"BRIERLY COTTAGE.""DEAR HERMIONE,—Harvey has decided to go home to-morrow,as he is quite equal to the drive; and I shall come also.Julia will have to wait, probably for another week—not longer, we hope.""I don't suppose we shall get to East Bourne for anotherfortnight.""Harvey wishes the brougham to be here before threeo'clock, as he would like to start early.—Yourssincerely, F. TREVOR."
"BRIERLY COTTAGE.""DEAR HERMIONE,—Harvey has decided to go home to-morrow,as he is quite equal to the drive; and I shall come also.Julia will have to wait, probably for another week—not longer, we hope.""I don't suppose we shall get to East Bourne for anotherfortnight.""Harvey wishes the brougham to be here before threeo'clock, as he would like to start early.—Yourssincerely, F. TREVOR."
"BRIERLY COTTAGE.""DEAR HERMIONE,—Harvey has decided to go home to-morrow,as he is quite equal to the drive; and I shall come also.Julia will have to wait, probably for another week—not longer, we hope.""I don't suppose we shall get to East Bourne for anotherfortnight.""Harvey wishes the brougham to be here before threeo'clock, as he would like to start early.—Yourssincerely, F. TREVOR."
"BRIERLY COTTAGE."
"DEAR HERMIONE,—Harvey has decided to go home to-morrow,
as he is quite equal to the drive; and I shall come also.
Julia will have to wait, probably for another week—
not longer, we hope."
"I don't suppose we shall get to East Bourne for another
fortnight."
"Harvey wishes the brougham to be here before three
o'clock, as he would like to start early.—Yours
sincerely, F. TREVOR."
"What made her say that about East Bourne?" murmured Hermione. "It was unnecessary. They will not get off in a fortnight. If Julia cannot stand this short drive for another week, she will not be fit for a long railway journey only one week later. But Mrs. Trevor cannot rest without making me feel her power. That is to say, her power over Harvey and Julia. How Harvey can be so weak is astonishing. She has no power over me. When they go to Eastbourne I will go to the Daltons. Not for enjoyment, certainly! It is not a friendship I would choose. But if the Fitzalans fail me, and if I am driven to it by Mrs. Trevor—"
Hermione's fair brow was contracted, and a flush rose in her cheeks.
"Anything rather than to be under Mrs. Trevor's power! Right and wrong! I do not see that I should be wrong." This was in answer to a distinct whisper of remonstrance from within. "I am not bound to go to East Bourne."
Then it struck her, with a passing sense of compunction, that she might after all have answered Mittie's question if she had taken the trouble to look at Mrs. Trevor's note.
"That child leaves one no peace!" was the self-excusing comment. "The brougham to be there before three; yes, of course, that was what I told Slade. But I did not remember at the moment. One cannot always remember. Three o'clock! They ought to be here by four."
The clock struck four as if in response, and Slade came in with the letters, three for Hermione.
"Thanks!" Hermione said, with the gracious manner she always put on towards the servants. "I suppose Mrs. Trevor and Mr. Dalrymple will arrive directly. Better have tea up as soon as they come. I will ring when I want lights. Do you know where Miss Mittie is?"
Slade did not know. Hermione went to her letters, without troubling herself to inquire further, and Slade disappeared.
Two were lengthy epistles from distant friends. Hermione went through them sheet by sheet in leisurely style, paying small heed to the flight of time. Then she opened the third, finding, to her surprise, that it was from Miss Dalton. What could Miss Dalton have to say?
"She need not suppose that I am going to get into a correspondence!" thought Hermione, with a touch of something like resentment.
But the letter had to be read. It covered two sheets, and the writing was not peculiarly legible. For a while Miss Dalton appeared to have nothing particular to say. There was a good deal of chit-chat about her own doings, about the Parish and about the neighbourhood, and there was a certain amount of sympathetic gush about Hermione and Hermione's trials. Miss Dalton was past girlhood, but not past girlish gush. She seemed to be eagerly expectant of Hermione's visit, when "the rest of them," as she tersely expressed it, should be gone to East Bourne.
So far the letter was only commonplace and wearisome. On the second page of the second sheet, however, Hermione came upon something unexpected.
"I've only just come back from a week in London, and only think— one evening I met at dinner a very old friend of your dear grandfather's. His name is Ogilvie—Mr. Ogilvie—and I believe he is some sort of relation of the Mrs. Ogilvie at Brierly Cottage; not that I know Mrs. Ogilvie, for I never even met her, but just now, of course, her name has come up in connection with all of you. Mr. Ogilvie said something about a 'niece by marriage' living near Westford. But we did not talk of her; we talked about you. He seems a very frank kind old gentleman, and he said you were the prettiest and sweetest child he had ever seen, about six or seven years ago."
"Then he said how he regretted hearing of the death of his dear old friend, Mr. Dalrymple, and how he hoped you had been left properly provided for. I hope you will not think it very interfering of me to say all this, but really I think you ought to know exactly what passed. I said I was afraid things were not at all as they ought to be; and he said he was afraid they were not either; for the fact was, he had received a letter from old Mr. Dalrymple, written just before his death, speaking of what he meant to do for you. Mr. Ogilvie was almost sure from the date of the letter, and the date of Mr. Dalrymple's death given in the papers, that very little could have been done."
"I said that I thought he really ought to make Mr. Dalrymple's letter known for your sake, and he said he would be very willing to do what was right. He had kept the letter, as being the last written by his old friend. Of course he had not got it with him that evening, but he quoted it from memory. He said it was written in a scrawled weak way, not like Mr. Dalrymple's usual hand, and it spoke of the writer feeling very unwell. Then the letter went on something like this, 'You will remember my sweet grandchild, Hermione Rivers. She is lovelier than ever. I can feel no real fear about her future—so attractive as she is, so sure to make friends wherever she goes. But I have to provide for her future. The Westford estate is entailed. I have this morning resolved to leave ten thousand pounds to her!'"
