is so dreadfully sorry for her."
"Hermione has lost her grandfather, and of course everybody is sorry. But this about her money is all nonsense. Mind, Mittie, you are not to talk so again."
Mittie seemed to acquiesce in a childish fashion, and on entering the house she ran away. Julia could not resolve to enter the drawing-room at once. She was scared and angry still with the shock of that accusation. It was unendurable that people in the place should be saying such things of her husband. And if the notion were widely spread, how was it to be met? Shutting Mittie's lips would not shut the lips of other people.
Ten minutes later she stole down to the library, believing that Harvey would be there, and her belief proved correct. A small lamp, lighted, stood on the escritoire, and Harvey sat before it, writing letters. Papers strewn carelessly about spoke of a less orderly nature in the present than in the past owner of Westford. As Julia went in he glanced up with a smile, his usual greeting, and then perhaps he noticed something in her face not ordinary, for he asked at once, "Anything gone wrong?"
"I don't know whether I ought to tell you."
"Nonsense. Tell me, of course. Francesca, to wit? Or is it Mittie?"
Julia sat down, just beyond the corner of the escritoire, looking straight at him across it.
"Not Francesca, but Mittie," she said. "I don't mean that Mittie is to blame. She is allowed to chatter with everybody. Only think of the old gardener at the Rectory talking to that child about us—about you—"
"He is welcome!" Harvey said carelessly, as his wife hesitated. The thought of Hermione was not at all in his mind just then.
"You have not heard yet. Talking about Hermione, and actually telling Mittie that you had taken possession of the money which ought to belong to Hermione."
Julia stopped, staring at her husband with wide-open eyes. She had never seen him wear exactly such an expression before as he wore now. The words were evidently startling and unexpected. His face hardened, each feature partaking of a general rigidity, and his colour distinctly lessened.
HARVEY seemed to be conscious of something in his own look which he could not quite control. He pushed the lamp aside with a hasty gesture, and raised one hand to his forehead, placing it as a half shield between himself and his wife, but he did not speak.
For one moment a feeling of horror had possession of Julia. It meant— what could it mean? The unwonted paleness, the stiffened features, the averted eyes, spoke to her of guilt, and of conscious guilt. But—what guilt? How utterly absurd! Julia rallied instantly, wroth with herself for the very idea. He was grieved, of course, with the accusation, even as she had been. How could she expect him not to be distressed at such things being said? Tears rushed to her eyes.
"Poor Harvey! It is horrid, I know. I wish now that I had not told you."
Harvey stood up. "There are letters ready for the post," he said in a curious curt voice, and he carried them himself into the hall, though it was not yet post-time, and Slade always came to the library at the last moment. When Harvey returned he seemed more like himself, as he remarked carelessly, "Quite right to tell me! But, after all, people will gossip. The less notice taken the better, sometimes."
"I did not think you would mind so much; I thought you would tell me I was foolish to care."
"Do I mind? Well—perhaps it is rather an unpleasant notion, at first sight. Besides, I have been seedy all day, to begin with. Westford does not seem to suit me, and I believe I am getting tired of this sort of life."
"Are you?" she said, with regret. He was standing a few paces off from the escritoire, his face in shade, so that she could not see it well. She came close, which was not what he wanted, and looked up anxiously. "I am sorry you are not well. If I had guessed, would not have bothered you."
"There is nothing much wrong. Perhaps I need change, and Francesca advises Brighton." He would have turned away, but Julia's hand was upon his arm.
"Does it hurt you to talk? I am so miserable about what that child said. Of course it doesn't really matter—at least, I suppose not—but I hate to have you accused of such a thing. Can't you take any steps to meet the gossip?"
"I! No. What can be said, except that Hermione has no right to anything not left her by her grandfather?"
"I wish he had left something; people would not talk so, then. It was odd that he did not. Still, I don't see why you are to be blamed. It was not your doing. If Hermione would only explain to the people here—"
"No! Let it alone, pray, Julia!" Harvey spoke sharply, for once even roughly. "The less said the better, I tell you. Pray don't meddle."
Julia scrutinised him in wonder, rather hurt. "Of course I will not speak to Hermione without your leave," she said. "But do you suppose that Mr. Dalrymple did not intend to leave her something—if he had lived a little longer?"
