WONDERFUL COMPOSURE.
HERMIONE did not break down, as all around expected, under the
fearfully sudden blow. When first they brought the news of what had
occurred, she grew indeed pale as ashes, but neither fainted nor
screamed.
"My grandfather taken ill, and I not told I how cruel! how wrong!"
she said reproachfully, and for some minutes she seemed to hold
at bay the dire truth that he was gone. When at length it gained
entrance, she went resolutely straight to his room, undeterred by all
remonstrances—and saw for herself.
Even then she bore up with a fortitude extraordinary in one so young.
She turned to no one for comfort, leant upon no one for support. Only
as she stood by the bed in tearless sorrow, she lifted to Harvey a
pair of anguished eyes and said, "If you had written—if you had done
differently—Harvey—your own conscience—" There she stopped, and he
had again the curious sense of being called to account by this mere
girl, so delicate in look, yet so inviolable in composure.
He made no attempt to defend himself. It was natural that at the
moment she should ascribe her grandfather's death, at least in a
measure, to the shock of Harvey's unexpected return. Had she known
how unwelcome to the old man had been the news of Harvey's marriage,
she would have counted the case against him yet stronger. Harvey
could not think of this without pain and self-reproach, although for
his comfort he already knew that during many weeks past both
Mr. Pennant and Mr. Fitzalan had noticed distinct signs of failing
in Mr. Dalrymple—so much so that Mr. Pennant had twice warned him
to be more careful of himself. But of this Hermione was ignorant, and
when, a little later, she was told, she did not seem to believe it.
"My grandfather was so well up to Saturday afternoon," she said
mournfully; and after all, no reasoning could explain away the actual
fact of a shock received. Mischief might have been brewing, but also
the brewing mischief might have been hastened.
Hermione had her own bitter additional grief, but for which she would
have blamed Harvey far more unreservedly. If she had followed
Mr. Fitzalan's advice, and kept her grandfather at home—as she might
have done, for he would always yield to his darling, if to no one
else—and if she had followed Harvey's suggestions of sending
for Mr. Pennant, who could say but that the fatal attack might have
been warded off? This thought pressed upon her with leaden heaviness,
yet she spoke of it to no one. She was very reserved, very reluctant
always to admit blame to herself as due. Harvey made no allusion
in her hearing to his rejected advice; such an allusion could now
have been only cruel. Mr. Fitzalan said nothing of the message he had
sent, which he supposed to have failed in its effect, for he would
not needlessly add to Hermione's distress.
People hear grief in very different ways, and Hermione's fashion
of grief-bearing was not to sink beneath it. Though so slight
in appearance, she was healthy and vigorous. Where another might have
been crushed, she seemed rather to be stimulated into an intense
restlessness. She could not read, could not work, could not talk
consecutively. No needless allusion to her loss ever passed her lips,
yet when necessary she spoke of Mr. Dalrymple with outward composure,
gave all needful orders, wrote countless letters, arranged
everything, left no duties unperformed.
From the first she had not been known to shed a tear, and the usually
smiling eyes had a dry look of fixed sadness; nevertheless she did
weep when alone in her own room, and she was not utterly overwhelmed.
She did not appear to be suffering in health, but only was always
on the move, unable to rest, passing hither and thither incessantly,
upstairs and downstairs, from one room to another, her soft step
never varying in its style.
Harvey wondered at her. He was full of pity for the poor girl,
and this sudden death of the kind old uncle whom he had not treated
rightly came to him as a sharp blow. He would have liked to draw
nearer to Hermione in her loneliness, to have shown brother-like
sympathy, and to have tried to comfort her. But Hermione eluded all
such attempts. She was his polite and cousinly hostess—nothing more.
Any further approach drove her instantly to "letters that must be
written," or "something that had to be done." Harvey acquiesced at
length, taking long walks about the neighbourhood, and seeing a good
deal of the Fitzalans, but holding very little intercourse with
Hermione. And so the slow days wore away until the funeral.
Marjory was by far the more broken down of the two girls. From the
moment of receiving the sad news she had scarcely left her couch.
She could not sit up or stand without a sickening whirl of everything
present. Parish work and other work had to wait. The girl seemed
crushed by her friend's loss.
The two had not met as yet. Hermione kept strictly to the house,
and Marjory could not go thither—the utmost she was able to
accomplish being to dress herself and creep down to the drawing-room.
Harvey commonly found her there when he came in, as he did on some
pretext or other once, if not twice, each day. Life at the Hall was
dull for him, and he seemed glad to get out of the sombre atmosphere;
and Marjory could detect a natural impatience to be with his young
wife again. "I should have liked to send for her here," he said once,
"but Hermione seems to disapprove; and I suppose, under the
circumstances, as they are strangers—"
He looked doubtfully at Mr. Fitzalan, and the answer was, "I think
you will be wise to wait." To Marjory's relief; Harvey acquiesced.
Friday came, and all the village followed the remains of the
village-benefactor to the grave. Hermione was there, notwithstanding
her cousin's opposition. Harvey thought that the ordeal must be too
great, and would fain have had her remain at the Hall. But he needed
not to have feared. Hermione was entirely composed throughout—
"stoical" one person said to himself, and that person was not Harvey,
for Harvey could not at all make up his mind about Hermione.
