"You know that it is not so!" Hermione said. "You know that you have the settling of everything—not Harvey or Julia. They have the right, but you have not. If they choose to submit to your dictation, they can do so; but I will not. It is unbearable. I am made a mere cipher in the house—treated as nobody—while you—Yes, you may toss your head and look scornful, but it is true, and you know it! your one wish is to trample on me—to make me feel myself a dependent! And you shall not succeed. If I had my rights, things would be very different; and you know that too. I will not be managed by you as if I were a mere child. Say what you will, I do not care. I will not go to East Bourne."
"If you please, ma'am—" implored Slade at the door, in great distress. He had spoken three times, vainly seeking to win the attention of the listeners to this unexpected tirade. There were other listeners also. Behind Slade, in the open doorway, full spectators of the scene, stood Mr. Fitzalan and Harry together—Mr. Fitzalan wearing a look of most sorrowful gravity, while Harry was actually white to the lips. "This— Hermione!!" seemed written on every line of his face. Slade was almost as crimson as Hermione herself, with his grief and shame for her.
"If you please, ma'am—"
"Oh, it is Mr. Fitzalan!" Julia murmured, with a nervous start, and she stood up to receive her guests.
Hermione looked at no one. Even then a dim consciousness of how her words must have sounded to others did exist; but passion had too complete a mastery to allow of any resumption of her usual manner. Without a word to her friends she rushed rather than walked from the room.
But for Mrs. Trevor's presence, it may be doubted whether anybody would have spoken during the first two minutes. Hands were shaken and seats were found, an oppression of embarrassment overpowering them all. Julia had a scared look, Mr. Fitzalan was lost in thought, and Harry seemed to be dazed. Mrs. Trevor threw herself into the breach, rallying first, and bent upon smoothing things down. It would not do to ignore what the Fitzalans had overheard. Her aim should be to soften the impression made.
"You have come at rather an unfortunate moment," she said pleasantly to Mr. Fitzalan. "Hermione is not often so excited—indeed, I may say that I have never seen her so before. It is quite a new experience," and Francesca sighed. "We were discussing plans, and some little remark of mine gave her pain, I am afraid. She is rather too sensitive, poor girl—natural, no doubt! Her position is a trying one, of course, do what one will to lighten it; and she has seen very little of life, so she is disposed to magnify small troubles."
Mr. Fitzalan bent his head in answer. He showed himself in no hurry to offer an opinion.
"My brother-in-law has just decided on a move to East Bourne for a few weeks, and the idea is unpleasant to Hermione. I do, not know why, for East Bourne is a particularly charming place. No doubt the change will do her good, if she can make up her mind to it."
Julia broke in at this point, colouring distressfully. "I am not sure whether my husband is at home just now, if you wish to see him—but perhaps—"
"No; we met him on our way here. Harry is leaving to-morrow, and we came for a good-bye word with Hermione."
"Yes. So very unfortunate," Mrs. Trevor observed blandly. "But perhaps she will come down presently. A girlish tiff of this sort doesn't usually last long. Hermione is a charming girl, but singularly young for her years."
"I don't think we can wait," Harry said gruffly. "Marjory is expecting us—" and he looked at his father.
"Hermione must come to the Rectory instead," Mr. Fitzalan observed, though privately he felt sure that Hermione would not come until after his son's departure. He called Mittie to his side, and talked about the kitten, with his arm round the child; but even Mittie seemed bewildered, not able to respond as usual; and after paying as short a call as possible, the two gentlemen took their leave.
Francesca threw herself back, with a singular expression, as the door closed behind them.
"Well, I don't envy that girl's sensations. To make such a complete exposé of herself! The saintliness is for once at fault!"
Mittie stood near, gazing with eyes full of wonder. "What was cousin Hermione so dreadfully angry about?"
"Nothing on earth, but because she can't have the management of everything in her own hands. Cousin Hermione is a spoilt child, and that's the beginning and end of the matter. More shame to those who spoilt her!" added Mrs. Trevor, with a virtuous air peculiar to those who are condemning in another their own faults.
"My Marjory says cousin Hermione is so truly good. And old Sutton calls her an angel."
Mrs. Trevor's laugh had a sound of contempt. "It's an uncommonly angelic temper. I doubt if your Marjory's brother will be of her opinion after to-day. He didn't appear to be delighted."
"Francesca, there's no need to talk so to the child," Julia said, in a pained voice. "Things are bad enough already. Why must you make them worse? If I were in Hermione's place, I should be miserable."
Francesca sauntered out of the room, humming a tone to herself, and Mittie remarked in childish imitation, "I should think cousin Hermione must be miserable."
HERMIONE was miserable. She had scarcely reached her own room, when the tide of shame and unhappiness rushed over her, swamping even wrath for the moment.
She knew how she had fallen, knew how she had disgraced herself, knew how this petty ebullition of temper must have lowered her in the eyes of all who witnessed it,—Francesca, Julia, Mittie, Mr. Fitzalan, Harry, even Slade. Hermione went over the names, not refusing to look the truth in the face. A bitter truth it was. She who so prided herself on calm repose of manner and control of temper—she to have been betrayed into a childish outburst of fury. Hermione could not understand how it had come about, how in one instant her shield of composure had given way. The thing seemed incredible, after all these years of self-command.
A very agony of shame overpowered Hermione—shame at having so lowered herself. That was the real grief; the unbearable pain. Her sorrow was for her own disgrace. She despised herself for the fall, and she hated Francesca for being the cause of her fall. As she sat by the bed, her face buried in the pillow, her hands clutching the counterpane, no softer regrets mingled with the bitter shame and anger.
For once she gave full rein to passionate tears. What did it matter? Everybody knew. The very servants in the kitchen, down to the little scullery-maid, all would hear.
No; Hermione wronged the faithful heart of Slade in thinking this. Gossip enough goes on ordinarily in kitchen regions; but Slade was no ordinary servant. Not for worlds would he have breathed to another what should bring discredit on his beloved Miss Rivers. Even Milton heard nothing from him.
As Hermione wept on, the thought of her grandfather came up, dear old Mr. Dalrymple, kind and courteous to everybody, and always loving to "his child." Oh, the difference of those days and these! Hermione sobbed afresh, with a stricture of loneliness at her heart. And then the resentful question arose, "Why, why had he left her so, left her in the power of these people? Things might have been so different. Had he really loved her as he seemed to do?"
A tapping at the door aroused Hermione. In one moment she sprang up, tears ceasing. What business had any one to interrupt her? To come and spy out her wretchedness?
