The Project Gutenberg eBook ofThe DalrymplesThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: The DalrymplesAuthor: Agnes GiberneRelease date: May 11, 2023 [eBook #70740]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: United Kingdom: James Nisbet & Co., Limited, 1891*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DALRYMPLES ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: The DalrymplesAuthor: Agnes GiberneRelease date: May 11, 2023 [eBook #70740]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: United Kingdom: James Nisbet & Co., Limited, 1891
Title: The Dalrymples
Author: Agnes Giberne
Author: Agnes Giberne
Release date: May 11, 2023 [eBook #70740]
Language: English
Original publication: United Kingdom: James Nisbet & Co., Limited, 1891
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DALRYMPLES ***
Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
CHAP.
I. HARVEY
II. MARJORY'S INDIGNATION
III. A "SISTER" FOR HERMIONE
IV. AFTER EIGHT YEARS
V. RIGHT AND WRONG
VI. IVY-LEAVES
VII. JUNE SUNSHINE
VIII. FOR THE FUTURE
IX. JULIA HERSELF
X. SUDDEN PERIL
XI. WONDERFUL COMPOSURE
XII. TWENTY THOUSAND POUNDS
XIII. DEGREES OF GOODNESS
XIV. EXPECTED
XV. THINGS DIFFERENT
XVI. AN INTERVIEW
XVII. ON BOTH SIDES
XVIII. A CHILD CONFIDANTE
XIX. THE REAL QUESTION
XX. TAKEN BY SURPRISE
XXI. "STIFF-NECKED"
XXII. THE QUESTION OF GOING
XXIII. MRS. OGILVIE
XXIV. PRINCE AND EMPEROR
XXV. A TRYING POSITION
XXVI. SENT FOR
XXVII. A PRIVATE ARRANGEMENT
XXVIII. JULIA'S COGITATIONS
XXIX. WHAT TO THINK OF IT
XXX. FROM MISS DALTON
XXXI. SEEN LAST
XXXII. BELEAGUERED
XXXIII. NOT MARJORY!
XXXIV. GIVING IN
XXXV. "DOING JUSTLY"
"MISS HERMINY'S a angel! That's what she be!" The old gardener at the Rectory, who was uncle to the head-gardener at the Hall, and who prided himself not a little on that social distinction, brought down his spade with an expressive bump. Then he rested his two aged and muscular hands upon the spade handle and peered upward into the face of the person addressed, before proceeding to deliver himself more fully of his sentiments.
"Miss Herminy's a angel! That's what I says! And I don't care who unsays it! She's got the wings a-wanting, and nought else. If 'twasn't for that, sir, she'd just soar right away, she would, to her native element, nor wouldn't stay no longer on this here sordid earth of ours. To look upon her now minds me of that what King David said, 'Oh that I had wings like a dove'—sir—not but what they be fitter words for an old fellow like me than a young thing like her. But sometimes I'm afeared it's that she will do one o' these days, when she comes along o' the path in her white frock, looking for all the world like a white-robed angel in them hymns we sings in Church, sir, and palms in their hands, and she so lightsome of spirit still, and her hair like gold, and a look of heaven in her blue eyes that's always smiling, and never a bit of pride nor a thought for her own self. Yes, sir, Miss Herminy's a angel, and no mistake!"
"Haven't the least doubt of it," responded the other, with a curious intonation. He might have been thirty or more in age, though young-looking for that. He was of good stature, good figure, good features, with a mouth lazily good-humoured and eyes lazily kind. As old Sutton rambled on, the younger man stood close outside the Rectory gate, one of those swing-gates which have five or six horizontal bars of wood, and another sloping diagonally from an upper to a lower opposite corner. He lounged against this gate with an air of gentlemanly indolence, partly holding it open, partly using it to support his weight.
"And if my word ain't enough, sir, why, there be the squire, and my master Mr. Fitzalan, and Miss Marjory, as is like own sister to Miss Herminy. Not for to speak of Mr. Harry, sir. And the Hall servants, sir, if I might make bold to mention 'em—and the village folk."
"Mr. Dalrymple, her grandfather!"
"Ay, sir, and a fine old gentleman he do be. I don't know a finer nowheres. And a good and God-fearing man as ever you see, who'll stand up for the poor man, and who'll set right over might, let what will happen. And he be that set upon Miss Herminy, sir! He've got nought but she in the world, and she've got nought but he; and they just do hang together, like—them two. And whatever's to become of Miss Herminy when he's a-taken away, for he's an old man, and it mayn't be long before the call 'll come; and if I'm not mistaking, it 'll be no sorrowful call to him, sir; no, for he's a man as do love and fear God with all his heart, and delights to worship in His temple. But whatever's to become of Miss Herminy when that time comes I don't know—that I don't."
"Estate entailed, I believe, on the male line," was the only remark made in answer.
"Ay, sir; so I've heard. And a wicked thing it he, giving away the place from she as has the right, to one away in furrin parts for years and years, never taking no heed to his heritage. He don't value it, sir, no more than Esau did as sold his for a mess of pottage. And Miss Herminy to have nought; and she the apple of the old man's eye. No, sir, it's a wicked thing—I don't know a wickeder."
The gentleman lifted his eyebrows. "The heir is a near relative, of course," he said.
"His father and Miss Herminy's mother they was first cousins, sir. And he as good as a brother to Miss Herminy in years past, till he took to wandering like a vagabond over the face of the earth. There's many a one thought summat 'ud surely come of that, sir; and it was Mr. Dalrymple's wish too, and no mistake. But it ain't come yet. Though there be no knowing—if so be he was to see Miss Herminy now. For if ever there was a angel on earth, it's Miss Herminy."
"She was a pretty child when I saw her last, Sutton."
Something familiar in tone and manner caught the old gardener's attention. He stared, and scratched aside two or three grey hairs which had wandered over his wrinkled forehead.
"I shouldn't wonder but I'd ought to know you, sir," he said, "if you was ever at the Hall before. I'm getting old now, and my eyesight ain't none of the best, nor my memory nayther. I shouldn't wonder if I'd ought to know you." He peered hard still, blinking a little. "And I'm thinking now as I sees summat. It ain't—surely—Miss Herminy's cousin—young Mr. Dalrymple!"
