FOR THE FUTURE.
THE evening service was over, and so was the cold evening meal which
followed. Mr. Dalrymple had been by no means sorry for the help
of Harvey's strong arm on the way home. His head felt "heavy" again,
he said, and once or twice he seemed not able to walk straight.
"It was only the heat," Hermione decided; "such extreme heat
for June." And, as she told herself, he was less knocked up than
Marjory.
But physical weakness was with Marjory the ordinary condition
of affairs, a part of herself, a thing to be regretted, yet not to
cause alarm. Sudden feebleness, coming upon a strong and healthy man,
is altogether another matter; and young as Hermione was, she might
have known that difference.
She did for a moment feel uneasy when Harvey remarked, "You ought not
to have gone to Church this evening;" and her grandfather answered,
"No; I almost wish I had not." Would it not have been better if she
had given the message? But Mr. Dalrymple might not have followed
the advice; and a good-night would restore him. On the whole,
however, Hermione hoped for the non-appearance of Mr. Fitzalan.
They were out upon the terrace now, enjoying the still twilight.
Mr. Dalrymple was in a comfortable easy-chair, which Harvey had
insisted on dragging out of the library. He did not mind trouble
of that description, being too thorough a gentleman not to undertake
small courtesies. As Mr. Fitzalan had remarked, laziness takes
different forms, and certainly Mr. Dalrymple had found his great
nephew most kind and attentive all day, ready to anticipate every
wish.
[Illustration: "They were out on the terrace enjoying the still
twilight."]
None of the three showed at first much inclination to talk. After a
while, Harvey broke in upon the silence, remarking, "Delicious scent
of roses."
Mr. Dalrymple offered no response, and Hermione started another
subject, "What interesting sermons we have had to-day!"
Another irresponsive pause.
"Did you not think so?" she asked, looking at Harvey.
Was the question malicious? Harvey was too honest to answer in the
affirmative. He said only, "Were they?"
"This morning's particularly. Yes, I thought so. Did not you?"
"I am not a very good judge," Harvey replied carelessly.
"Were you talking about this morning's sermon?" Mr. Dalrymple asked,
rousing himself. "What was the text? I cannot recall."
"I must refer you to Hermione," said Harvey, at whom the question
was directed.
"Hermione is sure to know," the old man uttered lovingly.
"Yes, grandfather;" and in silvery tones she repeated, "'Know ye not,
that to whom ye yield yourselves servants to obey, his servants
ye are whom ye obey; whether of sin unto death, or of obedience unto
righteousness?' With part of a verse just before, 'Yield yourselves
unto God.'"
"Yes, my dear."
"Mr. Fitzalan spoke about the nature of the service as bondservice.
Don't you remember, grandfather? That if we yield ourselves to God,
we are bound to obey Him in everything; and if not yielded to Him,
then we must be yielded to evil, bondservants to the Prince of Evil.
I thought all that was very striking, the way he put it. And about
the mastery of self too, the being slaves to self, or freed from
self." Hermione hesitated an instant, recalling his utterance at the
Rectory, which she had not so well approved; then she went on—
"He spoke about the choice being left to us, though God has of course
absolute right to our service—but still we are told—'Choose you this
day whom ye will serve,' and then, 'Yield yourselves unto God.' Yes,
it was very beautiful. And all about what is meant by yielding—
real yielding—having no care for our own will, but only caring
to please God."
Harvey counted an after-abstract of the day's sermons highly
unnecessary. He was not interested in the said sermons, and to sit
through them without listening seemed to him a sufficient tax upon
his patience. Moreover, he was no more disposed to take
Mr. Fitzalan's teaching secondhand from Hermione, than Hermione
was to submit with meekness to Mr. Fitzalan's dictum, except as
uttered from the pulpit. So he stirred restlessly, causing the
wicker-work of his chair to utter long creaks, as a vent to his
dissatisfaction.
"Would you not like another chair?" asked Hermione, disturbed by the
squeaks.
"Thanks—no. This is very comfortable."
Mr. Dalrymple spoke next in quiet tones. "Yes, it is a blessed
service," he said. "But the yielding of ourselves is not a matter
of one moment's resolving or doing, as some would have us believe.
It is a long battle."
"Only there has to be first the yielding of our will, grandfather.
We have to give ourselves to Christ; and then, once yielded to Him,
will He not keep His own?" She had an air of quiet certainty, and her
face was bright in the twilight.