The tapping paused, and soon recommenced. Hermione could not at once respond. She pulled straight the disturbed bed-clothes, and walked to the looking-glass. It was getting dark, still she could see how blistered and reddened her face was. She smoothed her hair, and deliberately lowered the blinds to make the room still darker. After which she unlocked the door, and opened it a few inches, keeping a firm hold upon the handle.
Julia stood there, pale and troubled, evidently nervous also.
"Won't you let me come in?" was faltered.
"I would rather be alone, thanks," Hermione answered icily.
"Harvey wished—he is so annoyed—"
Hermione stood silent.
"If you don't mind—if I might say just a few words," pleaded poor Julia, really to be pitied, for she was almost equally afraid of her husband's displeasure on one side and Hermione's anger on the other, not to speak of Francesca's sneers.
"Well?" Hermione answered.
"May I come in? I don't like to talk outside, for fear of being overheard."
Hermione yielded so far as to retreat three or four steps, carefully keeping her back to the light. Julia entered, shutting the door.
"I wanted so much to say to you—Harvey and I hope you will not mind Francesca. It is her way to say sharp things, but nobody thinks anything of it. She has always done so. Harvey is excessively annoyed. He says he hopes you will come with us to Eastbourne, of course; but she ought not to have said what she did."
Julia's apologies might have had more effect, but for Hermione's smarting consciousness of her own miserable failure.
"I do not see that there was any need to discuss the question with Harvey. I must decide for myself."
"Yes, of course—I did not mean to discuss it, indeed. Only I knew Francesca would talk, and I thought it might be kindest to tell him myself first."
"Thanks!"
The manner was absolutely repellent. Julia shrank under it. Her mission seemed a non-success thus far, but she would not at once give up hope.
"I meant it kindly, indeed. Won't you believe so much? I can't understand how it is that you seem to think all of us are against you." Julia hesitated, and having no response, she went on earnestly, "I would do anything to persuade you that we really want to make you happy. It has been such a disappointment to me. Before I came I used to fancy that you and I would be like sisters, doing things together. Francesca was always so much older than me, more like a governess than a sister. I thought you would be a friend; and I thought I should learn so much from you, because I was told how good you were."
Was this said maliciously? Like lightning the query flashed through Hermione's mind, and like lightning a negative was supplied by Julia's troubled unconscious face. Then came the thought, hitherto crushed into the background, how grievously she had dishonoured her "good" profession, how unfaithful a "soldier and servant" she had shown herself. Hermione well knew what should have been her next step. Self-humiliation alone, with frank acknowledgment of having done wrong, might tend to undo ill results, side by side with secret confession and prayer for pardon. But alas, pride rose stiffly in the way. Hermione only stood still, listening.
"There are things I want to know—I don't mind saying so much to you. I have wanted it for a long time, and there seems no way of learning. Things which I have never been taught, and which, I suppose, you have always known—since you were a child, I mean. People are brought up so differently. I did hope when I was coming here that you might help me. But it always seems as if you only wanted to keep aloof, and did not care to speak to me. Don't you think things might be a little different?"
Was this actually Julia—the worldly irreligious Julia!—venturing to imply that Hermione had been in the wrong—venturing to suggest what Hermione ought to do? True, the suggestion was made humbly, and Julia's eyes were full of tears as she spoke. But Hermione did not love to have her duty pointed out even by her clergyman—much less was she likely to tolerate it from Julia. Conscience was speaking loudly, imperatively, within, yet Hermione drew up her head, answering in cold tones—
"I do not see what difference I could make."
"Is there anything I could do differently so as to please you? I would try, indeed I would, if I only knew how!"
Again there was a sound of tacit blame, not intended by the speaker, and Hermione chafed beneath it.
"If you would only believe me! I do so want to have things smooth and pleasant, not to have Harvey worried."
Hermione turned half away. "Harvey must take the consequences of introducing such a person as Mrs. Trevor into the house!"
"My sister!" Julia said only these two words.
"She is not mine!" Hermione replied, resisting an impulse to apologise.
"No; but—" Julia hesitated, having said almost as much as she dared. "Hermione, won't you try to forget all this of to-day? Won't you kiss me, and let me be your sister?"
The kiss was rather accepted than given. Julia sighed, with a baffled feeling that she had done her utmost and had failed.
"It is so cold up here. Are you not coming down soon?"
"Not till dinner-time."
Julia left the room without another word, and half-way downstairs, as she passed a little alcove on a landing filled with plants, Mittie seized upon her.
"Aunt Julia! Aunt Julia! come in here! Mother's in the drawing-room, and I want to speak to you first. Have you been to cousin Hermione?"
Julia had not meant the fact to become known. Being a bad hand at fencing, however, she said, "Yes," and submitted to be dragged into the retreat.
"Is cousin Hermione angry still? Or is she miserable?"
"I dare say she is not very cheerful; but that is not your business, Mittie?"
"But I want to know." Mittie twined an arm round Julia's as she spoke. "Because my Marjory says that if we do love God, Aunt Julia, we must be awfully unhappy to make Him sorry. And cousin Hermione was in a dreadful temper, wasn't she? So she ought to be miserable."
"People are unhappy in different ways," Julia answered judiciously. "When were you in a temper last?"
"Oh, not for a whole week. And I don't mean to be, never again!"
"But everybody does wrong sometimes."
Mittie shook her head. "Nobody oughtn't," she said. "And when they do, they've got to be awfully sorry, and go and tell Jesus, and try harder."
"Yes; that must be right," said Julia, with a sudden wonder in her heart—why had not she tried this plan?
There was sufficient light for her to see the upturned face of the child, with its surrounding cloud of flaxen hair.
"Mittie, how do you know enough about—about Him—to be able to love Him?"
"Why, Aunt Julia! You love Him!"
Julia made no reply.
"I know quite well you do, 'cause you've been ever so much nicer lately. And that's why. I expect—" and Mittie paused thoughtfully. "I expect cousin Hermione doesn't love Him much to-day, else she wouldn't have got into such a rage."
"I don't think you had better talk about Hermione. We have to do right ourselves, not to discuss other people."
"That's just exactly what my Marjory says," Mittie answered, in a tone of profound satisfaction, as she clasped both arms round Julia's waist. "Aunt Julia, I love you heaps more than I used. I told my Marjory so, and I said I wished you'd come and hear her talk. And she said you was too old."
"Too old!"
"Yes; you're as old as she is, and you don't want to be taught. My Marjory said you was old enough to read your own Bible, and to listen to everything in Church. And she said God's teaching was the best. I do try now to listen in Church as much as ever I can, only I s'pose I'm too little to understand it all. There's some hard words, you know. But I always know what it means when His name comes in, and it does come in so very often. That's nice, isn't it? And I s'pose by-and-by, when I go to Church, God will teach me; but now, you know, Marjory teaches me."
