EXPECTED.
SEVERAL weeks had glided by when, one day towards the middle of
August, Harvey Dalrymple and his party were to arrive at the Hall.
He had not even yet plainly told Hermione that the widow and her
child would be permanent members of his household. There was "time
enough," and Harvey always deferred the unpleasant till to-morrow.
So Hermione only knew that another bedroom had to be prepared.
"A strange time to come—before Harvey and Julia are even settled in,"
she said, sighing. "Things would have been bad enough without that."
Hermione had slept at the Rectory hitherto, but this night she would
occupy her old quarters. Better so; the plunge had to be made, and
the sooner was the wiser.
These past weeks had gone very peacefully, and to Hermione not
unhappily. The sorrow had been a gentle sorrow, and she was
surrounded by kindness. She was so young, and so attractive in her
deep mourning, that few could look upon her unmoved. Wherever she
went she met glances and words of pity or sympathy, alike from rich
and poor. Mr. Fitzalan had never been more fatherly and kind than now
in her time of severe loss; Marjory was nothing less than her abject
slave; and Harry, returning home for his long vacation, forgot his
own past strictures, to place himself, metaphorically speaking,
at her feet. Why not? He was no longer bound, in loyalty to Mr.
Dalrymple's desire, to hold aloof. Hermione could never belong
to Harvey.
There could be no doubt that Hermione was soothed and comforted,
that she liked this kind of thing. To find herself a centre of
thought and care, of love and adulation, did not beget a conceited
mood or manner, but had a gently lulling effect. She accepted all the
petting, the care, the admiration, with a soft humility of demeanour
which deceived almost everybody, herself certainly included.
"So simple and unconscious," was the general verdict. Perhaps nobody
in the place saw deeper except Mr. Fitzalan; for, if Harry could have
seen, Harry would not see. He put on tinted glasses, and gave himself
blindly up to the infatuation of her sweet presence. And Mr. Fitzalan
said nothing. He knew that no words of his could make Hermione see
herself as she was, and he knew that Hermione's time of trial was yet
to come.
She kept well in health, able to sleep, eat, and walk as usual. She
had taken to looking gently pensive and depressed, but this was only
correct. Perhaps, if it did not sound cruel, one might even suggest
that she looked so because it was correct—because she found that it
was expected of her. And the pensive sweetness was very becoming.
But Harry, poor fellow, was past seeing that now, and Hermione
herself was unaware that she looked aught which she did not genuinely
feel.
There was cause enough, undoubtedly, for a saddened face. Nobody
would have been surprised at any amount of sorrow on her part. If she
had been utterly crushed, it would have been considered only
reasonable. But then she was not crushed at all. She was as much
interested as ever in people and things, and in surrounding life,
and as willing to be "appreciated" by everybody with whom she came
in contact. People in overwhelming grief do not care much about
appreciation, at least for the time.
There had been no talk as to business. Hermione asked no questions,
and the subject had been carefully avoided by the Fitzalans.
Mr. Fitzalan supposed that she had learnt from Harvey the true state
of affairs, and while inclined to wonder at her silence, he respected
it. He was not at all disposed to enter into any discussion about the
will, or about what Harvey's duty might be.
But, in truth, Hermione knew little as to the state of affairs. She
was vaguely aware that the estate had been left to Harvey, and that
he possessed a right to live at the Hall. It never so much as
occurred to her that she had a right to live there no longer, except
with his permission. She was very young—only nineteen years old—and
accustomed to have whatever she liked for the asking. All her life
had been spent at Westford, except an occasional month at the sea
side, and one long bout of six months on the continent with her
grandfather; which six months had transformed her from a complete
child to a complete young woman. She went away spoilt, passionate,
impulsive, yet pretty and most lovable. She came back lovely,
composed, self-restrained, confident, and charming.
As for money matters, Mrs. Milton, the housekeeper, managed all
household expenses, with merely a nominal reference to Hermione. Up to
seventeen years old Hermione had been in the hands a governess—and a
troublesome handful that poor governess found her. Since seventeen
she had been her own mistress, and had been permitted to buy whatever
she pleased, Mr. Dalrymple paying her bills and keeping her purse
filled. She was about as well acquainted with the practical value
of money as most children of eight or ten. When Harvey was at Westford
Hall, he would occupy the same position that Mr. Dalrymple had
occupied; and if there were bills to pay, no doubt Harvey would pay
them. Hermione could dismiss the question thus easily. She was a
clever girl, well-read, and with opinions on abstract subjects
at least as decided as opinions are wont to be at the age of nineteen,
but in regard to money matters she was complacently ignorant.