"I am Harvey Dalrymple," was the reply. "Yes—Miss Hermione's second cousin—or, if you like it, her brother."
"Young Mr. Dalrymple—his very own self!" ejaculated Sutton. "Well, well, sir—I'm glad to see you anyways. And maybe it's One above has brought you home for His own purposes, sir—if so be you'll pardon an old man saying it."
Dalrymple did not look offended; it was not his way to take offence easily.
"I hope I am come for no bad purpose, at all events," he rejoined lightly. "After eight years' absence, it is not so very astonishing that I should turn up again for a couple of nights. You can tell Mr. Fitzalan of my sudden appearance, and say that I would have called if anybody had been indoors. By-the-bye, I have not asked yet after Miss Fitzalan."
"Miss Marjory be as usual, sir. She don't never complain."
"And Mr. Harry?"
Sutton's face lighted up proudly.
"Mr. Harry do be growed a fine young gentleman, sir—as fine a young gentleman as ever I see. And they do say he be mighty thought of at the 'Varsity, he be that clever. And as fine a young gentleman! To see him a horseback now!"
The sight of Harry Fitzalan on horseback plainly went beyond old Sutton's descriptive powers. He nodded his head, and was mute.
"Good day. We shall meet again," Dalrymple said, with a friendly nod.
Sutton remained motionless, staring blankly after the retreating figure.
"Young Mr. Dalrymple, his very own self. And I to be talking of he to he, and never a thought in my head as he'd come back. And all them years in furrin parts. Well, well, he ain't too early nor he ain't too late neither. For the old squire he be living, and Miss Herminy she ain't married. And I shouldn't wonder—no, I shouldn't." Sutton shook his scant grey locks, leaving the sentence incomplete.
Meanwhile Dalrymple, following the dusty highroad by which he had already come through the village and passed the Rectory, rounded another curve and found himself close to the Church of whitish stone, matching the whitish Rectory. A square tower was dressed in a garment of aged ivy, and the windows of tinted glass had ivy fringes around them.
Dalrymple knew from personal recollection how those green leaf fringes could be seen from within, showing through the dull-tinted diamond panes. He had been used to worship in this Church, week by week, through early boyhood, standing, sitting, kneeling, by his mother's side. He had been there also in later years, but the childish remembrances were the strongest.
Almost a quarter of a century had gone by since that mother's death, yet he could recall her still, vividly as if he had seen her but one month before. The graceful girlish figure came back to him now, as he lingered, and the sweet fair face, and the heavenly calm of the soft eyes. He seemed to see himself again as a small boy in the big "squire's pew," gazing up into those rapt eyes with a child's half-adoring love, as her clear voice rang out in words of praise, mingling with the less tuneful notes of the village choir.
"If ever an angel lived in human form, she was one," he murmured.
Then he roused himself to go on, but paused anew, for a girl was coming along the road straight towards him. He knew in a moment who it was.
She wore a dress of summer serge, dark-grey in colour, fitting closely, and made in a style of absolute plainness. There were no plaitings, puffings, or braidings about any part of it, while the collar and cuffs were of thick white linen. Rather below middle height, she had a face uniformly pale, and habitual shadows under the eyes. The features generally were irregular, boasting no beauty, but the outline of the cheek seen from behind was pretty; abundant brown hair sheltered the broad forehead, falling partly over it in loose waves; and the grey eyes, with their depths of feeling, gave character to a face which otherwise was not remarkable. A straw hat hung over one arm, and she carried a mass of small white roses in an open basket.
Dalrymple went forward a few steps, and held out his hand.
"Marjory herself!" he said.
There was one swift glance of scrutiny.
"Mr. Dalrymple—is it?—" in a surprised tone; and she gave him her hand somewhat constrainedly.
"It used to be 'Harvey,'" he remarked, smiling. "Am I so altered?"
"I don't know. Things are altered. And I was a child then."
"True. Would you have known me if I had not spoken?"
Marjory lifted her eyes for another rapid examination, The eyelids had a trick of dropping—as if with their own weight—so soon as the eyes had seen enough for the business in hand.
"Yes—perhaps—I don't know. I did not expect—Hermione had not told me—"
"Hermione does not know yet that I am on English ground."
Marjory responded only by a vague "Oh!" Her face showed disapproval.
"It was a sudden resolution. I am not much given to letter-writing, as you know."
She said "Yes," and then "No," in answer, vaguely still. A slight movement brought her close to the churchyard gate.
"You are tired," he said, as she leant against it, "Come inside and sit down."
"O no! I must go home. It is only the heat."
"Not stronger than you used to be, I am afraid."
"I don't know. One learns not to give in so easily."
Harvey Dalrymple made no immediate answer. He was gazing up at the tower, and his next remark was an involuntary— "How it recalls old days!"
"When you were here last?"
"No; farther back. When my mother was living."
"Before I was born."
Though her face might have belonged to any age under thirty, Marjory was only twenty-one.
"Yes; before you were born, and before your father had the living. . . . I have just been recalling childish fancies of mine in those days connected with the big square pew. By-the-bye, that pew is soon to be a thing of the past, isn't it? Hermione writes of projected improvements. There was a certain window just in front, which, imagination, to my infant imagination, was the gate of heaven. Yes, that corner window—ivy all round, just as it used to be." He spoke half lightly, half seriously, adding, in a moved tone, "When my mother was taken, I fully believed that she had gone upward that way, through a path of sunbeams and green leaves."
"Children sometimes see farther than grown people," Marjory asserted gravely.
"At all events, they fancy more."
"They see farther sometimes."
He seemed a little amused again, and remarked, "You used to hold your opinions very strongly, I remember."
Marjory looked up, and asked, "Do you think living much in the world sharpens one's spiritual sight? I don't."
"Ah, this is old days over again! You and I were always dropping into arguments. Must you have a categorical answer? Well, perhaps not."
"I suppose—" Marjory said, and paused.
"Yes?—" questioningly.
"I was only thinking of those lines—of course you know them—"
"'But now 'tis little joyTo know I'm farther off from heavenThan when I was a boy!'"
"'But now 'tis little joyTo know I'm farther off from heavenThan when I was a boy!'"
"'But now 'tis little joyTo know I'm farther off from heavenThan when I was a boy!'"
"'But now 'tis little joy
To know I'm farther off from heaven
Than when I was a boy!'"