Julia would have wished to hear more of the simple prattle. Somehow, it seemed to help her. Through the infantine words she caught glimpses of truths hitherto veiled from her eyes.
Old enough to read her Bible, and to listen to everything in Church. That suggestion would remain, Julia had read her Bible regularly of late, but the reading had been formal, mechanical, superficial— a thing that had to be done because it was right, not an earnest searching to find out the mind and will of God. She had gone to Church regularly, often of late twice instead of once on Sunday, but the going had been from a sense of duty, not to join in heartfelt worship, in prayer, in praise, and not with thirsty craving for instruction. At least, if the thirsty craving had been there, she had not looked to have it satisfied. Something of this dawned upon Julia as the child spoke. But no more could be said, for Mrs. Trevor's voice sounded in raised tones—
"Julia! Where are you? What are you doing?"
"I am here," Julia answered, coming out of the alcove, and descending the lower flight. Mittie remained behind. Mrs. Trevor retreated before Julia into the drawing-room.
"Where have you been? You might have remembered that I should be alone all this time? Except when Harvey appeared, which was worse on the whole than solitude. What made you go and tell him all about that scene? He is in a nice state of mind!"
"I thought he ought to know."
"Another time it is to be hoped you will think differently. I never heard such nonsense. As if a man could understand! I only hope for my part that Hermione will not come with us to Eastbourne. I am perfectly sick of that girl's airs. Have you seen her yet?"
Julia again said, "Yes."
"Where?"
"In her room."
"You went there! I declare you are more courageous than I should have supposed! Well—what manner of reception had you?"
"She has not got over it yet."
"Of course not. And won't for another week. That's her style of saintliness, my dear."
"Whatever is wrong, it is not Hermione's religion that is in fault. It is herself!" Julia answered.
Mrs. Trevor was so astonished with the unexpected utterance, that she stared at Julia, and made no further remark for full two minutes.
HARRY FITZALAN walked home by his father's side in absolute silence, and Mr. Fitzalan was too wise to break it. On reaching the Rectory they separated, still without a word as to what they had witnessed.
"Poor boy!" the Rector murmured audibly in his own study, thinking of the dazed look in those grey eyes, and the troubled set of the lips.
He said nothing to Marjory when she presently came in. It was not Mr. Fitzalan's way to speak of another's wrong-doing unless there were a needs-be: and there could be no doubt that Harry exchanged no confidences with his sister. Marjory's unconscious talk about Hermione in the evening showed this conclusively.
It was not till the afternoon of the following day that Harry would leave. He was very restless and irritable meantime. Since he "had not seen much" of Hermione the previous day—for he confessed to this— Marjory suggested going with him to the Hall before lunch, and she received a sharp snubbing for her pains. Marjory bore the snubbing meekly, and made no further proposals. Harry betook himself to a book, and seemed to be reading diligently, though he never turned a page. He thought he had no wish to see Hermione again, not the slightest. His idol had fallen from its pedestal with a crash. That crimsoned face, blazing with anger, rose up as an impassable barrier between him and the fair girl who had been lately the centre of his thoughts.
No; he did not want to see her. He had done with Hermione. It was time to shake off all that nonsense. She was not the being he had imagined her.
Yet somehow he could not make up his mind to leave the house that morning. If he wished to avoid Hermione he ought to have done so, for at any moment she might look in; but he stayed resolutely at home. Perhaps there was a half-unconscious hope that if she came she might appear in a mood of gentle penitence, which should do away with a little of yesterday's cruel impression.
Hermione did not come, however, and Harry went off with a look of fixed care upon his features. He would carry that vision of wrath with him all through his next term of college life.
"Father, what has happened?" Marjory asked quietly, an hour later, when Mr. Fitzalan entered. She was lying on the couch for one of her short periodical rests.
"Sutton thinks the elm in the back garden ought to come down. I have refused consent for the present."
"No; but I mean about Harry and Hermione. Do you know of anything? Something is wrong, I am sure. He is not like himself."
Mr. Fitzalan debated what to say, standing by the table, and opening a note which he found there. He had a wish that Marjory should be unconscious when the two girls first met. But he knew that she must hear soon of what had occurred, certainly from little Mittie, if from no other quarter. He read his note slowly, and Marjory lay with her eyes fixed upon him.
"If you would rather not tell me, I will not ask," she said. "Harry is generally so open, but he has not been this time. So I dare say I am not to know. Perhaps I can guess. Harry has been imprudent, and has spoken too soon, and Hermione has given him a rebuff. That is what I fancy, only you need not say 'Yes' or 'No'!"
"Nothing of that kind, Marjory," the Rector answered, looking up. "We came upon a certain domestic scene which we were not meant to witness; and sometimes the less one says the better in such cases." His eyes fell upon a figure passing through the garden. "Ah, here is Hermione herself. So we must put off explanation till by-and-bye."
Marjory thought there was relief in the tone. Hermione came in a moment later, entering, as she always did, without ringing the front door bell. She seemed to be restored to her usual self, but the ordinary graciousness of manner had given place to a rather haughty air. She held her head higher than its wont, and the blue eyes had a combative expression, as of one on the look-out for opposition. Mr. Fitzalan would fain have seen different tokens.
"Harry has gone off. I am so sorry," Marjory said.
"Yes, I supposed he would leave before this. I—could not well come earlier," and there was slight hesitation. She turned then to Mr. Fitzalan; "I was sorry to see so little of you both yesterday, but I— it could not be helped. Mrs. Trevor had behaved to me in a most trying way. Of course—" and a faint flush arose— "I am vexed to have been betrayed into speaking hastily. But I had great provocation."
Her eyes went to Marjory as if in appeal, and Marjory said at once, "My father and Harry have told me almost nothing, so I do not understand. I think I had better leave you with—"
"O no!" and there was a manifest shrinking from the proposal. "I have nothing to say which you may not hear. I have come to ask something of you both—a great kindness. Did they explain to you yesterday, Mr. Fitzalan, about this East Bourne plan?"
"It was mentioned. I do not know particulars."
"I cannot go, of course. May I come here for a time? Will you take me in?"
Her lips remained parted with a look of entreaty, but a motion of Mr. Fitzalan's hand checked the eager response springing from Marjory. "Why cannot you go?" he asked gravely.
"It is impossible."
"The change would be pleasant, and you are not absolutely tied to Westford by duties which cannot be laid aside. I suppose it will be a matter of a few weeks only."