"Now, my dear Miss Rivers, you see!! You see what ought to be yours. The letter was written on the Saturday, only two days before Mr. Dalrymple's death, so, of course, nothing was or could be done. And you are actually defrauded of this ten thousand pounds! Whatever you have of your own, this ten thousand pounds ought to be yours also. My father and my mother and myself feel most strongly on the subject, I assure you. We feel that it ought to be made known. We feel that if Mr. Dalrymple is made acquainted with his uncle's intention, and if pressure is brought to bear upon him, he surely cannot—as a man of honourable sentiments—he surely could not refuse to carry out what his uncle would have done had he lived long enough."
Hermione read so far, and neglected the effusive wind-up. She sat long, still as an image, lost in thought. The room grew darker, but she did not notice it. Her whole mind was bent upon this information which had so strangely come.
Ten thousand pounds! That would mean complete independence! It would mean being able to go where she would, to live with whom she chose. It would mean freedom from control, from Harvey, from Mrs. Trevor!
Mr. Dalrymple had fully intended this sum to be hers. He had that morning resolved it—only that last morning! Extraordinary! Why had he come to no such resolution earlier?
Hermione could not solve the puzzle. It was only another form of the old perplexity—why he had let all those years go by, and had made no provision in them for his darling?
She was more struck with another aspect of the matter, with the simple fact that so soon as he had come to a resolution to act, death had intervened, and the resolve could not be carried out.
With all Hermione's faults, she had been trained up into a very simple and child-like belief in God's overruling and absolute power. And this seemed to her very strikingly, very forcibly, like His interposition. Mr. Dalrymple had willed to leave her ten thousand pounds, and the Divine controlling touch had come, withholding from her what she might have had.
Was she now to grasp at the thing withheld, to condescend to the use of such means as Miss Dalton advised for the possible attainment of that which had been withheld?
"No!" Hermione said aloud, as this question came strongly into her mind. "No, I could not do that! And to stoop to what Miss Dalton proposes! To make it a matter of county gossip, under her leadership! No, indeed! I would rather be penniless all my life."
Pride and principle had both a share in this decision. She struck a wax match, lighted one of the small green candles affixed to her davenport, and wrote a brief note without hesitation.
"WESTFORD HALL.""DEAR MISS DALTON,—Thanks for your kind letter justreceived. I am interested, of course, in what you tellme about my dear grandfather's intentions, but I mustbeg of you on no account to let the matter go farther.I should be distressed if it were generally known.The letter to Mr. Ogilvie was of course writtenin confidence.—Excuse haste, and believe me,yours truly,""HERMIONE RIVERS."
"WESTFORD HALL.""DEAR MISS DALTON,—Thanks for your kind letter justreceived. I am interested, of course, in what you tellme about my dear grandfather's intentions, but I mustbeg of you on no account to let the matter go farther.I should be distressed if it were generally known.The letter to Mr. Ogilvie was of course writtenin confidence.—Excuse haste, and believe me,yours truly,""HERMIONE RIVERS."
"WESTFORD HALL.""DEAR MISS DALTON,—Thanks for your kind letter justreceived. I am interested, of course, in what you tellme about my dear grandfather's intentions, but I mustbeg of you on no account to let the matter go farther.I should be distressed if it were generally known.The letter to Mr. Ogilvie was of course writtenin confidence.—Excuse haste, and believe me,yours truly,""HERMIONE RIVERS."
"WESTFORD HALL."
"DEAR MISS DALTON,—Thanks for your kind letter just
received. I am interested, of course, in what you tell
me about my dear grandfather's intentions, but I must
beg of you on no account to let the matter go farther.
I should be distressed if it were generally known.
The letter to Mr. Ogilvie was of course written
in confidence.—Excuse haste, and believe me,
yours truly,"
"HERMIONE RIVERS."
Hermione read her note through. "Yes, that will do," she murmured. "They are the sort of people that one has to be very decided with. And all this in consequence of one call, and one favour accepted! Should I find myself frightfully in their power, after weeks in the house? I wonder if, after all, it might be better not—"
She did not finish the sentence even to herself, but went to place her note with other letters in the hall ready for the post. Then the carriage drove up, and she waited to welcome her cousin.
Harvey came in listlessly. His altered looks did not strike Hermione, since she had been to the cottage two or three times since the accident. Her greeting was kind but pre-occupied, so much pre-occupied that she even forgot to ask how Julia was. Mrs. Trevor extended three gloved fingers, with a careless "How do?" and preceded the others into the drawing-room, exclaiming, "No lights! Well, that is cheerful, I must say. Only a single farthing dip! You seem to be doing things economically!"
This was addressed to Hermione, and Hermione answered—
"I have been busy. I do not know why Slade has not brought lights." Slade, following with an armful of wraps, cast one reproachful look. "Yes, I remember, I said I would ring," continued Hermione. "But it does not matter. We will have lights now."
"It may not matter to you. It matters a good deal to me," Mrs. Trevor responded in aggrieved tones. "After a dismal drive in the dark to come to a room looking like a tomb! I declare it gives me the cold shivers all over. Do make a blaze with the fire, Harvey. And not a sign of tea! I suppose we are not expected to care for creature-comforts. You had yours, no doubt, an hour ago."
"No; I have waited," was the frigid reply.
Mrs. Trevor showed no gratitude. She shrugged her shoulders, muttered "Economical!" and eat down with her feet on the fender. "Where is Mittie?" came next.
"I do not know."
"Banished to the housekeeper's room, no doubt!"
Hermione really was trying to be patient, in consideration of Harvey's tired look. Somehow, that which went before had drawn her nearer to her cousin. She felt as if a conspiracy were afoot to rob him for her benefit, and the better part of her nature was called up. Whatever old Mr. Dalrymple ought to have done and had not done, Hermione did not feel that Harvey was to blame for the state of things. But Mrs. Trevor's manner was exasperating to the proud girl.
"I do not know," she repeated. Mrs. Trevor turned to Slade, who had brought in the lamp and was drawing the curtains. "Tell Milton to send Miss Mittie here," she said.
Slade responded with his usual composure, but in three minutes he returned alone.
"Mrs. Milton has not seen Miss Mittie all the afternoon, ma'am."
"Then where has she been? Who has seen her?"