Harvey's look grew hard again. "Possibly," he said.
"If he did—!" Julia's black eyes, soft now as Mittie's, were bent upon him, and her second hand came with the first, holding his arm captive. "If Mr. Dalrymple did intend, and we knew it, should we not be bound to give to Hermione what he had meant her to have?"
"Certainly not."
"Are you sure?"
A red flush had come to Harvey's forehead—not a smooth brow now, but lined and ratted. The flush spread slowly.
"I see no particular object in such suppositions."
"No, for of course we do not know that he meant anything of the kind. Only perhaps the people about here fancy that it is so. I could not understand at first what old Sutton meant, but it may be that. What do you think?"
He shrugged his shoulders slightly. It was an occasional gesture with him, the only un-English result of long residence abroad.
"Old Sutton's opinion is of small importance."
Julia was silent, not satisfied.
"Well, is that all you want?" he asked.
"No; may I say more? You won't be vexed, will you? I am not business-like, I know, but it does sometimes seem to me as if things were not right. About Hermione, I mean. It seems as if she ought to have something more of her own. I can't help the feeling; though of course I would not allow it to any one in the world except you."
"I hope not!" escaped her husband.
"No, of course; but still I have the feeling. I know that you are not in any way bound. As I told Mittie, it is sheer kindness that makes you give Hermione a home at all. Still I can't help fancying that she really had reason to expect more from her grandfather, and that she must be disappointed. And then there comes the question—if he didn't do his duty, ought we not to do it for him? I suppose different people would look upon it differently. But there must be a right and a wrong. It isn't only a question of what one is obliged to do, but of what one ought to do? Don't you see what I mean?"
"You certainly are suffering from some confusion of ideas, Julia," her husband said. He was collected now, and able to speak in his usual manner. "But, as you say, you are not business-like. When women touch upon money matters they are apt to go astray."
"Yes, on the mere business part of it. I don't think this is mere business. It is a question of actual right and wrong."
"If any wrong was done to Hermione, my uncle was responsible."
"But you stand in his place now," Julia said slowly.
"That is different. Hermione was his grandchild. She is merely my second cousin, with no particular claims upon me. Except that I have promised to act the part of a brother to her, so far as she will permit."
"And you do not really know that Mr. Dalrymple ever intended to do more for Hermione?"
The question was very direct, but it had no answer. Harvey moved away to the table, and turned the lamp a little lower.
"My dear, if you have nothing more to say, I should be glad to get my letters done."
"Am I keeping you too long? Oh, I am sorry. I'll go at once."
She kept her word, losing sight of his non-response, and her last glimpse was of her husband sitting down to the escritoire once more.
But he did not remain there, and the letters which he had pleaded were not written. When the door closed behind her, he pushed pen and paper aside, and went to an armchair. The subject they had been discussing insisted upon attention. He could not give his mind to letters.
This "fretting ghost" of Hermione's claims, laid to sleep during many weeks, sprang up in new strength; and the brief letter of the dead man to his lawyer, read only once by Harvey, but never to be forgotten, confronted him anew.
"I have resolved to settle the sum of twenty thousand pounds upon my grandchild, Hermione, at once!"
Yes, that was it. Twenty thousand pounds! Of which Hermione possessed not one penny.
"Actually telling Mittie that you had taken possession of the money which ought to belong to Hermione!" This indignant utterance of Julia's recurred next. But, of course, it was absurd. No "ought" existed, so Harvey told himself, and it was no case of "taking possession." What he held was his own, lawfully his own. While Mr. Dalrymple lived, Mr. Dalrymple had the right to will what he chose to Hermione, apart from the entailed land. Now Harvey had the right to keep or give away, as he chose.
Yet still—
"It is a question of actual right and wrong," Julia had said.
Stuff and nonsense! It was a question of law. Women knew nothing about business. Absurd of Julia to meddle in such matters. Besides, even if it were a question of right and wrong, how could that alter the case?
"You do not know that Mr. Dalrymple ever intended to do more for Hermione?" Julia's voice seemed to ask anew.
Yes, of course he did know, but he was not going to inform Julia. Mr. Dalrymple's wishes did not restrain him. He was entirely free. He was most willing to give a home to Hermione, and some day the question of a marriage portion might come up. He fully meant to act an elder brother's part, consistently with the extent of his means and the requirements of the estate. But twenty thousand pounds! The idea was simply ridiculous.
