Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: "I shouldn't wonder, but I ought to know you, sir,"
he said.]
THE DALRYMPLES
BY
AGNES GIBERNE
AUTHOR OF
"BERYL AND PEARL," "MISS CON," "ST. AUSTIN'S LODGE," ETC.
"I find the great thing in this world is not so much where we stand,
as in what direction we are moving." — O. W. HOLMES.
LONDON
JAMES NISBET & CO., LIMITED
BERNERS STREET
Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO.
At the Ballantyne Press, Edinburgh
CONTENTS.
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"
THE DALRYMPLES.
CHAPTER I.
HARVEY.
"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 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.