"Mrs. Milton was under the impression, ma'am, that Miss Mittie was with Miss Rivers."
"Under the impression! Why couldn't she make sure?" cried Mrs. Trevor indignantly. "She might have known better than to suppose anything of the sort. I have no doubt the poor child has been upstairs in one of those fireless rooms, catching her death of cold. Do, pray, find her at once, and send her here. I'm too chilly to stir."
Slade quitted the room with evident intent to obey, and she called after him, "No, you had better bring up the tea, and send somebody else to look, for we are half famished."
"If I had known when you would really arrive, I could have had the tea waiting," said Hermione.
"I told you as much as I knew myself. Slade might have had the tea-things here ready, at all events. But of course that was too much trouble for anybody to think of. I should have fancied that the child's existence might have been remembered by somebody."
Tea came in, and Hermione began to pour it out in silence. Slade put down the silver cake-basket in its right place, then said—
"Miss Mittie is not upstairs, ma'am."
"Not upstairs? But she must be?" exclaimed Mrs. Trevor, aghast. "Where else can she have gone?"
"Mrs. Milton and the maids have looked into all the rooms, ma'am, and Miss Mittie is not to be found."
"She can't be out of doors. It is absurd, at this hour. Of course she can't. When did anybody see her last?"
"Mrs. Milton saw her for a minute after luncheon, ma'am—some little time after. Mrs. Milton was very busy, and Miss Mittie said she was going to speak to Miss Rivers."
"Yes; she came to me," Hermione observed calmly. "She asked when you were expected to arrive."
"Was that all?"
"Not quite. I was busy, and could not attend to her. She said something, I think, about going out to get some flowers, I did not exactly hear what."
"Didn't hear, and didn't care! What o'clock was that?"
"I am not sure. It may have been about half-past three."
"Mittie is most probably at the Rectory," said Harvey.
"No, sir; I thought of that. But Mrs. Milton says that Mr. and Miss Fitzalan are absent for the day. Miss Mittie told Mrs. Milton so; and also Mrs. Milton knows that Miss Mittie intended to be at home when Mrs. Trevor should arrive."
"She may be at the Rectory all the same," said Harvey. "Somebody had better go and inquire. Yes—you will be the best. If not there, you may hear of her elsewhere. Unless she has gone to sleep in some corner of the house. That is as likely as anything. Another cup of tea, please."
Hermione complied with the request, trying to conquer a sense of uneasiness. Why had she not attended to the little one's wants, instead of so curtly repelling her? That brief scene did not look beautiful now, seen as a thing of the past. She felt half disposed to go and search for Mittie herself, only Mrs. Trevor's manner was so annoying. Pride protested, and she sat still. Mrs. Trevor muttered something and vanished, and presently Harvey followed her. Hermione could hear the sound of feet on the stairs, passing up and down, of doors opened and shut, of Mittie's name loudly called. It did not seem kind or gracious that she should remain here alone, taking no share in the search, and Hermione, suddenly ashamed, stood up, purposing to help.
But it was too late. Mrs. Trevor came in alone, walked to the rug, and turned upon Hermione a flushed face of disquiet.
"Mittie is not in the house or at the Rectory," she said in a hard hoarse voice. "Slade can hear nothing of her. Not a soul in the place has seen or spoken to the child—since you!"
Hermione's heart sank. "It is extraordinary," she said.
"Extraordinary! Is that all you have to say?"
"No—I am sorry—" Hermione began, forcing herself to be composed. She was going to say, "I am sorry I did not look after her more."
"A nice sort of sorrow! When you can sit here, amusing yourself, not even taking the trouble to walk upstairs and look for her. Oh, you needn't go now. She is not there. Nobody knows where she is, the poor little darling! Unless you do!"
Hermione kept cold silence.
"I'm not sure that you don't. I believe there's something more in it than any of us know. She spoke to you last. Why should she have gone away and hidden herself directly after? What did you say to her, pray? Speak, girl! What have you done to my child?"
Mrs. Trevor stamped one foot angrily. She seemed to be almost beside herself with grief and wrathful suspicion. Hermione grew pale.
"I have done nothing to Mittie. You are wrong and cruel to accuse me. She wanted flowers from the conservatory, and I was too busy to see to it. She said she would go out. Nothing more passed."
"Nothing more than an ordinary snubbing, I suppose. Poor pet! she wasn't used to snubbings before she came here. It was left to a saintly being like yourself to teach her what that sort of thing means."
"You are hard upon me—for what I cannot possibly help," Hermione said with difficulty.
"You could have helped it! Common attention to the child was all that was needed. Hard upon you! As if this were the only time! As if it had not been going on ever since we came to Westford! Oh, you count yourself an immaculate being, I know, but I can tell you other people don't hold the same opinion. You may be an angel among the cottagers, but you're not at all an angel in your own home. Talk of religion! I'm sick of the word. You just care to please yourself, and that's all. Your religion is to do what you like! It's selfishness out and out! You haven't even the bare kindness to look after a poor forlorn child left in your charge. Oh, you were too busy, of course—about your own concerns—and my poor Mittie just had to take her chance. All I can say is, that if ever I want religion, I'll not come to you for it. I'll go to somebody who acts instead of talking. I don't believe in such saintliness as yours. It's all a sham and a delusion,—nothing but show! There! I've told you plainly, for once, what I think. I don't care whether you like it or not."
Mrs. Trevor hurried away, and Hermione stood as if stunned, white to the lips, shuddering all over with long shivers as if of bodily pain.
For the arrow had struck home.
MITTIE did not mean to be half-an-hour absent when she started on her little excursion.
Hermione's "snubbing" had an uncomfortable effect, as such snubbings always had upon Mittie. It was true, as Mrs. Trevor said, that she was not used to them. Much spoiling and very limited scolding had fallen to Mittie's share before she came to Westford. An occasional sharp word from her mother had meant little, and had been always manageable by a tear from Mittie. The child had really been never allowed to feel herself in the way, and her loving sensitive nature suffered keenly from this novel sensation under Hermione's rule.