"Isn't that a rather serious deduction from the loss of a childish fancy about green leaves and sunshine?"
"I am not making any deductions. I do not know you well enough— yourself. We were speaking of children generally, I thought."
Perhaps Harvey had had enough, and did not care to pursue the subject. His next words were, "I have had to walk from the station, of course, through sending no previous notice. Curious to see old Sutton in your garden still!"
"Sutton is a fixture."
"Everything is a fixture at Westford. Even you are hardly changed— only, I suppose, older."
He had known her well, eight years earlier, with a brother-and-sister intimacy. It had not occurred to him, till now, that the young man's recollections of the child of thirteen might be more distinct than the child's recollections of the young man of twenty-four. In truth it was not so, for Marjory's mental pictures of Harvey were most vivid. Still, during his long absence she had passed from childhood to womanhood, while he had only gone on from an earlier to a more advanced stage of young manhood; and it was by no means so easy for her as for him to drop at once into the old grooves of intercourse.
"Yes, much older. I do not feel myself the same."
"And Hermione?"
"Hermione? Oh!" Marjory's whole face lighted up. "You will find Hermione everything that you could wish. She is—no, I can't describe her. There never was any one like Hermione."
"Angelic, in short. You and Sutton seem to be of the same opinion."
"Yes; and you will not wonder when you see her. So lovely, so unlike other girls. There are not two opinions about Hermione. At least—no, not really two; only, of course, people see differently. But I cannot tell you how she is beloved in the village—almost worshipped. The surliest man there can't say a rough word to Hermione. We all look up to her. Yes, she is younger than I am; but what of that? One looks up to another because of what she is, not because of any particular age."
"Well, perhaps—no. And Hermione is pretty?"
"She is—no, I will not describe her. You must see for yourself."
"She could be an arrant little fury, I remember, if anybody crossed her will. You were the victim occasionally."
"Was I? I have forgotten. Nothing of the kind ever happens now."
"Why, no. At nineteen one doesn't expect tornadoes of wrath."
"But there is no temper—no readiness to be vexed. She is sweetness itself. Nothing ever puts her out. If she had a temper as a child, that is all over. You had better not set me off about her, because I shall not know when to stop. I think—I almost think I could die for Hermione."
Marjory spoke the last words under her breath, and the downcast eyes glowed with a fervour of devotion. Harvey was touched, yet entertained. His easy and pliant nature, though not without its reservoirs of strong feeling, was hardly capable of understanding Marjory. Before he had decided what to say, she added, "But I ought to go home, and I must not keep you from them longer."
Harvey lifted his hat, and shook hands. In the act of turning away he stopped short, faced her once more, his sunburnt cheek slightly flushing, and said, "My old friends will have to congratulate me."
Marjory's voice and eyes alike asked, "What for?"
"On my recent marriage."
The eyes opened more widely. Harvey had not the smallest doubt that, in her mind, as in old Sutton's, he had been the destined husband of Hermione Rivers.
"Well?" he said, smiling, though not so much at his ease as usual.
"I never know how to congratulate," Marjory replied abruptly. "We don't learn that sort of thing in this rustic place—as a matter of form, I mean."
She turned off with so decisive an air that he had no choice about pursuing his solitary way.
"Shameful!" Marjory said to herself with warmth after quitting Harvey. "Without a word to Mr. Dalrymple or to Hermione!—and Mr. Dalrymple always so good to him. He might at least have written, even if he would not come home first. Such a cruel slight to Mr. Dalrymple! I shall never, never like Harvey again."
Three minutes brought Marjory to the Rectory. She paused a moment in the garden to ask of Sutton, "Has my father come in yet?"
"No, Miss Marjory, he ain't."
"Sutton, I wish you would take this basket of roses round to Mrs. Pennant's. I promised to leave them for Miss Rivers, and I don't feel now as if I could walk any farther."
Sutton rubbed his head dubiously.
"Well, now. Miss Marjory, I've got all this lot of diggin' to do: and however it'll be done, if I'm a-gadding about at all hours for 'ee—"
"Never mind. I'll take the flowers myself," said the girl curtly.
She went straight indoors, blaming herself for the tone before she crossed the threshold. Nobody was in the drawing-room. Books and work lay about carelessly, not untidily. Marjory placed the basket on a table, pulled off her hat, and threw herself down flat on a low couch, having not even a pillow under her head. Though by no means an invalid in habits, she suffered much, and had suffered for years, from spinal weakness. The amount of work Marjory got through in her home and in the Parish was astounding; but frequent short rests were a necessity. "If I can just stop now and then to breathe, I do well enough," she used to say patiently.
Ten minutes of entire stillness were followed by a light tread. Marjory did not stir, except to lift her eyelids. A gentleman entered, unmistakably her father. He was under medium height for a man, and so thin as to be bony, with long fingers and pale skin. His colouring was, however, more healthy than hers, and while it was easily seen whence she had inherited her expressive eyes, the loose hair was in him more scanty and was fast turning grey.
"Marjory resting!" he said in cheery tones, not as if surprised or anxious.
"Yes, father!"
"What have you been doing?"
"I went to several cottages, and then to see Hermione. And on my way back I met—"
"One moment. I must look at these letters the first thing."
Marjory seemed to have no objection to the delay. She shut her eyes again and lay as before, flat and motionless, her arms straight down by her sides. No other position so well suited the tired back; but sometimes nothing less than the floor would do; and even then Marjory had often an odd craving to get lower still as a relief to her weariness. She never spoke of such sensations, however.
Presently a slight movement aroused her, and she found Mr. Fitzalan to have taken a seat near.
"You have something to say," he observed.
"Harvey has come home."
"Yes!" It was a curious long syllable.
"Did you know? Have you seen him?"
"No. Sutton told me, as he doubtless told you."
"Sutton said nothing. I met Harvey. Ought I to call him 'Mr. Dalrymple'? I did at first, and he told me not. He was on his way to the Hall. I am not sure that I should have known him, if he had not stopped me; and yet he is very like his own self—the same face and manner. But—father, he is married!"
Mr. Fitzalan gave one rapid glance up, after his daughter's own fashion. He had been leaning a little forward, looking down.
"Married! Where and when?"