"I don't know. It may be longer. But—"
"You have had very little variety as yet. It is good for both mind and body to come in contact with fresh scenes and fresh phases of life. There is a danger of getting cramped and narrowed by moving always in one small circle. I should be sorry if you did not take advantage of this opportunity."
"I cannot!" she said.
"There may be difficulties which I do not see. The thing itself is certainly desirable. East Bourne is a particularly bright healthy place, with a good deal going on. The change from this quiet country life will be thorough."
"I do not want change. I cannot go!"
"Why not?"
"It is impossible. I have said that I will not."
"That would hardly be a sufficient reason. The mere fact of having been betrayed into saying a thing hastily—"
Hermione flushed up. "I cannot take back what I have said."
"Even if that which you said was wrong?"
Marjory gave one quick glance at them both, said quietly— "I will be back in a few minutes," —and was gone. Hermione's hasty, "Oh, don't go!" did not deter her.
Hermione held up her head rigidly, but her lips were trembling. "Then you will not take me in!" she said, in a tone of grieved reproach. "I did not think I should have asked that in vain from such old friends. I see now how alone I am!"
"The question is not what you or I would wish, my dear child, but what is right. I am anxious not to help you to a hasty decision, which you will some day regret."
"It is not hasty. I have been thinking half the night. I cannot and will not go to East Bourne, after the way in which I have been treated. You are judging me hardly, not knowing all."
"Try to tell me all; I should like to understand the matter fully."
Hermione found herself in a difficulty. She began to detail exactly what had passed, and came to a standstill. The words uttered did not sound nearly so heinous on a repetition as they had first sounded to herself. After all, it had been more a question of tone and manner than of words, and Hermione was not clever at reproducing another's manner. After a break she began again, only to come to a second standstill, tears of vexation filling her eyes.
"Is that all?"
"No; I can't make you understand. There was more, of course. But, it was the way she did it—"
"That I can believe. Much more depends upon the way in which a word is said than upon the word itself. Still, I can see no real cause for a serious break with your relations."
"I don't want to have a break. Only I cannot go to East Bourne."
"Because you were not told of the plan till after Mrs. Trevor!"
Hermione rose suddenly. "I see I shall have no help or sympathy here. I thought things would be different. It is of no use my staying longer. Please tall Marjory—"
"No, I am not going to tell Marjory anything. You shall tell her yourself. Why, Hermione, my child," he went on kindly, "you are not going to take offence with such an old friend as I am. That would be strange indeed. Try to be wise, and to look upon this matter in the right light."
"I am not bound to go to East Bourne unless I wish."
"Not bound in the abstract, but some attention to your cousins' wishes is their due. If Mr. Dalrymple is content to leave you behind—"
"Harvey has no control over my movements."
"Yes; he is head of the household, and you are his dependent."
The words seemed cruel to Hermione. "I am not likely to forget that," she said, in choked tones.
"Then we need say no more about it. After all, the whole question hinges on one point—what is the right thing for you to do?"
"I cannot go to East Bourne," she persisted.
"Not if you distinctly see it to be right?"
"I have said I would not. I cannot take that back."
"Then, Hermione," he answered gravely, "it is very evident that with you the pleasing of self ranks first, the doing of what is right ranks second. Is that true service?"
Hermione burst into tears; but still there were no signs of yielding.
"So you and Harvey are going for a drive?" Francesca remarked.
It was a tolerably fine afternoon three days later. The high dog-cart, Harvey's favourite vehicle, stood before the front door, the two spirited horses, Prince and Emperor, champing their bits and tossing their heads, eager to be off. The men at their heads seemed to have some trouble in restraining them. Julia was on the doorstep, dressed in hat and jacket, a pair of gloves in her left hand. Mrs. Trevor had come out of the drawing-room, with a woollen shawl round her shoulders.
"I thought I had told you. Harvey has some business to arrange with a gentleman eight miles off—Captain Woodthorpe is the name, I believe. He asked me to go with him. You would not care for the drive."
"Thanks—not I! If Paris boulevards were in question, that would be another matter. Nothing is more dismal than interminable country lanes, with dead leaves dropping in all directions, and the prospect of coming home in a pelt. Nothing to see, and nobody to see one! No; I'll wait for East Bourne. There'll be a chance of meeting some human beings on the parade. Besides, I don't like those horses. The last time I went out they frightened me to death with their pranks."
"Harvey would know if they were not safe."
"Harvey knows everything, of course! My dear, what man ever thinks about safety in connection with horses? He just wants to make a show. So long as he has the best thorough-breds in the country round, his neck may take its chance, and his wife's too. But I prefer not to have mine broken."
"You won't keep well if you never go out."
"There's nothing to go out for in Westford. I don't want to cultivate a country complexion, thanks—and my wardrobe wants attention. One will have to be respectable in East Bonnie. Is Harvey still set upon not going till Thursday or Friday in next week?"
"Quite!"
"Absurd! We shall just lose those lodgings in Mostyn Terrace. It's nothing on earth but Hermione's nonsense, otherwise we might be off on Tuesday. What does she mean to do?"
"I don't know," Julia answered, in an undertone.
"Nor anybody else, apparently. Mittie asked Miss Fitzalan if Hermione meant to come with us, and Miss Fitzalan said she was not sure. If I were Harvey, I would make her say 'Yes' or 'No' at once, without any more nonsense."
"She has said 'No."
"In a passion; but that means nothing. I believe the Fitzalans won't take her in, and she is waiting to arrange something else before she speaks." A shrewd guess this on the part of Mrs. Trevor. "And Harvey is just giving her extra time to make arrangements. If he had decided to go straight off without delay, she would have had no choice about coming. Much the best plan! Not that I want her in East Bourne, but I shouldn't be sorry for once to see her compelled to give in."
"Francesca, do be careful! You will be overheard," Julia entreated, in alarm at the raised tone.
"No fear, my dear! John hasn't any attention to spare from the horses. And as for Hermione, she's going the round of her favourite cottages, I suppose, preaching patience to all the old women, and expatiating on her own wrongs. I wish some of them would preach to Hermione for a change. She needs it, if any one does."
To Julia's relief, Harvey appeared. He seemed in unusually good spirits, and she was much delighted at his proposal to take her with him. Of late he had systematically avoided prolonged and unnecessary têtes-à-tête. Twice, at least, when she had offered to be his companion in the dog-cart, he had had out the brougham instead, persuading Francesca to join them. The feeling appeared now to have worn off.
The horses, once off and out of the garden, claimed all Harvey's energies. John sat aloft behind, with folded arms and stolid face. Julia was supremely happy, quite content to be silent and to watch proudly her husband's capable handling of the reins. Ordinarily she was apt to be nervous about horses, but when Harvey sat beside her she did not know what fear meant.