It was an intense delight to Mittie to think of having her mother back. Other people might count Mrs. Trevor no wise mother, and no very estimable person in some respects, but she was Mittie's mother, and there was genuine and hearty affection between the two.
If only Mittie might have rigged up a big flag of welcome! She confided the notion to Milton, however, and Milton quashed the scheme at once. "Miss Rivers wouldn't like it."
Mittie thought it "funny" that cousin Hermione never seemed to like anything that she wished to do. But she was far too simple and child-like to bear malice. If anybody had asked her within five minutes after if she loved cousin Hermione, she would have answered unhesitatingly, "Oh yes! 'course I do—only not like my Marjory, you know!"
Failing the flag, she thought of the flowers, and here an appeal to Hermione, as present head of affairs, was needful. Poor Mittie was sorely disappointed to fail anew.
One resource remained. Once or twice lately in a walk with Marjory she had found prettily-tinted autumn leaves, yellow and red and golden-brown. "Mother" would surely like some of these placed on her dressing-table.
Hermione did not forbid her to go out, therefore Mittie felt free. She was accustomed to a good deal of liberty for so small a person.
It did not take long to get ready. Hat and jacket were soon donned, and Mittie skipped away through the garden, gloves in hand, bent upon reaching the meadows behind the Rectory. Tinted leaves might be nearer, but there she knew they could be found without doubt.
There they were too; only, as it happened, all the best and prettiest were out of Mittie's reach. She stood beneath tempting branches, and looked up with longing eyes before resolving to go farther.
The next meadow might afford what she wanted. Mittie resolved to venture so far. If she ran fast, going home, she would almost certainly be in time.
A stile had to be climbed, and Mittie found herself in a large field, covered with a succession of long rounded ridges of grass, like petrified earthwaves. Near the encircling hedge grew in one spot a good many scattered small trees, and about half-way between this spot and the centre was a very fine young Wellingtonia, surrounded by a brick wall. A fence had formerly enclosed the Wellingtonia, but the fence having been repeatedly broken down, a wall had been substituted by the owner, who was very proud of his American specimen.
Mittie stole along by the hedge, breaking off here and there a tinted twig which caught her fancy, till she had quite a bouquet of variegated colours. Then she resolved to turn home, but she thought she would take one look in passing at certain small bushes growing just inside the wall which protected the Wellingtonia. So the little feet set off thither at a light run.
Suddenly some sound, or perhaps an instinctive sense of danger, made Mittie turn her head and look back.
To her horror she was being chased. A large bull with lowered horns was rushing at full gallop straight towards her.
Mittie had not known before that any creature beside herself was in the field. Had she seen the animal she would have retreated at once, for years of town-life had made her timid in this respect. Probably he had been browsing behind a group of trees at a short distance till attracted by her running.
One faint shriek burst from the child's lips, but she did not pause. At her utmost speed she fled wildly over the grass towards the Wellingtonia. Happily, she was a fleet runner, as well as a good climber. Many a wall and small tree had Mittie learnt to scale since Westford had been her home. Whether the bull really meant to hurt her, or was merely trying conclusions as to speed, might be questioned, but Mittie had no doubt whatever of his murderous intentions.
Not a dozen clear yards lay between pursuer and pursued when Mittie gained the enclosing wall, but that was enough. She knew of the one rugged and broken corner where she could ascend, and in another instant she had gained the summit, safe, but gasping for breath, blanched with terror, her poor little heart beating so madly that she could scarcely see what lay before her eyes. She dared not drop down within the wall, since it might not be possible to get up again on the other side. There was nothing for it but to sit on the top, which happily offered a fairly broad and secure surface, and to watch with fascinated eyes her terrible foe.
One thing became at once apparent, that the bull had no notion of climbing a wall. Mittie had had her doubts on this head, and was consoled. Finding his prey out of reach, he stopped running, and seemed disposed to take the matter coolly; but he showed no intention of taking himself away. He browsed about carelessly here and there, always within twenty or thirty yards of the enclosure. It would have made little difference if he had gone to the utmost verge of the field. Mittie felt that she could never venture to descend alone, to cross the wide space between the wall and the stile, while the enemy was anywhere within reach. She was on a fortress, practically invested, hopelessly cut off from the rest of the world.
For a while Mittie bore up pluckily. She was accustomed of late to rove about much alone, and to depend upon herself, and she felt no doubt that somebody would soon come to the rescue. Only it did seem very hard not to be at home to welcome her mother, and tears rose with the thought.
The wall seat, though tolerably safe, since Mittie was not given to giddiness, could not be called comfortable. Mittie debated several times whether she might not venture to descend inside. But it would not do. She would be out of sight there, and getting up again might prove impossible, so smooth was the inner surface of the wall.
As time passed and no human being approached Mittie began to realise that things were growing serious. Light faded fast, and soon her little figure would be invisible, even if somebody did pass near. It grew very cold too, and Mittie felt quite chilled and stiff with long exposure. The idea of being all alone here after dark was terrible to the sensitive child. Fortitude failed at last, and she broke into bitter sobs, crying out for help.
In an interval of crying her eyes were caught by a faint light beyond the first meadow. Mittie knew it to be the Rectory light, and the very sight brought a thrill of hope. "O Marjory! Marjory! do come!" wailed Mittie at first; and then— "But Marjory would tell me to ask God," she thought. And with the wailing sobs, which she was too cold and frightened to check, were childish murmurs of prayer and trust. Was ever such pleading unanswered?
"MISS RIVERS, if you please—there's a woman just come—"
Hermione turned upon Slade a face of such marble whiteness that he stopped, dumbfounded. She looked like one who has received some sharp blow. But she said only—
"Yes, go on. A woman has come—"
"The one who sometimes does a bit of weeding, Miss. She says her little boy saw Miss Mittie go into the meadows behind the Rectory this afternoon."
"She would not be there now, of course. Has any one been to look?"
"I don't know, Miss. I thought I should find Mrs. Trevor here. It did just come to my mind as Miss Mittie might have got hurt or been frightened. The banks are slippery down by the stream. And besides—"
"Yes?" Hermione said inquiringly.