"I don't know. I heard nothing more. It made me angry, and I hurried away. Of course he is old enough to decide for himself, and he is quite independent, but still—still—Mr. Dalrymple has always been so good to him—surely he ought to have heard beforehand! That, at least, even if he might not say 'Yes' or 'No.' It seems cruel to have done it in this way. And when one knows what Mr. Dalrymple's great wish has been for so long—"
"Mr. Dalrymple's wish might have had a better hope of fulfilment, if he had never spoken of it to Harvey."
"Yes, perhaps; but at least he need not have kept out of the way all these years. Of course, a man must be free to choose for himself; and Hermione might never have cared for him, even if he had wished to marry her. I don't think she would be easily won. It is not that, but his way of treating Mr. Dalrymple that I mind—putting him to pain."
"Why, my dear Marjie!" for Marjory's eyes were full.
"I can't help it, father. I am cross, I know; but I can't bear to think how Mr. Dalrymple will feel, when he has so longed for the Hall to be always Hermione's home."
Mr. Fitzalan looked up again. "The old story; always trying to choose for those we love! How can Mr. Dalrymple tell what will be for Hermione's happiness?"
"No; only he does wish, and it is so natural to wish. And what I mind is the disappointment coming so very suddenly—no time beforehand for getting used to it. Harvey used to be so different. He never would have done such a thing—once! It does seem to me so wrong and unkind not to have spoken or written first. And when one has looked up to a person for years—" Marjory's voice failed.
"Or to an idealised memory of a person," Mr. Fitzalan said quietly. Few men in his place could have entered fully into Marjory's meaning; but he knew her well, and recognised at once the dethroning of a hero. His voice held the right mixture of the sympathetic and the bracing as he continued, "This is not the first time that Harvey has disappointed his friends."
"Oh, I know—people have blamed him for staying so long abroad, if he were not obliged. But Hermione and I have always believed that he had some really good reason. We never can forget what he used to be with us, always so kind and gentle. And that is not usual, father. Young men just leaving college don't generally care much for children of eleven and thirteen."
"Perhaps not, generally. Harvey would do anything for anybody, if it were not too much trouble."
Marjory made no answer, and her pale brow was knitted sorrowfully. Mr. Fitzalan moved away to the table, where he began writing letters, and presently Marjory followed him.
"Up again! Not rested yet, I think," he said, hardly pausing in his rapid penmanship.
"I don't know. I must go out."
"What for?"
"Hermione asked me to leave these roses, with her love, at Mrs. Pennant's."
"I saw Pennant just now on his rounds. Why could not Hermione leave the flowers herself, or send a servant?"
"I don't know. She asked me."
"And you never say 'No' to Hermione?"
Marjory's lips parted in a smile. "I suppose not. I did not know I should feel the heat so much. Besides, it is only down the village. I will take the basket at once, and rest afterwards."
"No—I will see to the flowers."
"But your letters?"
"They shall wait. Duties never clash, my dear."
Mr. Fitzalan's left hand went detainingly to the basket-handle, while his right, which had dropped the pen, drew her down upon a chair close to his side. She laid her head against his shoulder, and there was the sound of a long breath, half of pain, half of content. As a rule these two were more reserved in their daily intercourse one with the other than might have been expected. They loved deeply, and they "pulled together well," as the saying is: yet their "hermit-spirits" lived apart in locked chambers, seldom touching. Once in a way this seclusion was broken through, but not often. Perhaps they were too busy in outward life; perhaps too much alike in character.
"Poor little woman!" Mr. Fitzalan said musingly. "Always knocking against hard corners in this rocky world of ours! But there's balm for bruises, Marjie."
"Am I bruised?" and she tried to laugh; then whispered, "I hate to be stupid."
"It is not stupidity. You are overstrained, doing everybody's work for everybody. The fall of a wax image from its pedestal seems a woeful event at such times. Yes—wax! How much do you know of Harvey? Eight years ago he was a good-natured young fellow, amusing himself with you two children. My dear, no doubt about that. You were clever, and Hermione was pretty, and he had nothing to do. He was kind, of course, but if you expect perfection in everybody who is kind to you, I am afraid you are in for disappointments. Human nature at its best is a very mixed concern. You don't look for perfection, eh? No, not literally, perhaps; but you have a high ideal, and you fancy now and then that you have found the ideal embodied. Whereupon the embodiment falls short of the ideal, and you—"
Marjory said only, "Yes," to this. Mr. Fitzalan changed his tone.
"You will never find it, except in One—in Christ. Human craving can only be satisfied in Him. He alone comes up to the loftiest ideal, and He alone can never disappoint our expectations. The best and holiest of men and women do disappoint us more or less."
"Yes,—oh, I know, father."
"Knowing is not always believing, is it? After all, my experience will not serve for you. Now go back to your couch, and have a quiet hour. I will see to the roses."
WITHIN the Hall library Mr. Dalrymple sat before a massive escritoire, writing. All things in this commodious room were massive— bookcases, chairs, couches, pictures, ornaments, above all this central table, with its multitudinous drawers and receptacles. The June sunshine blazed in through a large bow-window, falling unheeded on the silver head of the old man.
He was tall and thin, and held himself erect, even at his desk, which after seventy-five is not usual. The silvery hair curled still about the finely-moulded head; and the clean-shaven delicate face, a uniform pale bronze in hue, was steadfastly set to the work in hand, the eyes fixed, the lips somewhat compressed.
Mr. Dalrymple spent the greater part of his life in this room. He had been there now for hours off and on, writing letters, always writing letters. A wide and varied correspondence was his, including the personal management of his property, intercourse with the friends of a long life, interchange of ideas with literary and scientific men of note, and the perpetual response to perpetual appeals for money or aid. People said he ought to keep a secretary, and he had made the attempt, only to fail. Somehow he never could find a secretary to suit him; the reason perhaps being that he never could endure to let anybody answer his letters except himself.
"If you want a thing done, do it!" is a good piece of advice, within limits. Mr. Dalrymple carried this principle to excess. He was very independent; his friends said he never would be helped.
In habits of life he was most regular. He lived by rule, rose and went to bed by rule, ate and drank by rule, worked and took recreation by rule. His was no self-indulgent existence, governed by the sway of his own desires. Always up at six o'clock, he had his morning constitutional before breakfast, except in the depth of winter; he had his ride with Hermione late in the afternoon; and each hour between held its own occupation.
