THINGS DIFFERENT.
THE conservatory door was flung open, and a child came flying along
the terrace, her lissom figure bending forward, her flaxen hair
streaming, cloud-like, behind.
"Mittie, Mittie! Come back, you naughty child!" sounded from within
doors, in faint shrill tones.
Mittie paid no regard to the sound. She rushed on, till within three
yards of Hermione and Marjory. There she stopped abruptly.
"Are you the pretty cousin?" she demanded, fixing her black eyes
fearlessly on Hermione, whom she seemed to select at a glance with a
precocious child's penetration. "Uncle Harvey says I have got to adopt
you, because you're not my cousin really, you know. But I think—" and
the black eyes roved to and fro between the two faces— "I think I'd
rather adopt the other!"
The words sounded comical from those rosy lips. Hermione was gravely
silent, wearing a checked, even a displeased look, as if the infantine
frankness were annoying. Marjory's heart went out towards the small
engaging creature, so daintily delicate in figure and dress.
"Don't you think you might adopt both of us?" she asked adroitly.
"We are very much like sisters. No, I am not Hermione—this is
Hermione—I am only Marjory Fitzalan. And you are Mrs. Trevor's little
girl?"
"I'm Mittie Trevor, of course." That seemed a self-evident fact to the
eight-years-old maiden. "And Mrs. Trevor is my mother, and we've come
to live here—but I wish it was you that had got to be my cousin. What
makes you call yourself 'only' Marjory? I like Marjory for a name, and
you are not a poor person."
Marjory could not resist stooping to give the kiss which Hermione
ought to have given.
"Not a rich one, at all events," she said.
"Oh, but you know what I mean? I don't mean that, of course—mother
isn't rich either, because she's lost all her money, and that's why
we've come to live here; but she isn't a poor person, of course, don't
you understand? What makes you look as if you had been crying?
Grown-up people oughtn't to cry about nothing, mother says, because it
makes them ugly—only you are not ugly. I mean to tell Uncle Harvey.
I like you ever so much the best. The other looks like Aunt Julia when
Aunt Julia is cross."
"Hush, you must not speak so," Marjory said hastily. But Hermione did
not seem to hear the utterances. She was standing as if lost in
thought.
"Impossible!" she said aloud. "He could never intend such a thing
without consulting me."
"Don't you think you ought to go? I had better say good-bye,"
suggested Marjory.
"If you must. Yes, I have to go in; but—" Hermione faltered, looking
at the child. Should she question Mittie? No, she could not stoop to
that. Harvey, and Harvey alone, must answer for himself.
"Come to live here!" Those four words rang in Hermione's ears as she
turned towards the house, forgetting even to respond to Marjory's
good-bye. Mittie stayed behind, to pursue her new acquaintance through
the garden, and Hermione entered the conservatory alone.
At the drawing-room door she paused, partly to observe, partly to
rally her powers of self-command. For all in a moment it rushed over
her how great a change had come in her life.
A tall lady-like girl, handsomely dressed, stood in the bow-window,
studying the view. Hand-bags and small packages lay about the room,
and Slade with his usual cautious air was carrying something away,
it did not matter what. Hermione caught the tone of his assenting
"Yes, sir," in mild response to an evident order from Harvey,
who stood near the fireplace, with the air of one taking possession,
albeit in his usual insouciant and gentlemanly style. A smaller and
plumper individual than Julia—somehow Hermione knew at once which was
Julia, though the widow's attire was by no means strongly marked as
such—had thrown herself into Hermione's own especial easy-chair, and
was remarking in distinct tones—
"Rather comical, isn't it, to desert the premises, and give nobody
a welcome? But I suppose one may expect a certain rusticity of manners
here. My dear Julia, I don't know what your sensations may be, but I
am dying for a cup of tea. Do pray ring and order it. That man is a
very embodiment of slowness; he will be an hour at least carrying
up the tray. Yes, pray ring, Harvey; thanks. And this is the
drawing-room! Not a badly-shaped room on the whole,—quite capable
of being made pretty. Of course there is no sort of arrangement now.
Everything seems to have been plumped down once for all exactly where
it stands, and left there for twenty years. Not a vase that hasn't its
exact match on the other side—and the way those curtains are draped
is antediluvian, to say the least. I'm not sure that it isn't
pre-Adamite. As for that row of chairs, with their backs against the
wall, they are enough to give one the nightmare. Nous allons changer
tout cela, I suppose, and the sooner the better."
"Francesca!" her brother-in-law uttered, in a warning undertone.
He had caught sight of Hermione standing in the conservatory doorway,
and he went forward to meet her, not without some secret
embarrassment, but with a kind brotherliness of demeanour. For he
wanted very much to make Hermione happy. He had set his heart on doing
all that he possibly could to repay her for what she was losing, short
of adequate money-repayment. He did not of course allow that she was
a wronged individual, or that she had any actual claim upon him.
He had reasoned himself by this time into looking upon the £20,000
settlement as an absolutely preposterous notion. It seemed to him
a doubtful matter whether the estate would stand the strain of losing
even half of that sum; and after all he was, legally, free to do or
not to do exactly as he chose. Still there was a distinct wish
to "make up" to Hermione for something—he did not define what!
Hermione's manner could not be called sisterly, and when she allowed
him to lead her to his wife there was no warmth in her welcome.
Mrs. Trevor's words, involuntarily overheard, did not heat her into
outward anger or freeze her into rigidity; and she came forward
gracefully as usual, with only a slight deepening of colour; but there
was a calm dignity, a displeased distance, in her bearing, curious
in one so young.
Julia did not know what to make of it. Her face, which had lighted up,
fell quickly, and she scanned Hermione inquiringly as their hands met.