"Mr. Haye has taken to putting that big bull of his in them meadows the last three days, Miss Rivers. And Miss Mittie's mortal afraid of cows. I don't know as he'd hurt anybody; they say he isn't so fierce as he looks. But he does run; and if Miss Mittie saw him coming, she might get a fright and tumble down somewhere."
This was a long speech for Slade to make. Hermione listened, with her pale face turned towards him.
"Yes—it might be something of that sort. I don't see how she—But we can find out. Don't say anything to anybody, Slade. You and I will go."
"Yes, Miss." Slade's manner showed none of his surprise.
"I must do something. I can't rest," said Hermione in a low voice. "Dinner is put off, is it not? There will be time. Besides—nothing matters. She must be found. Wait one moment, and I will come."
Slade obeyed, with only a look of sympathy. In two minutes Hermione appeared, wearing hat and ulster. Milton alone was told of their expedition. Hermione set off at such a pace that Slade could hardly keep up with her.
It was by this time quite dark, and many others were out searching. Even Harvey ventured a short distance, though very unfit for the exertion. Mrs. Trevor stayed indoors, with despairing tears and complaints.
Nobody seemed to have thought of the meadows behind the Rectory. Probably Marjory Fitzalan would have done so, but she and her father were absent still. Few knew so much as Marjory of Mittie's favourite resorts.
Slade had procured a lighted lantern during his two minutes of waiting, one used already in the search. But for its help they could hardly have followed the meadow-path.
An examination of the muddy bank of the stream proved fruitless, and they went on till the stile was reached leading into the next large field. "You'll catch cold, Miss," Slade said solicitously, noting a shiver. "I don't know as it's much use going farther. Miss Mittie isn't likely to be there."
"Hush! O hush!"
Hermione stood like a statue, listening.
"I can't hear nothing," Slade declared. He was too much excited for his usual careful choice of words.
"O hush!"
Slade obeyed, and there was another pause.
"Yes, it is her voice! A child crying! Oh, make haste!"
"Are you sure, Miss?" Slade's voice was more than dubious.
"Quite sure. Quick, Slade! she is somewhere near!"
Hermione sprang over the stile, and took the lead. She pressed forward eagerly, pausing from time to time to study the direction of the sounds, which grew more distinct as they advanced. Slade was soon obliged to admit that "there was something!"
"Not as I don't know that it isn't some sort of a creature caught in a trap," he added. "They do cry, some of 'em, wonderful like a child."
"But that is Miss Mittie's voice! Slade, can't you hear? She is sobbing and calling for help."
Slade's doubts were silenced. There could soon be no hesitation as to the nature of those wailing cries, and the very words became distinguishable. "Mother, mother! O Marjory, do come!" But no mention of "cousin Hermione!" A few hours earlier Hermione might not have noticed the omission. She did now, with a sharp pang.
"Hallo! That's the brute!" exclaimed Slade, with exultation over his own foresight, as a great creature retired promptly before the blaze of his lamp. He had not breath for much more. Hermione led at a run.
"The bull! Is it, really? Then you were right. Slade, come quickly. He will not touch us—and just hear that poor child! Mittie! Mittie! we are coming!" she cried cheerily, and her voice rang far ahead.
"Marjory! Marjory!" was the answering appeal. Poor little Mittie could hardly picture such an event as cousin Hermione coming to the rescue.
Half a minute more, and the wall was reached. Slade swung up his lantern. "She's on the—top—" he panted. "I'll get her—down."
"O Marjory! that dreadful dreadful bull!" wailed Mittie. "Slade, hold me tight; don't let him come! I'm so frightened, and so cold! O Marjory—"
But Hermione's arms, not Marjory's, received the little shivering figure lifted to the ground by Slade, folding her round in a protecting embrace, and Hermione's voice, not Marjory's, said pityingly, "Poor darling! No, he shall not hurt you—he shall not touch you, Mittie dear! you are quite safe now. Don't be frightened! Don't sob so! Slade, she is so terribly cold; I don't think she can stand! What can we do? Oh, there is this!" and she drew off a small shawl which she had thrown about her own shoulders, putting it round Mittie. "Poor little thing! but don't cry, darling. Try to walk, because it will warm you."
"Is it cousin Hermione?" came with an amazed gasp, and then Mittie put up her face. "I'll try—try not to cry. I don't want—want to be naughty. But oh, don't let the bull come!"
"He shall kill me first, Mittie. But you needn't be afraid. Slade is here, and the bull is frightened of the light."
"God sent you, didn't He?" came in an unexpected whisper, amid the sobs and shivers which the child had no power to control. "I thought— thought He would! Sweet cousin Hermione—you are so—so kind!"
"You'd best let me carry her, Miss," Slade said gravely.
No; Hermione could not resolve to unloose those little clinging arms. Her heart ached with bitter self-reproach at this loving response after all her past coldness. She was very strong, and Mittie was so small and slight. Hermione lifted her off the wet grass, and held her firmly, accepting such help as Slade could give, but refusing to part with the child. Mittie's cold face lay on her shoulder, and more than one tear fell upon it.
"Cousin Hermione, are you crying?" asked Mittie wonderingly. "Oh, I know you're tired. Mayn't I walk? Why, cousin Hermione, I didn't ever think you cared one scrap for me. Sweet cousin Hermione, I do love you so."
Hermione almost felt as if her heart would break under the childish tender words, coming so soon after the sharp stab of terrible truth given by the mother.
A WEEK later Julia came home. The day before, she had a letter from Francesca, which she re-read carefully in the carriage on her way back. Part of it ran as follows:—
"You will find things different in certain respects, not altogether disagreeable respects. I told you about Hermione finding poor Mittie on the wall, and actually carrying her part of the way home, with Slade there by her side. Why she couldn't let Slade do it passes my comprehension, but I suppose Hermione always must do things after her own fashion, unlike other people. Anyhow, she is oddly changed since that day. I must confess that I did for once speak out, when I found how she had been neglecting that poor child, and I gave her a good piece of my mind. She didn't say a word in answer, only turned so pale that really I almost thought she meant to treat me to a fainting fit by way of mild revenge. So perhaps the shot told. If so, I'm sure it is not to be regretted."