He was particular and precise in his employments—not in a disagreeable fashion, but certainly in characteristic modes. Every letter that he despatched left its exact copy behind, always in Mr. Dalrymple's well-formed and beautiful handwriting. A secretary might at least have copied these letters; but no, Mr. Dalrymple would do the whole himself. Every drawer and pigeon-hole in the huge writing-table had some special use assigned to it. Every paper possessed by Mr. Dalrymple could be found without fail at five minutes' notice.
Though far too well-balanced in mind and too dignified in manner ever to fall into a hurry, there could be no doubt that Mr. Dalrymple was a genuinely busy man. Absolute leisure had been with him a thing almost unknown through forty years or more. As is often the case, he worked harder and more incessantly than do, as a rule, those who possess stated employments, and who have to earn their own living. For Mr. Dalrymple was known to be a man of means, and was counted to "have plenty of time on his hands;" therefore everybody, without compunction, appealed to him. If the response was not always what the appellant wished, at least no one was left without a response.
He was a good old man, this gentle yet prompt and resolute owner of Westford. He had served a Divine Master steadfastly through forty years. What he saw to be right he would do, no matter at what personal cost.
Busy as were his week-days, his Sundays were far from idle. Alike in summer and winter he might be seen at the early eight o'clock Holy Communion; and his silvery head was rarely missing from the Squire's pew during the morning and evening services. In the afternoon he would wend his way down to the classroom of the village-school, by Hermione's side, to teach a dozen village boys great truths in simple words.
Certainly Gilbert Dalrymple, Squire of Westford, did not spare himself; and the religion which he acted out on Sunday was by no means laid to slumber through the week.
He had gone much into questions of the day; he had read books by men of every shade of opinion; he had friends, wide asunder as the poles from him and from each other in their views; yet his own faith had lived unscathed through all oppositions, growing indeed and deepening, but keeping ever its early purity. Even those of his friends who differed most strongly from him, could not but feel the weight of that child-like trust, shown forth, not by much speech, but by a holy life.
For the trust was not in a theory, not in a doctrine, not in an idea, but in a MAN—the one Perfect God-Man, our Crucified and Risen Lord. It rested mainly not on arguments, not on skilled deductions, not on cleverly-handled theories, but on the historic testimony of the early Church, on the Divinely-written Word, and on his own personal knowledge of that Risen Lord, who had "loved and given Himself" for him—a knowledge which had sprung, as such knowledge alone can spring, from the Master's revelation of Himself to His child.
Then, it may be asked, which comes first in order of time?— the Master's revealing, or the child's seeking?—the knowledge or the trust?
How can we tell? The hidden workings which lead to either consummation lie beyond our ken. There cannot be knowledge without trust, or trust without knowledge. There will not be either without the use of God's provided Means; yet the Means of Grace are nought without the Divine outpouring into and through them. There will not be revealing without seeking, and there cannot be seeking without revealing. As each increases, the other is increased thereby. Attempting to define further, we find ourselves in a fog of terms.
As Mr. Dalrymple wrote, he lifted his eyes from time to time for a glance towards the bow-window. A small davenport stood there, and beside it a work-basket, also a lady's basket-chair. A little half-made print frock had been dropped across the arm of the chair, and a silver thimble lay on the davenport. It might have been a child's thimble, but it was not.
This was Hermione's favourite retreat. She spent many an hour of each day there, and was never so happy as in her grandfather's presence. While he, busy as he might be, was never at rest in Hermione's absence.
He struck presently a small gong, and the butler appeared.
"Where is Miss Rivers?"
"I am not sure, sir. She was, I believe, in the garden with Miss Fitzalan. I will inquire if she is gone out."
Slade was a middle-aged man, highly superior and elaborately polite. He had so quiet a step as to be suggestive of tip-toe, and no excitement ever caused him to raise his voice above the suppressed accents which he counted decorous.
"Do so," was the brief answer. "If Miss Rivers is in, ask her to come to me."
Slade vanished, and Mr. Dalrymple went on writing. As each letter came to an end, he read it through, copied it, folded it neatly, enveloped, addressed, stamped, and laid it aside; placed the copy in one drawer, and the answered letter in another; then turned his attention to a fresh claimant. There were no signs of either haste or weariness in the method of proceeding. Mr. Dalrymple seemed interested and thoroughly business-like.
Rap-rap softly at the door; and enter Slade once more.
"Well?" Mr. Dalrymple said.
"I cannot find Miss Rivers, sir."
"Have you asked Milton?"
"I have, sir. Mrs. Milton is in ignorance."
"And Stevens?"
"Miss Rivers was in the orchis-house, sir, half-an-hour since. Stevens saw Miss Rivers take the way of the shrubbery."
"Four o'clock. She will be in to afternoon tea," Mr. Dalrymple observed.
"Yes, sir," assented Slade.
A pause.
"That will do," said Mr. Dalrymple. He had a dignified yet very courteous manner of speaking to his servants.
Slade stood still, an anxious line across his forehead.
"If you please, sir, a gentleman desires to see you."
"A gentleman, eh?" Mr. Dalrymple looked up. "Who?"
"The gentleman desired me to say so much. He declined to send in any name, sir."
"What is his business?"
"He appeared to prefer telling you himself, sir."
"Ha! somebody wanting money."
"No, I believe not, sir!" Slade spoke with emphasis.
Mr. Dalrymple gave the man a questioning glance, noted the anxious horizontal line, and inquired, "Do you know who it is?"
Slade was truthful. The line deepened, but he replied, "I do, sir."
"And you don't feel at liberty to tell me?"
"Sir, the gentleman desired me not."
Mr. Dalrymple's expression was curious. He said simply, "You may show the gentleman in."
Slade opened the door, and Mr. Dalrymple returned to his work. He expected an interval of two or three minutes to elapse before the caller should appear, and two or three minutes were in his estimation too valuable to be wasted in idle waiting.
He did not see a figure just outside the door, or a silencing hand raised when Slade would have spoken; nor did he see that as Slade glided out somebody else glided in.
Five minutes or more went by before it occurred to Mr. Dalrymple that Slade really was an unconscionable time absent. He lifted his eyes involuntarily, and they fell upon a gentleman standing in an attitude of careless ease not far from the writing-table.