"My child, yes, He is faithful. But He will send tests. He will allow
us to learn our weakness. That is part of the whole—part of the
battle. Yours is only beginning. Mine is nearing the end. 'I have
fought a fight,'—not 'a good fight' like St. Paul's, only a long
fight with many failures. And He has been with me throughout.
The 'crown of glory' is laid up—ready—safe in His keeping."
Harvey could listen now without any inclination to fidget. There was
a humble reality in the old man's confidence which touched him, and
even aroused in him a vague wish to possess the same—unlike
Hermione's confidence. It vexed him that she should break in upon the
dreamy soliloquy—
"But, dear grandfather, you don't really think that one never can
have yielded up one's will and one's all to God until after very long
fighting? Why should there be delay? Why not yield one's all
at once?"
He smiled at her tenderly.
"The sapling doesn't grow into a great oak in one hour, Hermione.
Yes; yield yourself now—self, will, and all, keeping nothing back.
But you will find more and more to yield as you go on—hidden depths
of self, unsuspected forms of wilfulness; and much that you have
thought yielded you will find not yielded. That has been one of my
latest lessons. It may be one of your latest."
"Would you say that we are never to have a will or a wish of our
own?" Harvey asked unexpectedly.
Hermione began, "No, never—" but he turned from her, with two words
which plainly directed the question to Mr. Dalrymple— "Would you?"
"Yes, my dear boy, any amount, only never apart from God's will.
Give over everything to Him, and He will give back to you tenfold
what you have yielded up."
Harvey seemed to be thinking. Hermione, a little offended, remained
silent. Mr. Dalrymple presently moved, as if to stand upright.
"I almost think I will go in, if you will both excuse me," he said.
"I am over-tired to-night. We will discuss everything to-morrow."
"Are you going to bed, grandfather?"
Hermione had never known such an event before as retirement before
his usual time.
He put an arm round her waist, kissing the fair brow, and holding out
a hand to Harvey.
"Yes; it is fatigue, I suppose. I shall be all right to-morrow, after
a good-night. I do not feel that I can stay up any longer."
Harvey offered his arm, and they went, all three, through the
conservatory into the lighted drawing-room.
"Thanks, my dear boy. It is a great comfort to have you here.
You must come again very soon, and stay long, you and your Julia.
I begin to feel that I am an old man, and it is a comfort to know
that my Hermione has a kind brother—a brother and sister too—who will
care for her."
"Yes, indeed," the young man said heartily.
"Yes, you would do it—would do all—will do all when the need arises.
I have complete trust in your kind feeling. You will be a true
brother to my darling—always!"
"Always!" repeated Harvey.
The word was very simple, but it had the force of a solemn promise
in his estimation, he could hardly have said why.
Hermione stood somewhat apart, not moved by this as Harvey would have
expected, but rather seeming not quite to approve of it. When Mr.
Dalrymple turned for another "Good-night" of peculiar tenderness,
her response was even a little cold. Whether Mr. Dalrymple noticed
the fact it was impossible to tell. He went quietly from the room.
Half-a-minute of silence followed. Hermione remained motionless,
the lamplight falling upon her dropped eyes. Harvey wished she would
be so good as to sit down, that he might do the same, but she did
not. The silence was broken by her voice.
"My grandfather is not well."
"I am afraid not."
"He was perfectly himself until you came. It is the worry."
"Are you sure he has not been failing at all? One does not always
notice at first, but he has a worn look—hardly the result of one
day's worry."
Mr. Fitzalan's words recurred to Hermione, but she put them aside,
and answered in resolute tones, "Quite sure. I have never seen him
like this before."
"In that case, I think you would be wise to have advice for him
without delay. Yes; to-night—why not?"
"What is the use? It is only that he is unhappy."
"I don't wish to contradict a lady, of course, but he seems to me
to be thoroughly unwell."
"Only because of that," she persisted.
"If you are absolutely certain to be in the right, discussing the
matter will do little good," Harvey could not help saying. "But I
have seen something of illness."
"He is worried, not ill. It is enough to upset him. If only you had
written openly from the first! I do not wonder that he feels it
so much."
Harvey ignored this.
"Then you will not even ask if he would like to see Mr. Pennant?"
"Now? No; it is half-past nine. I shall see how he is in the morning,
of course. Will you read prayers to-night, as he cannot?"