"Anyhow, whatever is the cause, I am glad to have her moderately civil to myself. More than civility I don't ask. As for the devotion which has sprung up between her and Mittie, I suppose I might be jealous if I were disposed to jealousy, which happily I am not. It is too much trouble. Mittie is better, but we can't let her come downstairs yet. She has had a narrow escape of rheumatic fever. Hermione sits with her by the hour together, reading and telling stories, which saves me trouble, so I don't object. Mittie's raptures are about equally divided now between 'My Marjory' and 'Sweet cousin Hermione.' So long as the child is amused, I really don't care what amuses her."
"I am giving you this little hint beforehand as to the present posture of affairs, for fear you should blunder. Hermione evidently objects to remarks on her proceedings."
"Harvey is getting impatient to be off to East Bourne, I can see. I haven't an idea what Hermione will do. Miss Dalton paid her an immensely long call two days ago. Yesterday I told her that we should most likely be off before the end of next week, and she merely said 'Yes,' in her most composed tone. Harvey is by no means lively just now, but I dare say you will put him right. He gets nervous about himself, I suspect—wants a thorough change. I doubt if he will drive over for you to-morrow, as you say that it is not necessary. The distance both ways is really rather much for him just now, and I am sure I cannot possibly spare the time. Hermione might, but she will not think of it."
Whether Hermione did or did not think of it, she made no offer to go, and Julia's only companion was Milton. Perhaps Julia had a sense of forlornness through the silent drive. Her bodily needs were well attended to, but Milton's ideas of propriety prevented any possibility of conversation, and Julia had ample time for thought and letter-reading. However if any such sense existed, it was driven away by the warm welcome accorded on her arrival.
Prepared by Francesca's letter, Julia showed no surprise when told that Hermione had spent the afternoon with Mittie. She said only, "How kind!" and a softened look in Hermione's eyes showed that she had said the right thing.
Harvey looked, as Francesca had said, by no means lively. Julia could not make him out. He seemed to be under a weight, listless, wanting in energy, often irritable without cause. Was it the effect of the accident only, Julia often asked herself, or was that old question of Hermione's possible claims pressing upon his mind? But she could not bring the latter forward hastily again. She had spoken once clearly and strongly, and Harvey had told her to wait, had desired her to trust him. She did wait, and she tried to trust.
If Harvey did not seem happy, neither did Hermione. Julia noted this increasingly day by day. But every effort on her part to draw nearer to Hermione, during the remainder of that week, was evaded or repelled.
After some hesitation, Thursday in the following week was fixed upon for the journey to East Bourne. Julia begged her sister to say nothing about it either to or before Hermione. She had a keen recollection of Hermione's passionate outburst, and no less keen a recollection of her husband's desire that she should "manage" Hermione's going with them all to Eastbourne. Julia felt that her only hope of success lay in preventing any further collisions between Francesca and Hermione. Fortunately, Mrs. Trevor was so far gratified with Hermione's attentions to Mittie as to fall in with Julia's wishes.
For more than a day and a half Julia put off speaking—not on principle, but simply because she lacked courage, and could not find a good opening. Sunday came, and she had said nothing. "Well, if you don't, I will!" declared Francesca. "I'm burning to talk; and I can't promise to keep mum any longer, with my head full of East Bourne."
This brought Julia to the point. She gave up the hope of a "good opening," and resolved to make the opportunity which had declined to make itself. Directly after early dinner Hermione disappeared as usual for Sunday-school work, but later in the afternoon, when she came home, Julia happened to be alone in the drawing-room.
"Julia—oh, I thought I should find Mittie here," Hermione said, with a touch of embarrassment, and an evident intention to retreat. She seemed to dread anything in the shape of a tête-à-tête just now with anybody. Julia rose to meet her.
"Francesca called Mittie away. I think they are in the morning-room till tea-time. Won't you stay, Hermione? I want so much to speak to you."
Hermione stood still, two or three yards within the door, not approaching any nearer. "Yes. What do you want?" she asked.
"Won't you come and sit down here just for a minute or two?"
Hermione seemed unwilling to comply, but Julia's pleading manner prevailed, and she came slowly to the sofa.
"I must not stay," she said in an uneasy manner, not like her old self-confidence. "I have to take off my hat and jacket before tea— and it is getting rather late."
"Half-an-hour before tea—isn't it? I want much to say something."
Julia's cheeks were flushed, and her hand was unsteady. "Ought you not to be lying down?" asked Hermione.
"No; it doesn't matter. I have been resting, and I am so much better now. Isn't it wonderful to think how different things might have been in that dreadful accident?—and now both of us are getting on so well."
"Yes," was Hermione's response.
"I can never forget it. A time like that must make a difference to one all through life. At least I hope so. I don't feel as if I could ever take things lightly and carelessly again. Won't you help me, dear Hermione? I know you can—as so few could."
Julia spoke with a grave truth and naturalness which showed that she thoroughly meant what she said. But Hermione shrank under the words, and drew her hand away from Julia's touch. "O no!" escaped her lips.
"Won't you?—when there is so much that I want to learn, and you can give me just the help that I need?"
"No, no!" The words seemed wrung from Hermione, and she turned her head away. "I can't. Not I. Mr. Fitzalan—"
"Yes, indeed, he does help me more than I can tell. I am always learning from his sermons. But still—you and I live together, and it does seem as if we ought to be friends. Your training has been so different from mine. Couldn't you teach me the things you have learnt all your life?—the things I have only just begun to know?"
"Oh no! I don't deserve—"
The words were scarcely audible. Julia could not be quite sure what Hermione said, only there was no mistake about the accompanying sob.
"Then shall we help one another?" she asked affectionately.
Hermione made no answer to this, and her face was still turned away, but she did not repel the arm which came softly round her waist.
"That was not all I had to say. There was something else," Julia began after a little break. She was afraid of interruptions. "I have been wanting to tell you all yesterday and to-day. About going to East Bourne—"
"Yes. Mittie says it is to be next Thursday."
Julia augured ill from the cold tone, but she went on, "Yes, I think so. There seems no reason for putting-off longer, and we all need a change. Will you come with us, Hermione?"
