A PRIVATE ARRANGEMENT.
HERMIONE was shown into a lavishly-decorated drawing-room, which might
have been taken as a very symbol of City wealth set-down in a country
corner. She did not like the style of the thing, for her tastes had
been educated in chaste lines, and the superabundance of money-outlay,
witnessed to by every inch of the room, went against the grain with
her. Even where beauty existed, it was spoilt by ostentation.
The three Daltons, father, mother, and daughter, appeared in quick
succession, each more or less flurried, and all disposed to welcome
her with empressement. Mr. Dalton was stout and plain, Mrs. Dalton
plump and comely, Miss Dalton thin and excitable. They were charmed to
see Miss Rivers, but amazed to hear that she had come on foot. What a
pity that she had not driven! In her dear grandfather's time—but of
course things were different now! Everybody was talking of it. But
Miss Rivers would sit quiet and rest, and have a cup of tea presently;
and by-and-by they would drive her home themselves—delighted to do so!
No trouble at all to have the carriage out, but quite a pleasure—and
all those lazy horses in the stables wanted exercise. Positively Mr.
Dalton did not know how to give them enough.
"I assure you I prefer the walk," Hermione said somewhat distantly.
For although she had come to seek a favour, she did not wish to have
favours thrust upon her unsought; and it was too much to have these
people supposing that she had walked because she might not drive if
she chose. The slight figure straightened itself, and the fair cheek
flushed a little.
"Well, we will see—we will see!" Mrs. Dalton responded, nodding her
head. "Yes, you are a good walker, no doubt, my dear, but it begins
to get dusk early, you know, and you are much too young and pretty
to walk home alone after dusk. Is she not, Anna? Much too young and
pretty. And we see you so seldom, you are not going to hurry away now
you have come at last."
Hermione again could have resented the patronage of that "my dear,"
but taking offence at such trifles was hardly compatible with the aim
of her call. So she restrained herself.
It had not been her intention to remain long,—certainly not longer
than was needed for the object in hand. But that object seemed
for a while to elude her grasp. Every conceivable subject came
under discussion except the one which she wished to bring forward.
She did not wish the bringing forward to be too obvious an action
on her own part. She wanted it to come up naturally, and this it
refused to do.
Mrs. Dalton and her daughter were people who liked to air their ideas
before a good listener, and Hermione was a very good listener, for
whether interested or no she always looked interested. Mr. Dalton had
a way of appealing deferentially to ladies for their opinions on vexed
questions; and as he usually made their notions the text for a
supplementary address by himself, the process consumed a good deal
of time.
"I really must leave," Hermione said at length, seizing on a minute
break, and she sighed, but did not rise. "There is so much to be done,
in preparation for leaving home next week!" Hermione sighed again.
"Are you really going away? But, as I was telling you, Miss Rivers,
the article which my husband read to me—"
"Yes, we are leaving. It is a trial to me, of course," Hermione said,
with her gentle air of sadness, ignoring the elder lady's desire
to discuss the last Quarterly. "My cousins have decided to spend a few
weeks at East Bourne. But—"
"How delightful!" exclaimed Miss Dalton. "The very queen of
watering-places, as—Who was it that said so, mother?"
"But I—" persisted Hermione.
"Yes, indeed, a most charming place," added Mrs. Dalton, dropping the
Quarterly to pick up East Bourne. "A few breezes on Beachy Head will
soon bring a little more colour to these pale cheeks, my dear
Miss Rivers."
"But I do not—"
"And just the right time of year," said Miss Dalton. "Of course,
the season is in August. But our friend Lady Maria always says—
you remember, mother—she always says the very best time in East Bourne
is through the autumn, when the height of the season is over. That is
the season she prefers. So Miss Rivers is particularly fortunate to be
going just now. Lady Maria says it is often delightful there quite
on into November, and even December."
"But I am not sure—"
Hermione's pale cheeks were gaining a good deal of colour already,
with the impossibility of making herself heard. She grew so vexed
that tears actually rose to her eyes.
"Yes, yes, to be sure, a most enjoyable spot for young folks,"
Mr. Dalton broke in.