"We have done our first two miles in style," Harvey remarked, when they came to a hill so steep that the horses showed themselves willing to walk. John dropped to the ground, and strode in their rear, apparently glad to use his limbs.
"Have we really come two miles already? I never know distances in Westford."
"What was Francesca saying about Hermione?"
The question took her by surprise, for he usually shirked as far as possible all talk respecting Hermione and her doings. Julia glanced at him quickly, but failed to decipher his look.
"She was wondering what Hermione would do about East Bourne. Nobody seems to know."
"Hermione must come with us, of course. I depend upon you to arrange that."
Julia felt and looked dismayed. "But I have no power over her."
"You are the right person. Francesca has nothing to do with it."
"But I don't think either Francesca or I could turn Hermione, if she has made up her mind. She is so very determined."
"I always thought there was a spice of obstinacy—"
"Is that obstinacy? I thought it was firmness."
"People generally confuse the two. Determination will hear reason, and obstinacy won't. Obstinacy sticks to what it has said, just because it has said it. That is Hermione all over."
Julia could not question the assertion. She was aware of its truth.
"The fact is," Harvey added, "I particularly wish Hermione to go with us, and I look to you to bring it about."
"Would you mind so very much if she paid a visit to the Fitzalans instead?"
"Yes; and she will not go to them. I have had a few words with Mr. Fitzalan; but don't mention this. He thinks with me that it is too soon for a break, and that she will shake down better among us if we have a few more weeks together—especially away from Westford. There has been too much talk among the good folks here as to her real and supposed troubles."
"Yes—perhaps—" Julia began, and paused. "Francesca will have it that Hermione gossips with the old women in the cottages."
"It is not supposed to be gossip, but I dare say she manages to look pathetic, and to work on their feelings. I want to get her out of it all for a time."
"I don't see what I am to do."
"You must arrange it, my dear, one way or another. Women can always manage these things. I should be extremely annoyed if Hermione stayed behind just now. It would give additional colour to a great deal of nonsense that is talked about her and us. And you must contrive somehow to hinder Francesca from exciting her."
Two "musts" easy to utter, but hard to carry out—how hard Julia knew too well. She made no further protests, however, only gave herself up to consideration of the difficulty. The top of the hill was reached, and John swung himself up behind. Then they were off again at full speed, trees and hedges sweeping past unnoticed by Julia in her abstraction.
"Is this Captain Woodthorpe's?" she asked, waking up with an astonished start when the horses came to a standstill.
"This is Captain Woodthorpe's—queer little house, isn't it? And a queer place for any man to choose! Not even a cottage within a quarter of a mile."
"I suppose the village is not far-off."
"A mile or more. It must be deadly dull—two people living together."
"His wife?"
"No; his daughter. Will you come in? They are rather agreeable people."
"O no; I would rather wait outside."
Harvey put the reins into her hands, John taking up his position once more at the horses' heads. Julie studied dreamily the trellis-work of the porch, and the jasmine trained prettily thereon, till roused by voices.
A grey-haired man, thin and upright, stood beside her husband on the gravel-walk; and beyond them was a lady in black, perhaps about thirty-five years old, somewhat tall and largely built, with a pale strong face, hardly handsome, but interesting from its sweetness and its calm capability. The thought came to Julia, "That is one whom I could lean upon in trouble!" She little dreamt how soon this should be put to the test.
"Julia, Captain Woodthorpe and Mrs. Ogilvie wish you to come indoors for a cup of tea."
Harvey handed her down, and Julia made no resistance. She was willing to see more of Mrs. Ogilvie—a widow evidently, but a widow of a different type from Mrs. Trevor. Greetings were exchanged, and the two gentlemen returned to the Captain's study, whence apparently they had emerged, while Julia found herself in a small sitting-room, old-fashioned but cosy. Mrs. Ogilvie led her to a seat near the fire. "It is chilly to-day," she said, "especially for driving. Will you not take off your jacket, for fear of a chill when you go out?"
"I never take cold, thanks," Julia answered; and soon the question followed, in some wonder, "Do you really live here all the year round?"
"Except a month in London at Christmas."
"And you like it?"
Mrs. Ogilvie smiled. "My father does," she said.
"But you?"
"I should not mind a few neighbours near at hand."
"Have you none?"
"None near. I am a fairly good walker, and we have an untirable pony. It is not, perhaps, the life I would choose; but, when a life is chosen for one, apart from one's own wishes, there is the comfort of knowing that it must be right."
"Is Captain Woodthorpe so fond of the country?"
"Yes, of absolute country, as country. He does not like a chimney-pot to be within view, except his own. Not from any real objection to society. I hardly know what gives rise to the feeling. He says he cannot breathe comfortably among houses."
Julia looked her sympathy. Mrs. Ogilvie asked next—
"How is Miss Rivers?"
"Quite well, I believe." Julia grew suddenly shy. "Are you one of Hermione's friends?"
"Not in any intimate sense. I was very fond of her mother in my childhood, and that gives me a particular interest, of course, in Hermione. We only meet occasionally, however. She is a pretty girl."
"Yes," Julia assented.
"She was quite 'the old man's darling' while Mr. Dalrymple lived."
"Yes."
"And now, perhaps, she is a great pet with all of you?"
There was a curious expression hovering round Mrs. Ogilvie's lips as she put the question. Did she expect an affirmative in reply? Julia hesitated, then said—
"No!"
"Ah!" said Mrs. Ogilvie.
"I don't know why she is not. I wish she were. My husband and I wish so much to make her happy. And everybody thinks Hermione so wonderfully sweet and good; yet somehow we don't get on well. I could love her if she would let me, but I always have a feeling of being almost despised by Hermione. Perhaps I ought to say 'disdained.' 'Despised' is too strong an expression."
Julia had not had the least intention of saying all this. The words broke from her, drawn out by that quiet comprehending face. She caught herself up suddenly—
"I am sorry to say so much. Harvey would not be pleased. He hates gossip, and, indeed, it isn't my way. Please don't let it go further; and forget it yourself. Such things are best not talked about, and I dare say we shall fit in better by-and-by. Perhaps it is partly my fault that we don't now."
"No, I think not. I hardly expected to hear anything different," Mrs. Ogilvie answered. For half-a-minute she studied carefully the young face before her. Twice Julia's black eyes were lifted to meet the gaze, and sank before it. At the half-minute's close, to Julia's exceeding surprise, Mrs. Ogilvie bent forward and kissed her cheek. Julia flushed up brightly, with an odd shy sense of pleasure.