The response was delayed. Julia began to tremble.
"Please do. I want it so much, and my husband too. If you knew how anxious he is that you should—"
"I have decided not to go to the Daltons."
"And you will come with us?"
"Yes. Mittie begged it, and I have promised."
"Dear little Mittie!" Julia murmured. "Thank you so much! It is very good to do what we wish. We will try to make you happy there."
"I must take off my hat now."
And Hermione was gone. She could not resolve to unbend farther just then, though not insensible to the kindness of those loving and humble words which made yielding so much easier for her. The contrast between Julia and herself smote her painfully; and at the same time her pride writhed beneath the pain of having to give way, when she had so repeatedly declared that she would not.
Another grief lay below, the grief of a sorrowful new self-knowledge following upon long self-deception. Hermione had only endured it hitherto, refusing to face the truth bravely. But Julia's words took effect. Hermione did face it that evening in Church, solemnly, silently, with many tears.
Mr. Fitzalan went home after the evening service, counting his day's work done, and was met by Marjory, who had arrived first. She said, "Father, Hermione is in the study. She wants a word with you. Slade was to see her home, and he is waiting in the kitchen."
Mr. Fitzalan made a sign of assent, and went to his study, closing the door behind him. Hermione stood near the table, her head bent, and traces of tears on her cheeks.
"Well, my child?" he said kindly, speaking as a father might have spoken.
Hermione put her hand into his. "I am going to East Bourne," she said brokenly.
"That is good news. I am sure you are wise."
"Mittie—wants it—"
"Yes. She is a dear little child."
"I told her—but it is not only Mittie. I know I—ought."
"I think you are right. By-and-by you must come here for a long visit. After your return."
Hermione's head drooped lower, and she clasped her hands, resting them on the table. She looked wonderfully fair, standing thus, he thought— fairer than in her more confident and smiling moods.
"Mr. Fitzalan, is it—"
"Is it—what?"
"Is it—has it been—"
He waited.
"Has it been—all—deceiving?"
"What makes you ask?"
"Mrs. Trevor said—" Sobs shook her frame, and she could not go on.
"One cannot judge another. Nay, more—we cannot judge our own selves fairly. You must take that question to your Master."
"Is He that—to me?" she asked, as if brokenhearted with the doubt.
"Yes, He is that to you by absolute right, and you are bound to His service by Baptismal promise and vow. He is your Lord and Master. And if you have been untrue to Him—devoted to your own interests rather than to His—is not that it, Hermione—?"
"Oh—yes!" she moaned rather than said.
"Then, dear child, what is there for you—what is there for any of us— but to go back to His Feet and tell Him all? Never mind how often you have or have not been to Him truly before. He is waiting to receive you to-night—whether for the first or the hundredth time. He will give you the help you need. He is yours, and you are His bounden servant. But let the service in the future be true and thorough— not half-hearted. Not 'Some of self, and some of Thee!' but 'None of self, and all of Thee!'"
"Thank you! Oh, I will!" Hermione whispered with a burst of gentle weeping such as had scarcely been seen in her before.
"THREE Parades, mother! One at the top of another!"
"One above another, I suppose you mean."
"Yes. And lots of green growing all along. Hermione says it's called tam—something. And there's a Splash-Point, only it's ever so far-off right along the Parade, beyond the pier, and the waves do splash up there. Cousin Hermione and I could only just race round between the waves. And cousin Hermione got such a lovely colour in her cheeks. I saw lots of people looking at her. And cousin Hermione says I needn't call her 'cousin,' cause it's so long—all that lot of it! Hermione is four whole syllables, you know. Oh, I do like going out with her—it's such fun. And I'm sure cousin Hermione—no, I mean Hermione—likes it too."
"She is very kind to take so much trouble with you," Julia remarked.
"But she says it isn't trouble one bit. She says it's fun. I didn't know Hermione liked fun before, and she does. We went up to the Wish Tower, mother, and there's a moat, and a bridge, and a gun, and a man. Oh, and down below there are holes in the great high wall, and I saw birds going in and out. Wasn't that odd? Cousin Hermione couldn't tell me why they went in. I thought grown-up people knew everything. But they don't. And, mother, we saw Beachy Head, ever so far-off, you know, and high up. Three miles away, cousin Hermione says. And I do want to go there some day, 'cause you know it's in the poetry about the Spanish Armada that my Marjory read to me. I've learnt bits, and I know that part. Oh, and mother—"
"Have pity, do, child! The way you chatter!"
Mittie came to an abashed pause, looking joyous still.
"I'll tell you the rest by-and-by," she said sedately. "Only I do think East Bourne is the very most delightful place I ever saw in all my life! And now I'm going back to Hermione."
"It's a perfect craze," Mrs. Trevor remarked carelessly. She did not look annoyed, however. Hermione's love for the child gratified her in the abstract, though the perpetual recurrence of those "four syllables" did at times prove wearisome.
This was their first day in East Bourne, so a little excitement on Mittie's part was excusable. Despite its being the month of November, they had soft mild and clear weather, without rain or fogs, and with many gleams of sunshine. The three ladies enjoyed their change thoroughly, Hermione not less than the others. Harvey still wore a grave and abstracted air, and the dents in his forehead, of which Mittie had once complained, were now so habitual that the child had ceased to notice them.
Nearly a week after their arrival, Julia had one afternoon to take a note to her husband in the small sitting-room which he here used as a study. He received it with a slight detaining gesture, and she stood waiting while he read.
"No answer needed," he said, glancing up. "Sit down, Julia. I don't often get you alone for five minutes."
"We seem generally all together," she replied, with a throb of pleasure at the words. "Harvey, I wish you looked strong again. I think I shall be well first."
"I! Oh, I am all right—should be, at least, if it were not for worries."
Julia did not ask, "What worries?—" at least not in words. Her face was eloquent.
"Why do you never speak to me now about Hermione's—" he hesitated, and at length the word "claims?" followed.
"You told me that she had none."
"And you were satisfied?"
Julia lifted her black eyes to his, answering truthfully, "No!"