Mr. Fitzalan remarked one day that it was "kind" of Harvey to give
her a home. Hermione opened surprised eyes. "Why?" she asked, and
Mr. Fitzalan spoke of something else. Though he did not know of the
letter to Mr. Selwyn, he knew enough of Mr. Dalrymple's intentions
to count Harvey morally though not legally bound to provide for
Hermione; he knew quite enough, therefore, to deter him from
discussing things with Hermione.
Morally, but not legally! So it was the old question again of right
and wrong—of what a man would like to do versus what a man ought
to do! But money is very blinding to the moral eyesight where legal
freedom exists. Mr. Fitzalan wondered often how Harvey would view
his own position.
Marjory had afternoon tea at the Hall with Hermione, the day on which
the travellers were expected. Hermione did not seem nervous or timid,
as Marjory would have been in her place—as, indeed, Marjory was now.
She only looked pensive. Milton had arranged abundance of flowers
in the drawing-room, and Hermione altered the arrangement here and
there, with some critical remarks. Then she went for a walk on the
terrace with Marjory, to while away the time.
"I suppose we shall hear the bells ringing soon?" she said.
"If only that need not have been!" sighed Marjory. "Harry has gone
for a long walk to get out of the way. He said he could not stand it."
"Poor Harry!" Hermione observed, in her elder-sisterly tone. "He was
always so fond of my dear grandfather."
"Do you think Harvey will keep up things as he did?" faltered Marjory.
"I hope so, indeed. I shall use all my influence, Marjory, and if
Harvey did not, I should think it right to speak to him plainly."
Hermione, the girl of nineteen, might speak, but would Harvey, the man
past thirty, listen? Marjory, with all her devotion to Hermione, was
conscious of something a little out of joint here, of something not
quite as it should be. For, after all, everybody is not called upon to
set everybody to rights. There are limits to our duties.
To suggest that Hermione was labouring under a mistake lay beyond the
reach of Marjory's capabilities. She said only, "You like Harvey
really, do you not? in himself, I mean."
Hermione wore a look of thought. "Yes," she said; "I like him
certainly—as my cousin. That does not always mean much, does it?
A cousin may be a great deal to one or nothing at all. He wishes to be
a brother to me, and I have no objection, so far as it is possible,
though he did not behave as he should to my grandfather. The past
cannot be undone, and he was willing to pass it over. I believe it is
wisest to drop the thought of the past, and to begin afresh. If Julia
will let me, I shall be a sister to her. Only I cannot help wishing
that this Mrs. Trevor had kept away just now. Hark, the bells are
beginning."
Marjory was in tears. Hermione slipped a hand through her arm.
"Dear Marjory, I know you feel so much for me," she said.
Marjory could not have told whether she felt most keenly for Hermione
or for herself at that moment. She was one to suffer keenly from every
"new departure" in life.
"I must go, Hermione. They will be here directly."
"Not yet. Cannot you stay with me to receive them?"
"My father thought it best not. I have no right, and it might seem
like intrusion."
"Intrusion? If I ask you to stay?"
Yes, even if Hermione asked it, for Hermione was no longer mistress.
But Marjory could not suggest this. She did not know what to say.
Her own instinct was strongly opposed to the step, yet she could not
bear to leave Hermione alone at such a trying moment. They took one
more turn together, and when at the farther end of the terrace a sound
of wheels stopping at the front door was heard.
"They have come!" exclaimed Marjory, flushing.
Hermione paused. "Impossible," she said. "It is some caller. Slade
will say that I am engaged."
"But everybody knows—nobody would come to-day. Had I not better
go home?"
Hermione hesitated, sure that her own conjecture would prove to be
in the right. The train was one proverbially behind time, and Hermione
had not looked for the travellers to arrive until a full quarter of an
hour later. Besides, the bells had only just begun to ring.
For once, however, the late train was early; and the bell-ringers,
as well as Hermione, were taken by surprise.