Mrs. Trevor's lips wore an odd expression, like one bracing herself
for a conflict. She had expected a pretty young girl, whom she might
patronise agreeably out of the plenitude of her worldly experience;
and this stately young creature seemed hardly susceptible to
patronage. Hermione had often looked sweeter, sunnier, more lovable
than at this moment, but perhaps seldom more beautiful. And Mrs.
Trevor did not like beautiful women. She objected to being outshone.
Remarks trickled slowly from one to another, Hermione speaking just
so much as was necessary, not more. She seated herself on the sofa,
as if receiving guests, and she made polite conversation in a chilled
and chilling manner which Mrs. Trevor thoroughly understood. "That
girl has been spoilt, and needs putting in her right place," the widow
thought. "Julia will never succeed; she lets things go too easily.
I shall have to take her in hand myself."
Queries as to the journey were answered, and Hermione explained
her own absence at the moment of arrival, apologising for it in quiet
tones. She had not expected their train to be so early, she said. Then
Mittie's name came up, with wonderings as to what could have become
of her, in the midst of which Mittie herself came flying through the
conservatory, to deposit her little person in the big armchair which
had always been Mr. Dalrymple's.
Harvey saw and understood Hermione's look. "Come here, you witch,"
he said; "I want to know what you have been about." But Mittie
declined to be dislodged.
"No; I like this best," she said. "You always kiss me, and scrub so
with your moustache. I mean to sit here. I've been out in the garden,
and it's very pretty. It's a nice place to live in, I think. And
there's a person that I like very much. Her name is 'only Marjory,'
she says. That does sound so funny, but I love her. She's just as pale
as can be, and her eyes look so big and tired, and she's not like
nobody else I ever saw. I like her ever so much better than cousin
Hermione."
"That child wants bringing into order, Francesca," Harvey said, in a
displeased tone.
"She's too much for me. Hold your tongue, Mittie, and don't be rude,
or I shall send you to bed."
Mittie did not hold her tongue. She responded simply, "Then I shall
cry, mother!" and examined Hermione in a prolonged gaze.
The entrance of tea effected a diversion. Slade hesitated a moment
where to place the basket-table, glancing from his former to his
present mistress; but Julia paid no attention, and Hermione, as a
matter of course, signed him to the usual place. Mrs. Trevor noticed
this, with a strengthening of her previous determination. She noted,
too, the calm air of possessorship with which Hermione dispensed tea
and offered cake. Unmistakably the young girl was, in her own eyes,
hostess still. The time had scarcely come yet, however, for speech,
and nothing would have been said but for the presence of that
embarrassing child. Mittie munched and considered, curled up in the
big armchair, with her tumbled mass of flaxen hair and her soft
wide-open eyes.
"Does everything here belong to cousin Hermione? I thought Aunt Julia
was to be the mistress. Mother said so."
"Mittie, you are a very rude impertinent little girl! If you don't
hold your tongue, you shall leave the room," said Harvey, with
sufficient sharpness.
"I know mother said so," murmured Mittie, very nearly in tears, for a
real rebuke from her uncle was rare, and she loved him dearly enough
to mind it.
No further notice was taken, and Mittie subsided into silence.
Hermione scarcely seemed to have heard the childish utterance, yet it
had stung severely. Her hand trembled, causing one cup to clash
against another, and an unwonted flush became fixed in either cheek.
Once or twice, when addressed by Harvey, she appeared lost in thought.
For Mittie had done at last what all these weeks since her
grandfather's death had failed to do. Hermione's eyes were opened
to see in a flash, and that no welcome flash, her new position in the
household.
Not for worlds would she have had those around guess what she was
feeling. She kept her seat and her quiet manner, doing what had to be
done, only a little flushed and grave and silent. Harvey knew that the
unconscious arrow had sped, and he was very uneasy in his knowledge;
but the two ladies, not being aware of her usual looks and ways,
were not struck with the variation. They only thought her cold and
proud—pretty in no common degree, but not attractive.
"Can you manage without me for a little while? I have something that
must be done," Hermione said, rising when tea was over.
"Pray don't stay on our account," Mrs. Trevor said at once.
Harvey followed Hermione into the hall, with intent to apologise
for Mittie's rudeness, but she was too quick for him. He only saw her
out of reach, passing up the broad staircase.
Once within her own door, safe from observation, a change swept over
Hermione. The fair face grew white and wild, with a look of
inexpressible loneliness. She stood in the centre, her eyes cast down,
her arms drooping listlessly, her lips moving with scarcely articulate
utterances.
"How can I bear it? How shall I be able? Oh, grandfather—oh,
grandfather—so utterly alone! Must I stay? It is my home, but so
different now! Everything altered! I cannot understand; but I must ask
the Fitzalans—not Harvey. Those people to live here, and I not even
told! Oh, it was cruel of Harvey—cruel of everybody. And Julia the
mistress! Yes, I suppose so; but I did not see before what it meant.
O God—oh, God, must I bear it?"
Then there came a sharp struggle with a very storm of sobs, which
seemed almost as if they must rend the slight figure. Hermione writhed
and bent beneath the agony, yet pride was strong, and she would not
yield. Mrs. Trevor and Julia might not, should not, see that she had
been weeping; and she did not weep. Not a tear was allowed to force
its way from her eyes. The strife was soon over. Strange to say,
Hermione did not pray, as one might have expected. She spoke half
aloud, to herself, as it were, with but that one brief appeal which
could hardly be termed prayer; and then, having conquered the bout
of strong emotion, she stood up, going to the looking-glass.
"No, they will not know," she murmured, examining the face reflected
there. She even smiled gently to herself. "Yes, that will do. I shall
not be overcome now."
Five minutes later she was passing alone through the garden on her way
to the Rectory.