"Then why not speak?"
"I thought you might not like it. You told me I mast depend upon you to—" and a pause.
"To 'do justly,'" her husband said.
"Yes."
"And," there was emphasis in Harvey's voice, "and 'to walk humbly with thy God!' Is not that it? But first comes the 'doing justly.' Does that mean that a course of doing unjustly would make the other impossible?"
She bent her head and answered, "I am afraid so."
"And I—have found it so."
Julia's hand came on his arm. "Will you not," she pleaded, "will you not do it—do what seems right——be on the safe side?"
"I cannot make up my mind. Not for want of thinking. It has been before me constantly. But there are difficulties. Something must be done, undoubtedly. The question is—what?"
"Twenty thousand pounds?"
"It would mean pecuniary pressure for years for you and me."
"Ought we to think of that—if it is right—if your uncle meant her to have so much?"
"If? That is the question. Did he mean it calmly, or was it a sudden impulse? Should I be right to part with such an amount? There are certain duties which I owe to the estate, to those living on the estate. How if I could not fulfil those duties?"
"But have we not to 'do justly,' not thinking of consequences?"
Harvey smiled. "Yours is a very straightforward view of the matter."
"Is it the wrong view?"
"Not abstractly—it could not be. Practically there are complications which make decision not so easy. You must remember that I am not bound to give any particular sum. We may have a sense of what is morally right or wrong in the matter, but legally I am free. My uncle's mere wishes have no binding power over me."
"No. But still—" she said.
"But still I agree with you that something should be done. I shall not be at rest till it is settled one way or another."
"Cannot you now—Why put off?"
"I am not able to come to a decision."
"Then why not speak to Hermione? Tell her plainly how things stand, and see what she will say. Would not that be a help? She is so kind and loving lately—so different—I do think she would better help you in seeing what to do. Anything is better than to put off. Suppose you changed your mind again!"
"You have small trust in me!"
"It isn't that! I only know what I am myself. May I call Hermione?"
"At once?" Man-like, he distrusted impulse in a business matter.
"Yes, at once. She is indoors. Isn't it best to be open?"
And after a little more hesitation, a little more pleading, Harvey actually said, "Yes!"
Hermione listened to her cousin's statement with an air of calm attention, sitting opposite to him, her hands folded on her lap, and her blue eyes glancing from him to Julia. His statement was that of a man of business, though gleams of personal feeling came in now and then. When he had mentioned the letter to Mr. Selwyn, and the "twenty thousand pounds," she said in surprise, "No! that must be a mistake!" When he spoke of his difficulty in parting with so much in a lump, she said, "No! oh no! it would not do at all."
"Now you see exactly how things stand," were Harvey's concluding words. "I wish to do what is right and fair, but the estate will not stand unlimited pulls upon it. Julia advises me to consult with you. I do not fancy that my uncle wished to injure the property."
"I know he did not. I can help you here," she said, with her sweetest smile. "If only I had known before that you were worrying yourselves!"
"Then your grandfather spoke to you of his intentions?"
"No; he never talked business to me. It was not his way. But on the Saturday before he was taken from us, he wrote to an old friend, Mr. Ogilvie—a relative of your Mrs. Ogilvie—Julia. You must see the letter. I only heard of it lately—through the Daltons at first— and some days ago Mr. Ogilvie sent it to me. I have not liked to mention it to either of you. Of course the Daltons had no right to interfere, and—But I will get the letter."
She sped lightly away, and Harvey looked towards his wife with a quiet, "You were right!"
Almost immediately Hermione came back, flushed and eager. She gave the sheet to Harvey, saying, "It is there, on the second page. Read to Julia, if you like."
And Harvey read:—"'You will remember my grandchild, Hermione Rivers— a child when you saw her last, but now a young woman. She is dearer to me than ever. I can feel no fears about her future; she will never fail to win friends. But, as you are aware, the Westford estate is entailed, and I have to-day resolved to leave to her, absolutely, the sum of £10,000. I wish I could make it £20,000, but I doubt if the estate would stand so great a loss, and do not feel that I have a right to cripple my successor. You will think it strange that I have not provided fully for my Hermione sooner. Blame an old man's procrastination. It shall be delayed no longer.'"
"Strange!" Harvey uttered.
"You see! The most he thought of was ten thousand," said Hermione. "And I shall never want so much."
"When did you say it was written?" Julia inquired. "On the Saturday? The very same day that he wrote of twenty thousand pounds to Mr. Selwyn!"
"Probably at the same time. That must have been a slip of the pen," Harvey said gravely. "His mind was no doubt confused."
"Poor grandfather! Yes; the illness was coming on even then. But there is no mistake about what he really meant. He gives his reasons for the one, not for the other."
"True!" Harvey murmured. There was a brief silence of two or three minutes, during which he bent his head in deep thought. Julia watched him fearfully. Hermione seemed almost indifferent, certainly not anxious.
Then Harvey raised his eyes, a new light in them. "The ten thousand pounds shall be yours, Hermione. I will take steps at once."
Hermione looked disturbed.
"Is that right? Is it needful?"
"I think so; both right and needful. You have made matters plain. If he had lived another week, it would have been yours. It shall be yours now!"
Hermione could only murmur something inarticulate about, "Very very kind!"
"Only just!" Harvey answered.
Julia bent to kiss the forehead from which all puckers had disappeared, whispering, "I am so glad! oh, so thankful!"
And Harry Fitzalan!
The ten thousand pounds were no bait at all to Harry! He scouted any such considerations. He loved Hermione deeply, but he could not get over that one sight of Hermione in a rage. It "finished him off," he said. No such wife for him!
And though he could not cease to care for her, he held studiously aloof, kept resolutely apart. Perhaps Harry's character was none the worse in the end for this long process of abstention—long, for it lasted four years. Nobody knew what Hermione thought of it. She did suffer, for she did love; but no human being was allowed a glimpse below the surface.
At length, after four whole years, even the sceptical Harry was convinced of that which every one else saw plainly, the real change in Hermione. He found that she was now what once she had only, at least in a measure, seemed to be.
Then he proposed, and was accepted.
THE END.
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