The sunshine was full in Mr. Dalrymple's face, while the other stood in shade. He rose politely, with an apologetic, "I beg your pardon. I did not hear your name announced."
"It was not. I would not let Slade speak."
The voice agitated Mr. Dalrymple strangely, for it was the voice of his only and beloved brother, dead many long years before. Harvey had inherited from the grandfather, whom he had never even seen, tones and tricks of speech to a singular degree. Mr. Dalrymple knew in an instant who his visitor was—would have known had the room been pitch dark.
"Harvey, my dear fellow!" he said, as three strides brought him round the table.
It had been a matter of doubt with Harvey what manner of welcome he might find. True, his was not a prodigal's return, since he had led a life free from vicious indulgences. Such things were "not in his line," he would have said. He had only been unmanageably indolent, and politely persistent in having his own way. Moreover, although he undoubtedly "owed Mr. Dalrymple something," as Marjory expressed it, he was an independent man of means; and since his own father had lived till he was twenty-one, his great-uncle had never possessed any legal control over his movements.
Still, Harvey Dalrymple was the old man's heir, and was at least indebted to him for long kindness and affection. If Harvey had a right to act for himself, Mr. Dalrymple had a right to be made aware of his intentions. This, which Marjory felt keenly, Harvey ought to have felt no less keenly.
Perhaps he did feel it, since he had hurried home before the end of his honeymoon to explain and apologise; since too he certainly counted on a measure of possible annoyance.
Even apart from the news of his marriage, he looked for something of coolness. He knew that the eight years' absence had given displeasure, and it had not occurred to him that sorrow might have been so much stronger than displeasure as to render joy at his coming the predominant sensation.
Whatever kind of reception he had pictured to himself as probable, he certainly had not pictured this—the old man's two hands clasping his in a fervent grasp, the faltering voice scarcely able to articulate, the stately grey head bent and trembling.
"My dear fellow!" came again, and then, "I must sit down."
"You are not well?"
"Nothing, nothing—only the suddenness. Yes, quite well; it is nothing."
"I ought to have given warning. How thoughtless of me!" said Harvey, really contrite. "This way—" and he guided Mr. Dalrymple's uncertain steps to an armchair. "I am sorry to have startled you so much."
Mr. Dalrymple motioned him to a second chair close by. Harvey obeyed the gesture, and watched in grave silence the lessening tremulousness.
"Hermione has not mentioned your health in writing," he said at length; "and I did not suppose—"
"Nothing whatever is wrong with my health! Nothing whatever." Mr. Dalrymple spoke almost testily. The very idea seemed to act as a tonic, and he sat upright, looked braced. "No, I am only getting old; and there is no cure for old age. But you have been much in my mind lately. I have purposed to write, pressing for your return. It seemed to me that the time had come."
"One hardly realises how the years fly," Harvey remarked a little constrainedly.
"You think not. Perhaps, at your age. But it is enough to have you here at last! Your coming removes a load from my mind. There is much to see to, much to arrange. I have waited anxiously for this day. And you have come home, I trust, weary of wandering."
"Like a vagabond, according to Sutton," observed Harvey, with a forced laugh.
"But you have had enough; you will stay at home now," urged Mr. Dalrymple, when Harvey would fain have evaded the question. "This is always your real home."
"I am afraid—not long. I have engagements," Harvey said hesitatingly. He could not resolve to speak yet of two nights only.
"Well, a few weeks will settle things, perhaps. We shall see. And when you go, it will not be for eight years again!"
"I hope not, indeed. It ought not to have been," Harvey said, touched with the gentle rebuke.
"You have not seen Hermione yet?"
"No; I am told that she has fulfilled her childish promise of prettiness."
"More—more than fulfilled it. My child is very lovely, Harvey— a strangely favoured being; and I am favoured in her." He gazed earnestly at the young man. "When you see Hermione you will understand. She is all sweetness—to me a being without fault. I never have to blame my Hermione, for I find nothing to blame. Yet she is natural, simple, girl-like; no forced hot-house plant. I do not fear to say too much of her, for indeed she surpasses all I could say. She is the sunshine of my old age. All who know her, love her as she well deserves to be loved. I trust you will appreciate what she is. My heart's dearest hope for years has been that you—"
Harvey could not let this go on. He broke in abruptly—
"Hermione and I are old friends. She has always been my little sister."
Mr. Dalrymple shook his head.
"Second cousins only—no, no! I could wish a nearer—"
"And I hope nothing will ever break through that tie," continued Harvey with haste. "By-the-bye, I have not told you yet my chief item of news. What will Hermione say to me for giving her a new cousin— a sister, if she will have me for her brother still?"
The word was repeated mechanically— "A sister!"
A minute of dead silence followed; then— "You mean—that you are engaged?"
"I have been married for more than three weeks?"
To this no answer came. Silence reigned.
"I OUGHT to have written, of course," Harvey went on. "But you know how one puts off. It was a rather sudden affair, just at last. Perhaps too I had a fancy that I would prefer to come and tell you in person."
Still silence.
"Julia is an orphan. She has only one sister—a widow, with a little child. I have left them together in Paris; but, of course—"
Continued silence.
"I am afraid it must seem unkind not to have communicated with you beforehand, only—"
Another break. Harvey was at a loss how to carry on his remarks in the face of this irresponsiveness. Though he would not say a word that was not true, he did not wish to confess that he had purposely abstained from appealing to Mr. Dalrymple until he should have put it out of Mr. Dalrymple's power to interfere. Purposely, after a fashion. Harvey was more apt to drift in the wake of his own desires than to follow out a certain line of action determined on by himself. Also, he undoubtedly was a procrastinator in the letter-writing line. But beneath the usual putting-off in this case there had been a more than usual unwillingness to yield to the temptation.
"Mrs. Trevor is the sister—Francesca Trevor. Badly off I am sorry to say. That was one reason why I thought—why delay seemed unadvisable. Julia was dependent on Mrs. Trevor, and, of course, a young widow—"
Harvey came to another stop. It was evident that Mr. Dalrymple had ceased to listen. He leant back in his chair listlessly, a pallid and even shrunken look replacing the bronzed hue of health. None but himself could know how sharply fell this blow, dispelling a long-cherished dream.
