THE QUESTION OF GOING.
HARRY FITZALAN walked home by his father's side in absolute silence,
and Mr. Fitzalan was too wise to break it. On reaching the Rectory
they separated, still without a word as to what they had witnessed.
"Poor boy!" the Rector murmured audibly in his own study, thinking of
the dazed look in those grey eyes, and the troubled set of the lips.
He said nothing to Marjory when she presently came in. It was not
Mr. Fitzalan's way to speak of another's wrong-doing unless there were
a needs-be: and there could be no doubt that Harry exchanged no
confidences with his sister. Marjory's unconscious talk about Hermione
in the evening showed this conclusively.
It was not till the afternoon of the following day that Harry would
leave. He was very restless and irritable meantime. Since he "had not
seen much" of Hermione the previous day—for he confessed to this—
Marjory suggested going with him to the Hall before lunch, and she
received a sharp snubbing for her pains. Marjory bore the snubbing
meekly, and made no further proposals. Harry betook himself to a book,
and seemed to be reading diligently, though he never turned a page.
He thought he had no wish to see Hermione again, not the slightest.
His idol had fallen from its pedestal with a crash. That crimsoned
face, blazing with anger, rose up as an impassable barrier between him
and the fair girl who had been lately the centre of his thoughts.
No; he did not want to see her. He had done with Hermione. It was time
to shake off all that nonsense. She was not the being he had imagined
her.
Yet somehow he could not make up his mind to leave the house that
morning. If he wished to avoid Hermione he ought to have done so,
for at any moment she might look in; but he stayed resolutely at home.
Perhaps there was a half-unconscious hope that if she came she might
appear in a mood of gentle penitence, which should do away with a
little of yesterday's cruel impression.
Hermione did not come, however, and Harry went off with a look of
fixed care upon his features. He would carry that vision of wrath with
him all through his next term of college life.
"Father, what has happened?" Marjory asked quietly, an hour later,
when Mr. Fitzalan entered. She was lying on the couch for one of her
short periodical rests.
"Sutton thinks the elm in the back garden ought to come down. I have
refused consent for the present."
"No; but I mean about Harry and Hermione. Do you know of anything?
Something is wrong, I am sure. He is not like himself."
Mr. Fitzalan debated what to say, standing by the table, and opening
a note which he found there. He had a wish that Marjory should be
unconscious when the two girls first met. But he knew that she must
hear soon of what had occurred, certainly from little Mittie, if from
no other quarter. He read his note slowly, and Marjory lay with her
eyes fixed upon him.
"If you would rather not tell me, I will not ask," she said. "Harry is
generally so open, but he has not been this time. So I dare say I am
not to know. Perhaps I can guess. Harry has been imprudent, and has
spoken too soon, and Hermione has given him a rebuff. That is what I
fancy, only you need not say 'Yes' or 'No'!"
"Nothing of that kind, Marjory," the Rector answered, looking up.
"We came upon a certain domestic scene which we were not meant to
witness; and sometimes the less one says the better in such cases."
His eyes fell upon a figure passing through the garden. "Ah, here is
Hermione herself. So we must put off explanation till by-and-bye."
Marjory thought there was relief in the tone. Hermione came in a
moment later, entering, as she always did, without ringing the front
door bell. She seemed to be restored to her usual self, but the
ordinary graciousness of manner had given place to a rather haughty
air. She held her head higher than its wont, and the blue eyes had a
combative expression, as of one on the look-out for opposition.
Mr. Fitzalan would fain have seen different tokens.
"Harry has gone off. I am so sorry," Marjory said.
"Yes, I supposed he would leave before this. I—could not well come
earlier," and there was slight hesitation. She turned then to Mr.
Fitzalan; "I was sorry to see so little of you both yesterday, but I—
it could not be helped. Mrs. Trevor had behaved to me in a most trying
way. Of course—" and a faint flush arose— "I am vexed to have been
betrayed into speaking hastily. But I had great provocation."