"Hermione is a girl of peculiar temperament, and she has had a peculiar training," continued Mrs. Ogilvie. "I know her character well. You need not regret having spoken frankly, for I never repeat things. Perhaps I am as good a confidante as you could have chosen, for having loved her mother so dearly seems to give me a kind of right over the child herself. She is not a child now, but one clings to the term."
"I don't think I have heard Hermione speak of you."
"Very likely not. I am not a great favourite of Hermione's."
Julia's wondering eyes made Mrs. Ogilvie laugh.
"My own fault, I am afraid. I had once to suggest to her that a certain line of action was not right, and Hermione did not seem grateful for the suggestion. But perhaps she has got over it now, and I should like to see her again. Cannot you both drive over to lunch one day next week?"
"I AM going to take you two or three miles round, instead of straight home," Harvey said, as they started. Julia was turning back to wave a farewell. "So you like Mrs. Ogilvie?"
"Very much. Oh, very much, indeed. She is charming!"
"Mrs. Ogilvie says the same of my wife."
"Does she? I am glad if she likes me. But when did she say it?"
"When you ran back into the house for your shawl."
"She had not much time then. Harvey, isn't it odd that she should be an old friend of Hermione's mother, and that Hermione should never have spoken her name?"
"I don't pretend to understand Hermione's ways. Hermione's mother must have been considerably Mrs. Ogilvie's senior."
One of the horses shied, and both were off at a pace which required Harvey's best handling. For a while neither spoke. He glanced round presently to say, "Not frightened?"
"O no; not with you here."
"Some women think it necessary to scream on these little occasions. Of course, if you wished to ensure the horses running away, that is as good a mode as any."
"But I don't wish it," Julia answered, laughing. "And they never do run away."
"Well, not seriously," Harvey answered, with one or two recollections in his mind which were not known to Julia. "I am taking you this way, that you may see a pretty view from the common."
"Not the common near us?"
"Seven miles or more off. You have not been to it yet. There is a steep hill to climb, and then a flat tableland extending any distance. John will have an opportunity to stretch his legs again."
"Yes, sir!" responded John smartly from behind.
The hill was reached in no long time, being about a mile distant from the captain's little house, as Harvey informed Julia. Steep it was unquestionably, but the horses went up in brisk style, apparently no whit fatigued. John, who had dropped down for a walk as a matter of course, was left in the rear.
"After all, he might as well have kept his seat. We have to wait for him now," Harvey said, when they gained the top.
"One minute won't matter."
"Not unless the horses object."
The horses plainly did object. A vision of food and stable no doubt lured them onward, and they had at all times a marked dislike to standing still in harness. They grew exceedingly restless, and Harvey's strong grasp could barely hold them in.
A broad common stretched far ahead, and the road led straight across it, while on either side lay short grass dotted by occasional clumps of furze.
"Make haste!" cried Harvey.
John obeyed, coming at a run. They had not to wait many seconds, and he was already within six yards when a pig rushed grunting from behind the nearest clump.
That settled the matter. Almost before Julia caught sight of the intruder the horses were off, and John could be seen as a diminishing object in the distance.
Julia uttered no sound, for she knew her husband's dislike to interjections at critical moments. Not that she counted the moment critical. She merely said to herself, "How tiresome!" and expected that Harvey would at once pull up.
But he did not. A feeling of surprise dawned upon her first, and then a consciousness of the tremendous pace at which they were going, and then—she looked up into Harvey's face, and knew from the set lips that something was wrong.
"John is so far behind. Must we not go back?" she asked.
"Presently. Keep your seat, Julia. Hold on firmly."
"Can't you stop them?"
"Presently," came again.
"Is there any danger?"
"Plenty of room ahead, fortunately. I shall let them have their swing. Don't be shaken out, that's all."
Julia obeyed his orders, and sat perfectly still. On and on they flew in a mad rush. The road was very straight, and so long as this lasted the danger might be counted small; but there was nothing to check the horses; no human being was in sight, and in time the common must end.
It seemed to Julia that their speed increased rather than diminished. She had never known anything like it. It was evident that Harvey had at present no choice about allowing the horses to go, for go they would, and the utmost he could do was to use some measure of guidance, keeping a sharp look-out for obstacles.
Grass and furze-bushes flashed past in dizzying style. Julia felt bewildered, hardly able to think. Fear existed, but was kept under. Her one distinct wish at the time was not to embarrass her husband. She sat by his side like a statue, only swayed by the swaying of the vehicle.
"We are coming to something different," she said at length quietly. For the road in advance rose a little and disappeared among trees.
Harvey knew that the common ended there, and that a long descent followed; not so steep, happily, as the ascent by which they had reached the common, yet steep enough to be a very serious matter if they were to go down at this rate.
"Can't you stop them?" Julia asked once more.
"No."
The monosyllable, the absence of comfort or encouragement, said much. So also said Harvey's bent brows. Julia grew paler, and shrank an inch closer to him. The thought came to her that she ought to pray, and she tried, but her mind was a blank, every faculty being concentrated into one fearful expectant gaze ahead.
Up and up the slope they thundered, till in a moment burst upon Julia the long vista of that straight descent which had been in Harvey's mind as a vivid picture of peril near.
A strong rutted road, with a wall on one side, a hedge and a ditch on the other, scarcely curving at all until far below, where a sharp bend shut off what lay beyond.
"Harvey!" did at last leave Julia's lips in faint cry. No answer came from him, only a strange pallor had come into his face, and his eyes seemed to be looking blankly far on.
Both knew that this might well be a rush to death. But no time for thought remained before they were whirled downwards.
Pebbles were dashed aside by the horses' hoofs, and the wheels jolted with bounds over the larger stones. It was as much as Julia could do to keep her seat. She held on firmly, noting with a singular keenness of perception her husband's blanched look. Could it mean fear? He was a brave man ordinarily, not given to showing fear.
Suddenly he spoke, not turning his head—
"If we get round that corner it may be all right, but if not—"
A pause; and as if the words were forced from him, drops standing on his brow, he said—
"If I am killed, and you get through, take care that Hermione has her rights!"
She had no space in which to answer him. A glance alone was possible. Then the bend was reached, and with a great swerve they went round, safely so far, but not to safety. Before one breath of relief could be drawn, they saw the road ahead lying level, and in the very middle of it an old ramshackle cart, with no room on either side for them to pass. The owner of the cart was out of sight, and the unharnessed rough pony, browsing in the hedge, lifted his head with a look of mild interest at the thunder of horses' hoofs.
A gasp; a moment's despair; a crash; a sense of everything collapsing; and a brief darkness. Julia came to herself slowly. She sat up, bewildered and faint, but conscious of no injury. At first she could not make out where she was, could not recall exactly what had happened. Only there was an impression of wild rattle and rush; and now all was so still; not a sound to be heard, except leaves rustling near.