For years Gilbert Dalrymple had dwelt upon the dream, until it had grown into an almost certainty for the future. He had spoken of it to his friends, till there were few in Westford, besides Hermione, quite ignorant of his desire. He had, of course, been aware of the possibility that either Hermione or Harvey might fail to care for the other, but he had not realised it. He had scarcely allowed it, and all difficulties had gone down in imagination before his intense longing that Hermione Rivers, the darling of his old age, should possess, through marriage, the estate from which she was cut off by entail.
And now this hope was utterly at an end!
Mr. Dalrymple was not angry with his great-nephew—not nearly so angry as was Marjory Fitzalan. It did not come upon him as a matter for displeasure. That which had so grieved Marjory—the slight conveyed to himself in Harvey's silence—scarcely weighed at all, for it was lost in the sharper trouble of his slain desire. Westford never could belong to Hermione! There lay the real grief.
It was not anger with Harvey which kept him silent and pale. Rather he was displeased with himself, distressed at the strength and stiffness of his own will shown by this test. He was used to take all that came to him in life direct from Above, ignoring second causes; and the disappointment which had now fallen came thus like everything else. Yet Gilbert Dalrymple's whole being rose in protest against it, because he craved his own way in life for his darling, not God's way.
Seventy-six years old, and his will not yet subdued! Shame, shame! he told himself. This it was which bent the silver head and silenced speech, which kept him from even hearing Harvey's lame excuses. It did not trouble him, as Harvey had expected, that the wife brought no money with her. He was thinking other thoughts.
Harvey made no further attempt to gain his attention, and prolonged silence effected that which words had failed to effect. Mr. Dalrymple came back from the contemplation of his ruined dream to the consciousness of the present. He looked at Harvey, then at his watch, and stood up slowly, laying a hand on the mantelpiece, as if for support. The healthy hue had not returned to his face; it was pallid and shrunken still. Harvey could not help thinking how the old man had aged in these few years. Yet he had not thought so on his first entrance.
"Past tea-time. Hermione will be waiting for us," Mr. Dalrymple said absently.
"I shall not be sorry for a cup of tea after my walk from the station," remarked Harvey, rising also.
"True—yes—I had forgotten." Mr. Dalrymple spoke vaguely, his hand on the mantelpiece still. "Yes, we will go. There was something else which I had to say; but—"
"Time enough, isn't there?" Harvey asked, in a cheerful manner. He did not wish to have it supposed that he knew or guessed aught of what had been passing in the other's mind. "I want to make Hermione's acquaintance. She must have grown out of all knowledge."
Mr. Dalrymple's eyes were fixed upon Harvey.
"Yes; it is about Hermione," he said with earnestness. "Things have been deferred too long. It has seemed to me—perhaps—that there might be no occasion to—but I will have no more delay. I should wish to look into certain business matters with you."
"Certainly. Another day," suggested Harvey. "I think you are fatigued this afternoon, hardly up to business."
"I have done nothing to cause fatigue." Mr. Dalrymple spoke decisively, yet as he crossed the room, leading the way, Harvey noted a certain unsteadiness.
Slade stood in the hall, apparently on the watch
"Has Miss Rivers returned?" asked Mr. Dalrymple.
"Miss Rivers is in the drawing-room, sir—" Slade stopped, evidently impressed by his master's unwonted paleness.
"Well?" Mr. Dalrymple said.
"Sir, I informed Miss Rivers that you were engaged; and Miss Rivers desired me to let you know, when the interview should be over, that she is waiting tea for you."
Mr. Dalrymple said, "Right," mechanically; and Slade opened the drawing-room door.
"Grandfather! Oh, I am so glad. I was afraid from what Slade said—"
Hermione saw the stranger, and paused; then, with a pretty hesitating air, she came forward.
There were three windows on one side of the room, and a glass door at the farther end leading into a spacious conservatory, whence came a blaze of geranium scarlet to the eye. Near this door a basket-table held cup and saucers of Crown Derby china, a cosy of Indian embroidery hiding the teapot. The room contained handsome ornaments, as well as valuable oil-paintings, and the furniture was good, though somewhat old, and of a subdued tone of colouring.
"Shall I be recognised? Don't introduce me," Harvey had said outside, and Mr. Dalrymple complied, though he scarcely seemed to hear the words. He crossed slowly to a favourite armchair, absorbed and silent still.
Harvey's first glance was one of pure curiosity. He had at once to confess to himself that neither Sutton, Marjory, nor his great-uncle had been guilty of exaggeration. No tamer adjective than "lovely" would do to describe the girl coming to meet him.
She was only nineteen, not very tall, but slightly over middle height, and looking taller from her slenderness. The simple white dress was unrelieved by any colour, except that of a blue enamel brooch. The little head was well set on the little throat; and short brown hair, in wavy natural clusters, set off a skin of peculiar fairness. The nose was a trifle too short, but that is a fault on the right side for a woman; the mouth was a trifle too wide; and the blue eyes were not large.
All this, however, gives a poor idea of the true Hermione. For the attractiveness, about which none who knew her failed to speak, dwelt more in expression than in outline, more in manner than in form.
Harvey had seen many pretty girls in his lifetime but he had never seen aught before quite like this: He cast his recollections back to the child of eight years earlier, and marvelled.
There was a radiant happiness about Hermione's brow, a smiling sunshine in the eyes, a buoyant sweetness of look and bearing, indescribably fair. Form and colouring might perhaps have been matched elsewhere, though not easily, but the wonderful joyousness and grace of the whole being came upon Harvey as something unique. She seemed to be one whose life hitherto had passed without a shadow. Marjory Fitzalan's face carried already the traces of battling and pain, but Hermione's bore no such sign.
She gave one glance at her grandfather, one glance at Harvey, then drew near, her lips parted.
"Don't you know me, Hermione?" asked Harvey, and she sprang to greet him with a flash of delight.
"Oh, I knew, I knew!" she cried. "I was sure it must be Harvey himself! I knew you would come. Dear Harvey, I am so glad."
"And you will be my little sister still, after all these years?" he asked, holding her hands in brotherly fashion.
"Why, Harvey, as if anything could ever alter that!" she cried.
"So you have never blamed me for my long absence, Hermione!"