Her eyes went to Marjory as if in appeal, and Marjory said at once,
"My father and Harry have told me almost nothing, so I do not
understand. I think I had better leave you with—"
"O no!" and there was a manifest shrinking from the proposal. "I have
nothing to say which you may not hear. I have come to ask something
of you both—a great kindness. Did they explain to you yesterday,
Mr. Fitzalan, about this East Bourne plan?"
"It was mentioned. I do not know particulars."
"I cannot go, of course. May I come here for a time? Will you take
me in?"
Her lips remained parted with a look of entreaty, but a motion
of Mr. Fitzalan's hand checked the eager response springing from
Marjory. "Why cannot you go?" he asked gravely.
"It is impossible."
"The change would be pleasant, and you are not absolutely tied to
Westford by duties which cannot be laid aside. I suppose it will be
a matter of a few weeks only."
"I don't know. It may be longer. But—"
"You have had very little variety as yet. It is good for both mind and
body to come in contact with fresh scenes and fresh phases of life.
There is a danger of getting cramped and narrowed by moving always in
one small circle. I should be sorry if you did not take advantage
of this opportunity."
"I cannot!" she said.
"There may be difficulties which I do not see. The thing itself is
certainly desirable. East Bourne is a particularly bright healthy
place, with a good deal going on. The change from this quiet country
life will be thorough."
"I do not want change. I cannot go!"
"Why not?"
"It is impossible. I have said that I will not."
"That would hardly be a sufficient reason. The mere fact of having
been betrayed into saying a thing hastily—"
Hermione flushed up. "I cannot take back what I have said."
"Even if that which you said was wrong?"
Marjory gave one quick glance at them both, said quietly— "I will be
back in a few minutes," —and was gone. Hermione's hasty, "Oh, don't
go!" did not deter her.
Hermione held up her head rigidly, but her lips were trembling. "Then
you will not take me in!" she said, in a tone of grieved reproach.
"I did not think I should have asked that in vain from such old
friends. I see now how alone I am!"
"The question is not what you or I would wish, my dear child, but what
is right. I am anxious not to help you to a hasty decision, which you
will some day regret."
"It is not hasty. I have been thinking half the night. I cannot and
will not go to East Bourne, after the way in which I have been
treated. You are judging me hardly, not knowing all."
"Try to tell me all; I should like to understand the matter fully."
Hermione found herself in a difficulty. She began to detail exactly
what had passed, and came to a standstill. The words uttered did not
sound nearly so heinous on a repetition as they had first sounded to
herself. After all, it had been more a question of tone and manner
than of words, and Hermione was not clever at reproducing another's
manner. After a break she began again, only to come to a second
standstill, tears of vexation filling her eyes.
"Is that all?"
"No; I can't make you understand. There was more, of course. But, it
was the way she did it—"
"That I can believe. Much more depends upon the way in which a word
is said than upon the word itself. Still, I can see no real cause
for a serious break with your relations."
"I don't want to have a break. Only I cannot go to East Bourne."
"Because you were not told of the plan till after Mrs. Trevor!"
Hermione rose suddenly. "I see I shall have no help or sympathy here.
I thought things would be different. It is of no use my staying
longer. Please tall Marjory—"
"No, I am not going to tell Marjory anything. You shall tell her
yourself. Why, Hermione, my child," he went on kindly, "you are not
going to take offence with such an old friend as I am. That would be
strange indeed. Try to be wise, and to look upon this matter in the
right light."
"I am not bound to go to East Bourne unless I wish."
"Not bound in the abstract, but some attention to your cousins' wishes
is their due. If Mr. Dalrymple is content to leave you behind—"
"Harvey has no control over my movements."
"Yes; he is head of the household, and you are his dependent."
The words seemed cruel to Hermione. "I am not likely to forget that,"
she said, in choked tones.
"Then we need say no more about it. After all, the whole question
hinges on one point—what is the right thing for you to do?"
"I cannot go to East Bourne," she persisted.
"Not if you distinctly see it to be right?"
"I have said I would not. I cannot take that back."
"Then, Hermione," he answered gravely, "it is very evident that with
you the pleasing of self ranks first, the doing of what is right ranks
second. Is that true service?"
Hermione burst into tears; but still there were no signs of yielding.