It dawned upon her stunned senses that she had been tossed clean out of the dog-cart and over the hedge, falling on a great heap of weeds gathered together for burning, soft almost as a feather-bed. And she felt herself unhurt!
But Harvey!
Julia struggled to her feet. All around seemed to sway and surge, yet she could not attend to such sensations, could not yield to weakness. The other side of the hedge had to be gained, and she hastened along it, seeking vainly for a gate. A gap at length appeared, and Julia fought her way through, heedless of scratches and torn clothes.
Once more upon the road she saw a heap of something not far-off, which her dazzled eyes could with difficulty make out to be the prostrate horses and the shattered remains of cart and carriage, all in one piled-up mass, except that two wheels and much lesser debris were flung loosely around. And Harvey—Harvey—her one agony was for him. As she hurried nearer, trembling and sick with terror, she saw him to be part of the mass, lying half underneath it, while two hoofs of the nearer horse were almost touching his chest. His face was ghastly pale, the eyes wide-open in helpless appeal.
"O Harvey! what can I do? What shall I do?" was Julia's cry.
"Hush don't call out. If Prince begins to struggle, it is all up with me."
"Is it the cart keeping you down? Are you hurt? Oh, let me help you away!" she gasped. "You will be killed there."
"I can't move; don't touch me. Julia, listen. You must sit down on Prince's head at once. If he tries to get up, I am done for!"
Julia understood, though she was so dazed as to be hardly able to distinguish one horse from the other. But those iron hoofs were guide sufficient. The poor creature's visible panting showed him to be alive, while Emperor lay to all appearance dead. Julia stumbled forward among the debris, and sat down upon the huge glossy head, rumpled and foam-speckled. She would have been afraid of the position generally, for horses were a source of timidity always, unless she felt herself under Harvey's protection; but fear could have no place now, except for another.
"Are you hurt much?" she then asked tremulously.
"I don't know. Yes."
"Where? Please tell me."
"I don't know."
"If I could only do something! What can I do?" she implored. "If I might help you to get away."
"No, you must not stir. Mind, Julia, if you value my life, don't let anything make you get up till help comes—till I am away. It is the only hope for me."
He spoke distinctly, but in a faint far-away voice, as if the words came with effort, his eyes closing.
"I will not!" Julia said firmly.
SHE sat on, resolutely, bravely, though with a heart-sinking which she had never felt before, as she thought of the time which must pass before John could possibly come up.
Now and then a heave or quiver passed through Prince's massive frame; and Julia knew that but for her weight upon his head he would doubtless begin struggling to get up. Sometimes the quiver passed on to those great hoofs, all but resting against her husband, and each time Julia's heart leaped with a wild fear lest the struggle should take place despite all she could do. She knew little of horses from practical experience, and she could not feel Harvey's security that so long as she sat there he was safe.
The other horse lay entirely motionless, with every appearance of death. Poor Emperor! he had borne the brunt of the collision, his broad chest coming full against the cart.
It was lonely country around, with no sign of human habitations. The pony browsing in the hedge browsed still, but farther off, whither he had been startled by the accident. Had any human being stood near, that crash must have acted as a summons. Julia felt this, and though she forced herself to call for help, she did it hopelessly, expecting no result.
When she called, Harvey opened his eyes for a moment. That was all. He seemed unable or disinclined to speak. Julia was frightened at his increasing ghastliness of hue; yet there were no actual signs of pain on his face, and he lay quietly, not appearing to suffer from the weight which held down his lower limbs. She longed to get to him, to do something for his personal relief; but he was out of reach, and she dared not stir—knew she must not. Would John never come?
Twice again she asked her husband how he was, and each time he answered faintly, "I don't know." She longed to know what was wrong and where he was injured, yet she dreaded to annoy him by questions if he wished to be let alone.
So there seemed nothing to be done but to wait, keeping her seat, and refusing to listen to her own fears. She watched for John intensely, yet he did not come. Now and then a horrible doubt assailed her; what if John tried some other road, and failed to find them? But this she knew was not likely. They had come in a direct line, following the main road.
How the minutes dragged, one by one, each trailing its slow length more wearily than the last. Julia began to feel that she must have sat there for hours. Her head swam and her eyes grew heavy with the strain. She had left her watch at home, and had therefore no means of gauging the lapse of time.
Harvey's eyes opened again, and she said, "Do you feel very bad? Please tell me."
"Yes."
"Where? If you could just say what is wrong!"
"I don't know."
"Do you think any bones are broken?"
"I can't tell."
"But is it great pain anywhere? Your leg?"
"No—not pain—only—"
"If you would tell me just once! Only—what?"
"I don't know—" in the same dull undertone, as if he were scarcely conscious of what he said.
"Is it sinking—faintness?"
"Yes."
"If you had a little water!—" and a craving look responded, but he only whispered—
"No; don't move."
"No, I know I must not. Harvey, it is only faintness, nothing worse!"
For another thought had come, with a beat of anguish at her heart. How if this were death? The ghastly pallor, the dim and half-shut eyes, the panting breath, the feeble voice, these might mean the worst! Julia had seen little of illness, and she knew nothing of how death might look, but the terror assailed her.
"If I am killed, and you get through!" he had said. Those words recurred now.
And she could not get to him; she might not stir to touch him; she was debarred from seeking help. She had only to sit there, close at hand yet parted, looking on at what he had to bear.
Again she spoke, because she could not endure the terrible silence and her own helplessness, but there was no reply. Harvey did not seem to hear.
"Take care that Hermione has her rights!" This command came up next. One thought after another floated through Julia's mind, while her whole attention seemed to be bent upon the present emergency and upon her husband's condition.
Hermione's rights! But what rights? Harvey had plainly declared to his wife that Hermione had no rights, that he was in no sense bound. What did he mean by Hermione's "rights"? And how was Julia to reconcile his two utterances?
"What doth the Lord require of thee, but to do justly, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with thy God?"
Julia's whole being cried out at this, "Have we 'done justly' towards Hermione?" She did not say, "Has Harvey?" though in truth the responsibility was his, not hers; but she linked herself with him, she felt that she might perhaps have said more, have used stronger influence, and tears came streaming at the thought. If Harvey were in danger, if he were to die, and if indeed he had allowed himself to do not justly, how should she ever forgive herself? She could not get over those few strong words, "Take care that Hermione has her rights!"
"Aunt Julia—why don't you tell Jesus?"