More than an hour had passed since Harvey's first sight of his young cousin. Mr. Dalrymple, after taking a cup of tea, and declining cake, had returned to the library, rather to Hermione's surprise. This was usually his accessible hour, if callers chose to come. Three callers did choose to come, and they stayed long, but Mr. Dalrymple failed to reappear. Hermione acted hostess with ease and grace, introducing her newly-arrived relative, dispensing tea, and keeping up conversation, her sunny sweetness never for an instant eclipsed.
Harvey watched her in some wonder. He had not expected this development as a result of her "rustic" training and retired life. Perhaps the absence of self-consciousness surprised him most; she had been such a "vain little puss," he told himself, at eleven; and then he almost thought that a touch of girlish shyness at nineteen may be prettier than too complete self-possession. Yet how could he wish anything altered when the entire effect was so charming? And after all, was there really no consciousness of others' very patent admiration? Not a conceited consciousness, but a happy confidence in being able to please everybody. If it were so, was that a blemish?
He did not trouble himself to help her much in the way of talk. These people, Mr., Mrs., and Miss Dalton, from a neighbouring village, were comparative new-comers, and not interesting to him, not half so interesting as was Hermione. Harvey commonly followed his own inclinations in the matter of making himself agreeable.
So he let the chit-chat flow on, sparkling on the part of Hermione, and more or less ponderous on the part of the other three, only putting in a few words here and there when politeness rendered the exertion a necessity, and keeping his attention fixed on Hermione without appearing to do so. The Daltons, who, though not brilliant themselves, could appreciate brilliancy in another, found him "gentlemanly, but tedious— a rather dull person for one who had travelled so much, and not to be compared with that delightful old Mr. Dalrymple."
Harvey cared not a whit whether they liked him or no. He was only amused at the variety of subjects which Hermione had at command for their entertainment. She really did not need his aid. Miss Dalton was a busy Parish-worker, and seemed to own no ideas beyond Parish work, so Hermione went the round of schools, districts, and cottages with her, smilingly interested all the while. Mrs. Dalton was literary and semi-scientific in her tastes, therefore Hermione launched out into a little sea of recent publications and discoveries for the elder lady's edification. Mr. Dalton was a dabbler in political and controversial subjects, and Hermione gave her opinion upon each suggested point in turn, not conceitedly or disagreeably, but with a gentle decision, and perhaps a sense that her opinion was not altogether to be despised. Harvey could not help calling to mind Marjory's words, "We all look up to her!" Did Mr. Dalton too "look up" to this young creature of nineteen? His manner was most deferential.
At length the callers departed, and then it was that some observation of Hermione's drew from him the above remark, "So you have never blamed me for my long absence." He had not yet divulged to her his "chief item of news," having avoided the subject while Mr. Dalrymple was in the room, and having been since prevented by the presence of strangers. Now the time had come for speaking out.
"I do not quite know," she answered, looking up with her sunshiny eyes. Harvey wondered if those eyes ever could be sad or grave. "Only perhaps sometimes, when my grandfather seemed so worried, and I could not think what kept you away. But Marjory would not let me blame you."
"Marjory must be a very charitable individual."
"I don't know that she is. She does not try to excuse everybody."
Harvey laughed. The idea of Marjory making excuses for him was amusing.
"I am very much obliged to her," he said. "Seriously, however, I ought perhaps to have run home once or twice, if only for a few days, for my uncle's sake."
"Yes; I have always thought so," she said, with a curious touch of rebuke which immediately put him on the defensive. "It is not as if you had been really unable."
"That is hardly a question about which you can come to a decision," he said, somewhat nettled.
The blue eyes were grave enough now.
"I thought you asked what I had felt. Marjory has always insisted that we could not understand, that you must have reasons of your own. I have let her say so; but I am not sure. You see, I know the circumstances. I know you are well off, so it is no question of expense, and you have no actual ties keeping you abroad. Very often you have been too far-away to get home easily, but from Germany or Italy surely it was possible. I do think dear grandfather has had a right to see you, at least sometimes. I think you have been wrong."
She might have been a woman of thirty sitting in judgment on a boy of ten, so gently resolute was the manner. It was hardly to be expected that Harvey should succumb to her judgment, he being a man of thirty-two, and she a mere girl under twenty. He was alike too gentlemanly and too good-natured to show anger to a lady, but considerable meaning underlay the brief response—
"You think so!"
"Unless, of course, you had reasons," pursued Hermione, as if willing to hear what he had to say for himself.
"I had reasons, undoubtedly."
"But—" Hermione looked at him and hesitated. Was she going to demand those reasons? "But you will stay now, Harvey—now that you have come!"
"Two or three nights."
"Not more! After eight years!"
"Hardly possible, I am afraid. You know a great deal about me, evidently—" there was a touch of irony here— "still you are not quite acquainted with all the circumstances of the case. There happens to be a lady in the question. I hope you are prepared to congratulate me."
The sunshine flashed back, and in a moment Hermione was again all winning loveliness.
"Are you going to be married? I am very glad. My grandfather will be so delighted. He has often said lately that you ought to think about marrying. Who is it? What is her name?"
"Julia."
"And how old?"
"Twenty-one."
"Is she like me?"
"Not in the least."
"Pretty?"
"That may be a matter of opinion."
"And her surname?"
"Dalrymple."
"How strange. Is she a distant cousin?"
"I am not aware that we have any cousins within an appreciable distance. Her name is Dalrymple now. A month ago she was Julia Pilchard."
"A month ago! But you cannot mean—it is not possible—you are not married already!"
"Yes. So you see I have, after all, something of an 'actual tie' abroad—so long as Julia remains there."
Hermione was silent. Her face was grave once more, with a gravity amounting to severity. She sat upright, one hand lying over the other on her knee. How very young she seemed! Yet Harvey, lounging in a chair opposite with his air of gentlemanly insouciance, had an odd "naughty-boy" sense of being called to account by her for his misdoings. It was quite absurd. He positively almost dreaded her next words, and found it difficult to wind himself up to a due indifference.
"Julia is an orphan, like yourself," he said, hiding the feeling of embarrassment under a light manner. "She has only one sister, a widow, Mrs. Trevor, several years older than herself. I met them in Algeria last autumn, travelling for the sake of Mr. Trevor's health. Three months ago I came across them again in a Swiss hotel. Mr. Trevor had died before Christmas."
No answer came. Had Hermione taken unknowingly a leaf out of her grandfather's book? She seemed to be thinking deeply.