"My poor old uncle must have been in his dotage," Harvey muttered, rousing himself from a dream, which had lasted much longer than he supposed.
"Did you speak?" The door was opening, and Julia came in. "It is post-time."
"Already?"
"Yes; I told Slade I would ask if you had any more letters ready."
"No, I have not."
She looked surprised.
"Slade will go in five minutes. Is there anything important that you can finish in a hurry?"
"No, to-morrow must do. The fact is, I am not in writing mood," Harvey added, with a little laugh.
Julia went outside to speak to Slade, then returned to her husband.
"I have been all this time in my room," she said, and she came to stand by his side as before, looking down earnestly. He had not left the easy-chair. "I have been thinking a great deal. May I tell you what about? I was so puzzled, so worried before. I could not see what was right. May I tell you what I have been thinking?"
"Well?" Harvey had much ado not to speak crossly.
"Something that little Mittie said has helped me. I don't mean that about old Sutton, but something else. Don't you think that if we—" Julia hesitated, flushing— "if we pray to be shown what is right, we shall learn it in time?"
No answer came, and Harvey did not return her gaze. He merely looked down, and seemed to wait for more. She went on, in a low happy voice—
"The thought is such a comfort to me; more of a comfort than I can tell you. It seems to open out a fresh life—a kind of vista—do you see what I mean? I am afraid I can't explain. But I have been feeling lately that I know so little—and this is like a gleam of light—a way in which one may be taught. At least, I mean to try. Don't you think that if one does honestly want to do the right thing, and if one prays to be shown, there will be an answer? I have had my Bible upstairs, reading parts here and there. I moat begin to read it more regularly now. And I could not help noticing one particular text I learnt the words by heart to say to you. They are just this, 'What doth the Lord require of thee, but to do justly, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with thy God?' Isn't that extraordinary? I never was so struck with anything in the Bible before. Don't you think that is what we have to do about Hermione—to do justly?"
Harvey moved in his seat, with a bored, not to say irritated, expression.
"Anything more?" he demanded.
"But you do agree with me?"
"Certainly. I am sorry you count me capable of injustice towards anybody."
"Oh, I did not mean—Pray don't misunderstand me! You don't mind my having said so much, do you? I thought I might, for once."
"You are at liberty to say what you choose, of course. I should not be sorry if I might, for once, have half-an-hour's peace."
"Harvey!" and tears rushed to her eyes. "Half-an-hour, after—"
"Yes, of course," he broke in. "But I should like a little longer. I beg your pardon for being unsociable," and there was a touch of apology in his manner. "I really have a wretched headache to-day, and this sort of discussion doesn't improve matters."
"Have you? Oh, I am sorry. Why didn't you tell me sooner? I'll leave you directly—only just one word," and her chest heaved. "You are not really vexed with me, are you?"
"There's nothing to be vexed about. Except that I don't wish to see my wife transposed into a feeble imitation of Hermione. As I once told you, I do not admire her style. All I beg is that you don't discuss these questions with anybody except myself."
Julia had had a complete douche. She murmured a promise of compliance, and stole away.
"So it is to be East Bourne, not Brighton," Francesca remarked, entering the drawing-room.
More than a week had passed since Julia's talk with her husband about Hermione—a talk not since renewed. Julia had not ventured to bring up the subject afresh, and Harvey never alluded to it. She was conscious, indeed, of a tendency on his part to avoid têtes-à-tête, and to shirk opportunities for conversation.
Mrs. Trevor's announcement brought startled eyes in her direction, alike from Julia reading in one window, and from Hermione writing letters in another. Mittie, playing with a kitten on the floor, showed interest rather than surprise.
"I should have preferred Brighton, for my part, simply because it is bigger, and I have friends there. Besides, the height of the season will be over in East Bourne, and at Brighton everybody would be coming down from Town. However, I don't much care. Anything for change."
"Are we going to East Bourne, mother? Where is East Bourne?" demanded Mittie's small voice.
"In Sussex, of course, child. Yes, we are going next week."
"Harvey has not told me," Julia observed, in a tone which brought the quick response—
"You needn't be jealous, my dear. He would not have told me if I had not dragged it out of him. I am not sure that he knew it himself half-an-hour ago."