She did not speak curtly. Voice and manner were always soft and
gentle, yet Harvey knew that every intonation meant displeasure.
"I have no objection, if it is a matter of reading only."
"Yes; we always have a short psalm on Sunday, and I will show you
the prayer that my grandfather would use."
Hermione seated herself with a book, and little more passed between
the two until the bell sounded and they went to the library. It was
the first time within Hermione's recollections that she had ever been
there for this purpose without her grandfather. His absence gave her
a desolate feeling. She wished she had kissed him more tenderly, had
asked more anxiously after his condition. Mr. Dalrymple was an old
man, and not given to unimportant ailments. What if anything at all
serious were impending? Might it not even now be best to send for Mr.
Pennant, and ask him to look in for five minutes, just to see that
nothing was really wrong? Mr. Pennant was so kind, he would not
object, even should the errand prove to have been unnecessary. But,
on the other hand, it was getting late, and most likely there was no
need, and Mr. Dalrymple would dislike a fuss; and, besides—besides—
why should Harvey manage things? He had behaved so ill—had forfeited
all right to interfere. No, she would wait till the morning, and then
certainly Mr. Pennant should be summoned, if Mr. Dalrymple were not
better.
Hermione wore a reverent manner, but she heard not one word of the
psalm which Harvey read, or of the prayer which followed.
After that they went to bed.
A soft rapping at Harvey's door roused him next morning from
comfortable slumbers.
"All right," he answered drowsily, under the supposition that boots
and hot water would be deposited outside. But the rapping went on,
and in another moment he was wide awake.
A glance at his watch showed him that it was only half-past six,
a full hour and more before he was usually called. He had a trick
of locking his door at night, the fruit of foreign travel, therefore
to say "Come in" was useless. He sprang up, flung on his
dressing-gown, and turned the key.
Slade entered, subdued in manner and suppressed in voice, according
to his wont. It was not Slade's way to get into a flurry. But the
line across his forehead had grown into a deep rut, his hands
trembled, and he shut the door behind him, as if fearing to be
overheard.
"Anything wrong?" asked Harvey.
"Yes, sir—I am not sure," Slade answered under his breath. "I am
sorry to disturb you so early, sir, but would it trouble you very
much to come and take a look at my master? Mrs. Milton and me don't
know what to make of him, sir; and it don't seem right to frighten
Miss Rivers without there's good reason."
"No, certainly; don't say a word to her. I'll come in three minutes.
He is not ill, I hope?"
Slade went into a brief explanation. At six o'clock punctually
Mr. Dalrymple expected to be called, and this office was always
undertaken by Slade himself—more from love to his master than because
it appertained to his post. Personal attendance upon Mr. Dalrymple
was Slade's delight.
As a rule the old man was found to be already wide awake by six
o'clock, and it was rarely indeed that, as on the previous day,
he should fall asleep again. But this morning Slade had rapped and
rapped in vain. No voice answered, so at length he went in. He found
Mr. Dalrymple in a heavy slumber. Slade spoke, and Mr. Dalrymple
murmured indistinctly something about— "My head!—don't disturb me—"
dozing off again immediately. Slade did not think very much of it
at the first moment, and left the room; but presently a sense
of uneasiness crept over him, and he sought the housekeeper, who took
alarm at once.
"And we went back, sir, but we couldn't get any answer, not either
of us," Slade continued. "And Mrs. Milton pulled up a blind, and let
in the light—and then we saw, sir!" Slade's voice shook, and his face
grew paler. "And Mrs. Milton said I'd best call you directly, for we
don't like his look."
"Wait outside for me—three minutes," Harvey answered.
Scarcely more than the three minutes passed before he appeared,
already dressed. The two went down the passage silently, entering
Mr. Dalrymple's room.
Milton stood beside the bed, watching, and she turned upon Harvey
a pair of distressed appealing eyes. Harvey gave her a glance, but at
first he said nothing, only stooped to examine the face, to lay his
fingers on the wrist. Slade waited near the door, trembling still
with agitation, almost sobbing.
But that changed responseless face!—no wonder they had not "liked his
look."
"Send for Mr. Pennant," Harvey said.
"Yes, sir. Sir, you think—" faltered Slade.
"Send at once—not a moment's delay!"
Yet as Slade vanished, he bent again to look narrowly under the
half-closed eyelids, and almost unconsciously a mutter passed
his lips—
"No use! Poor Hermione!"
Mrs. Milton burst into tears.