Marjory, who would fain have been present also, had to give it up.
She was only able to lie on her couch, weeping passionately for her
friend, while Hermione in deep black, with an angelic sweetness
on her fair face, stood forward alone as chief mourner, the observed
of all observers. Harvey was near, but she would not have
his support. Mr. Fitzalan's voice shook, and his hand trembled, while
Hermione never faltered. When they sang a hymn round the grave,
by Hermione's express desire, her clear tones took the lead, and her
blue eyes were uplifted as if verily able to see "behind the veil."
At the words, "I heard a voice from heaven—" brokenly uttered
by Mr. Fitzalan, who seemed quite unnerved and scarcely able
to struggle through the service, that look came again to her face.
Then a sob was heard, but it did not come from Hermione. A young man
stood behind her, stalwart in figure, his fine boyish face working
with strong emotion. Even in that sad hour Harvey had cast from time
to time interested glances at Harry Fitzalan, down in Westford
for the day. There were many who could tell him of Harry's devoted
affection for Mr. Dalrymple. It was an attachment which did the young
man honour.
Over at last! and the crowd broke slowly up. Harry would not go to
the Hall, as somebody asked him to do. He did not want to hear the
will read, so he hurried off alone to the Rectory. Marjory saw him
coming, to cast himself dejectedly into a chair in the darkest corner
of the drawing-room, and she checked her own tears to rise and meet
him. "Poor Harry must feel it so terribly," she knew. "After
Hermione, it was worse for him than for anybody."
"And Hermione!" she whispered, standing by his side, a few words
having passed. "And poor Hermione?"
The young man made a movement as if of impatience. He was very like
his father and sister in face, having the same irregular cast
of features, with loose brown hair and expressive eyes, but he was
half a head taller than Mr. Fitzalan, and strong in build, with a
sunburnt healthy look, therein a marked contrast to Marjory.
"Poor Hermione!" he repeated, with a touch of mockery. "You need not
trouble yourself, Marjory. It was all graceful attitudes and lovely
looks—nothing more."
Marjory's eyes filled. "O Harry! indeed you are mistaken."
"I wish I were. She didn't shed a tear—but tears are not becoming,
you know." Harry spoke somewhat doggedly, as if determined to stand
by his own opinion. "I never do understand female stoicism. It is
unnatural. And such a man as Mr. Dalrymple!" The words ended in a
groan.
"It is not stoicism—indeed it is not. It is only that she will not
give way before others."
"And now she will go home, do her duty to everybody, and be as
charming as if—" Harry broke into a sigh. "Well, we needn't discuss
the matter. It does no good—only worries you. We never shall think
alike about Hermione, I suppose. That six months abroad spoilt her—
and I see it, but you don't. I can't see why you need, either. After
all, she's a lovely creature, Marjie—nobody knows it better than
I do. Sometimes I wish I didn't know it quite so well. I should like
to get her out of my head altogether—and I can't. He counted her
perfect, dear old man! Only, one does look to see him mourned
differently—"
"Don't!" Marjory entreated.
"Poor little woman!" He kissed her brow in tender fashion. Harry was
a full year older than Marjory, though in looks four or five years
her junior. "Too bad of me, isn't it? I'll never accuse you of being
a Stoic, Marjory. And as for Hermione, perhaps you and I agree better
than we seem to do on the surface."
"You know very well that nothing would grieve you more than to see
her unhappy."
Harry made no response to this. He was so long considering what to
say that he ended by not saying anything at all. He knew that Marjory
spoke truth; yet quite as truly he could have added, "Except not to
see her unhappy when she ought to be so." But this would have pained
Marjory; and after all, how could he or any one say that Hermione
did not grieve? He could only be sure that she was not overcome
by her grief; and the question of being outwardly overcome depends,
not only upon kinds and degrees of sorrow, but upon the mode
of expression natural to each person in sorrow, upon the condition
of health, and upon the strength of will, where that will is bent
to the task of self-repression.
Marjory broke the long silence. "Did you speak to Harvey?"
"A few words. There was no need for more."
"He was kind—?"
"Why should he be anything else?" Harry spoke captiously.
"You have heard about his marriage!"
"Harvey Dalrymple's!" Harry spoke in a voice of amazement now, and he
stirred himself to an upright posture, as if startled out of his
depression.
"Yes."
"But I say, Marjie, I always thought—" Harry hesitated.
"Mr. Dalrymple's wish—"
This was the first thought which occurred to every one who knew
Mr. Dalrymple. The marvel was that he had never divulged it
to Hermione herself.
"I say!" reiterated Harry, in blank boyish astonishment.
"He was married abroad nearly a month ago. He had not written
beforehand, and he came home on that account to tell them here."
A curious revulsion of ideas was going on in Harry's mind,
a revulsion the nature of which was not distinct even to himself.
He sat staring at Marjory with those big grey eyes of his.
"Then—Hermione—" he uttered.
"Hermione only cared that Mr. Dalrymple was not told, because it was
a slight to him. Otherwise she would have been delighted. She told me
so herself."
"And she will live with them?"
"My father does not know what else she can do, and Harvey expects it.
But we want her to spend a quiet month with us first, to get over the
shock."
Harry sank into a dream, making no response. Marjory had her own
theory as to the subject of his dream.