Julia could well believe this.
"He said he was not going to be hauled to Brighton, for he detested the place—a great overgrown imitation of London. And I said I was not going to be hauled to Scotland, to die of ennui on the moors. So we adopted East Bourne between us as a compromise. I believe he was glad at last to consent to any thing to get rid of me. Once away, he'll not be in a hurry to come back. I shouldn't wonder if East Bourne were a stepping-stone to Paris. He is not looking well, and I told him so, and he allowed that he might be the better for a bout of sea air. So we are to write and ask about lodgings—on the Esplanade, of course. I shall be glad enough to be out of this depressing atmosphere. There's certainly something in Westford which affects one's general organisation. My complexion is growing positively yellow, and everybody looks dismal."
"Westford is counted particularly healthy," Hermione said, laying down her pen, and facing the trio.
"Places often gain false characters. It doesn't suit me."
Mrs. Trevor's patronising air of superior information was secretly exasperating to Hermione, just as Hermione's distant dignity annoyed Mrs. Trevor. Generally Hermione held studiously back from aught in the shape of argument, refusing to put herself into Mrs. Trevor's power; and this had gone on so long that she counted her own composure inviolable, and did not fear being upset. But now, for once, she was taken by surprise, shaken out of her usual line of action. The idea of leaving Westford was altogether new to her, and she could not at once resolve how to meet it. To a girl of her age, who had seen so little of the world, the prospect of a change might have come pleasantly, but all the pride of her nature rose up in arms against the manner of the announcement. Why were not her wishes to be consulted as well as Mrs. Trevor's wishes? Was it to be taken for granted that she would calmly acquiesce in whatever was arranged, without a desire or a voice in the matter? She would not condescend to ask what was meant or expected, but resentment flushed her fair cheek, and lent sharpness to the tone of her retort.
"A stranger's opinion can be worth little. Those who have lived in Westford for years know better."
"One may become acclimatised, no doubt," Mrs. Trevor answered carelessly, depositing herself and her draperies in an easy-chair. "But I should be sorry to go through the years of previous misery."
"Is East Bourne healthy, mother?" asked Mittie.
"Splendid air, Mittie. As different from this as can be imagined."
"And will cousin Hermione come with us?"
The opportunity of giving that proud girl a set-down was irresistible. "Of course," Francesca answered decisively. "This house is to be shut up, and left in charge of Milton. We shall all go."
"I beg your pardon. I shall not!"
Julia looked frightened, for the suppressed voice spoke of no ordinary passion. Hermione stood upright, her blue eyes blazing with anger, her face crimson. Not one of the three had seen her thus before.
Mrs. Trevor laughed. "Oh! You will stay with the Fitzalans, I suppose."
"That will be as I choose to decide. Your advice will not be asked."
Mrs. Trevor was not easily disconcerted, and to be conscious of power over Hermione was what she had long desired. She showed no annoyance at the very haughty utterance, but lifted her light eyebrows with a half-droll, half-contemptuous air.
"Really? Well, advice is a cheap commodity. But I don't know what I can have said to rouse so much ire! Do you, Julia?"
"Francesca, do be quiet—don't go on, pray!" implored Julia, in a undertone.
"Not go on with what? My dear, I shall begin to think you are both a little demented. Effect of Westford air, perhaps. I merely made known Harvey's decision. If anybody has a right to be vexed, it is yourself; for not having been told first. As for Hermione and me—why, we merely have to obey orders. If Harvey settles to go to East Bourne, I supposed it to be a matter of course that we should go too."
Hermione was endeavouring in a hasty fashion to put her papers into the writing-case, but her hands shook so violently that the attempt was a failure. She let them drop, and turned again to Francesca, her eyes wide-open and blazing still, while her cheeks, brow, and ears were one uniform burning red. As she stood rigidly erect, a kind of convulsion of passion seemed to pass again and again through the slight figure, and her voice had grown hoarse and rapid. Those who had known Hermione in childhood would have recognised at once a recurrence of the ungovernable childish temper, but such an outbreak had not been seen for years, and her present companions could hardly believe their own eyes, so astonishing was the change in the fair graceful girl they had known thus far. Julia and Mittie stared, aghast, and even Mrs. Trevor felt uncomfortable.