AFTER EIGHT YEARS.
"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.