It was curious how this simple little question of Mittie's flashed into Julia's mind. For she was so helpless, so direfully in need, so terror-stricken with her own position and her husband's peril. There seemed to be absolutely nothing that she could do. The one thing which she might do she had scarcely remembered. Here it was, briefly and childishly stated, but holding a mighty truth for all that. Why should she not "tell Jesus"?
Julia did not hesitate. She bent her face into her hands, and sobbed out a prayer. No words were audible, but the passionate appeal went up through those heart-rending sobs.
"Julia!" The hollow voice startled her, "Don't cry. It's no use."
She dashed away her tears in a moment.
"Yea," she whispered.
"No signs of John?"
"I can't see him yet. If only—"
"Hush! listen!" Harvey spoke with a faint imperiousness. "If some one doesn't come soon, I don't believe I can hold out."
Julia's lips whitened.
"Something is wrong—I don't know what. I feel as if—"
Another pause. Drops stood out like beads all over his brow.
"Harvey, you are faint. It is only faintness. If I could get you some water."
"No, don't stir. This brute's hoofs would be the death of me—if—but I feel—" and again there was a break. "Julia, if I don't get through— mind—"
His voice sank, and he seemed to strive for speech in vain. Julia could hardly bear up against the wave of terror and grief which threatened to overwhelm her, yet she spoke at once in answer.
"Yes, I will—I will—indeed. I will not forget Hermione's rights."
The drooping eyelids half opened.
"How could you know? Who told it?"
"You did—you yourself, as we came down the hill."
"Ah, I forgot," and a gasp broke into the words. "Yes, twenty thousand pounds. Mr. Selwyn knows. Julia, I think—I almost think I must be—dying."
The eyes closed, and the breathing grew more feeble.
"Harvey! Harvey! Oh, what can I do?" sobbed Julia in agony. "Oh, this is terrible."
And in her distress she did not see, any more than did her unconscious husband, that John, with three stout labouring men, was hastening from the corner to their help.
"MOTHER, shouldn't you think Uncle Harvey and Aunt Julia would soon be at home?"
"Really I don't know. Yes, most likely. What are you after with my work-basket?"
"I want to find some red silk. I'm making a pin-cushion for my Marjory."
"Well, another time you can ask my leave first. I have no red silk, so please stop all that fumbling."
Mittie desisted immediately, as she would not have done once upon a time.
"I do wish I had some red silk. Mother, are there any shops in East Bourne?"
"Of course there are—heaps."
"And can I get some red silk there?"
"Of course. What a silly question!"
"And can I send my pin-cushion to Marjory by post?"
"If you choose. What are you going to ask next, I wonder?"
"I do wish we weren't going to East Bourne, mother. I don't want to be such a great way from my Marjory."
"Really, Mittie, you are crazy about her. I am perfectly sick of the name. A good thing we are going, I say, if it is only to get some of that nonsense out of your head."
Mittie promptly inquired, "What nonsense?"
"You know. The sort of talk you have favoured me with lately."
"Marjory teaches me, mother."
"Yes. I wish people would mind their own business, and leave other folks alone."
"Marjory teaches me how to be good. Don't you like me to learn to be good?"
An embarrassing question, rather. Mrs. Trevor evaded it.
"I like you to be sensible, of course, child."
"And not good too?"
"You are perfectly demented, Mittie. What makes you ask such ridiculous questions? Yes, I like you to be good, but I don't want you to be always chattering about it."
"My Marjory doesn't never chatter."
"There you go again! Always that perpetual 'my Marjory.' I hate to have a person's name drummed into my ears. If you want to make me detest her, you are setting to work in the right way. Miss Fitzalan is all very well, but one may have too much of a good thing."
Mittie stood near the table, her little arms folded, and her drooping face hidden by its cloud of fair hair. She made no answer. A touch of compunction came over Mrs. Trevor.
"Well, I dare say I can find you some red silk after all, if it's an affair of such immense importance. Not in my work-basket. Get me that little Indian box from the side-table."
The child obeyed silently, keeping her face turned away.
"Here, you can fish out something from this tangle. I dare say it is not more than two or three needles-full that you want, and Miss Fitzalan will not be critical about the colours matching. Mittie, you goose!" at the sound of a sob. "What on earth is the matter now?"
Mittie could not have explained. She did not herself know what made the tears come so fast. It was only a child's nameless pain at hearing hard words spoken against one whom she loved, but a child's pain may be very keen while it lasts. Mrs. Trevor mentally resolved to pass no strictures on Marjory Fitzalan in the future. She never could endure to see Mittie cry.
"Do stop, child, pray! You'll make such an object of yourself. You are quite welcome to think what you choose of Miss Fitzalan, if it makes you happy. I am sure I don't care. I wish Julia and Harvey would come home, for the afternoon is perfectly endless. It is a mercy we are going away soon. I really think I should end by a fit of melancholy madness if this sort of thing lasted much longer. Now, Mittie, I won't have another tear. Just think what fun you are going to have down on the shore at East Bourne, picking up shells and digging in the sand. Yes, of course, there is sand—and shingles and rocks too."
This proved comforting, and Mittie was wiled out of her grief. Another hour passed, and still the absentees appeared not. Mrs. Trevor grew vexed, counting herself ill-used. But yet another hour went by before Slade entered the drawing-room and stood within the door.
"Somebody wanting Mr. Dalrymple, did you say?" Mrs. Trevor asked, waking up to a consciousness of his presence, and unaware that he had not spoken. Her faculties had been buried for the last twenty minutes in a yellow-backed novel. "Mr. Dalrymple is out still. I cannot understand his being so long."
"No, ma'am. There has been an accident," Slade's suppressed voice answered.
"An accident! Not to the dog-cart?"
"Yes, ma'am. It was not far from Captain Woodthorpe's, and Mr. and Mrs. Dalrymple have gone there. John has returned with a message. The horses ran away down a hill into a cart. Emperor is killed, and Prince—"
"And—and—" Mrs. Trevor could hardly speak in her impatience at his deliberate utterance. As if the horses mattered! She was angry at his putting them first, yet she knew that Slade was only trying to break his news gradually. Had he worse to tell?
"And my sister? And Mr. Dalrymple?"
"Mrs. Dalrymple was thrown out, ma'am; and at first she was not supposed to be hurt at all, but that is found to be a mistake. John does not know particulars. He was left behind when the horses ran away; and when he got to the spot he found Mr. Dalrymple unable to move, and Mrs. Dalrymple sitting on Prince's head to keep him down."
Mrs. Trevor exclaimed at this, knowing Julia's timidity with horses, "I always did say it was insane to keep such wild creatures," she added, with the instinctive desire to blame somebody which belongs to many people in trouble. "Mr. Dalrymple will believe me now! Is he very much hurt?"