"If I were in spirits for it," Hermione murmured. She did not in the
least realise that there was anything untrue, anything of acting
in this. The words came naturally at the moment, and she believed that
she felt what she said. Hermione was not, strictly speaking,
in spirits to enjoy the proposed change. But her low spirits came
mainly from a different cause than that which she wished to be
understood.
The words were heard at last, and Hermione's three companions,
suddenly silenced, noted the tears filling her eyes. Glances of
meaning were exchanged.
"Yes, yes, to be sure," assented Mrs. Dalton. "To be sure, my dear;
we were forgetting—"
"A gay sea-side place—after what I have gone through so lately,"
Hermione almost whispered. "My cousins' wish—but—"
"So very thoughtless of Mrs. Dalrymple," Miss Dalton asserted, falling
in promptly with the little note of implied blame. "Young brides never
do think of anybody except themselves. But after all, must you go
at all? Why not stay quietly in Westford? It really is very soon
to have to turn out, and be among a lot of strangers. Why not just
stop behind?"
"I did think of that—but—the house is to be closed and left in charge
of servants," Hermione faltered. "And the friends with whom I hoped
to stay are—unfortunately—cannot have me just then."
Was this absolute truth Hermione's conscience gave her a sharp twinge.
But the others suspected nothing. She spoke so quietly and simply,
with no appearance of expecting anything from them. A little sigh came
once more, and then she added—
"But it cannot be helped. One must make the best of things. Only,
of course, it is a change."
Hermione had won her will at last. Three sentences broke in quick
succession from her sympathising hearers.
"Mother, don't you think you could persuade Miss Rivers—?"
"My dear, it's plain enough what you've got to do! You just come
and stay here while your cousins are away!"
"Yes, yes; that's it, Miss Rivers. You make our house your home.
Let other folks go their own way. We'll take you in, and count it
an honour; and you shall be as quiet as you like—not see a single
person, if you don't feel yourself disposed."
"Thank you!" Hermione answered faintly, glancing from one to another,
"But, indeed—"
A sudden doubt swept through her mind. Would this plan be really
better than the other? Apart from Mrs. Trevor, might not East Bourne
be the pleasanter alternative?
Only it could not be apart from Mrs. Trevor. If she went to East
Bourne, Mrs. Trevor would have triumphed. That decided Hermione.
"Oh, we won't hear any 'but'! You must come, you positively must,"
Mrs. Dalton was declaring. "Just to be at home, my dear, for as long
as you like, and to do exactly whatever you choose."
It was very kind. Hermione could not but be sensible of the kindness,
even while she shrank from the thought of the companionship. There
seemed, however, to be no other alternative. It had come to East
Bourne or the Daltons! And since the former meant the yielding of her
own will, and the chance of a triumphant glance from Mrs. Trevor,
Hermione chose the latter.
In ten minutes all was settled, but Hermione could not get away then.
Mrs. Dalton refused to listen to any suggestion about departure.
Hermione was to stay till five o'clock tea; and then she had to see
this, to hear that, to discuss the other, until it was too late for
her to think of walking home alone. The sense of obligation put her
doubly into their power, and there was not among the Daltons that
delicacy of feeling which would have made them fall in at once with
her evident wish to leave.
The afternoon at last was gone, and Hermione found herself driving
homeward in the Daltons' carriage, with Miss Dalton by her side.
Miss Dalton talked ceaselessly, and Hermione listened, putting in a
word now and then. Not many such words were requisite. A Dalton could
always flow on indefinitely, with small exterior help, and Mr. Dalton
alone of the three ever appealed to others for their opinions.
Poor Hermione! It was not interesting talk. She was getting very tired
of it already, after only two or three hours of intercourse. How would
she feel after weeks of intercourse?
But she had taken her deliberate choice.
When Hermione came in at the front door, Mittie met her, with scared
look and tear-swollen eyes.
"O cousin Hermione! have you heard?"
Hermione had found the front door on the latch—unwontedly late—and had
entered without ringing, after an effusive farewell from Miss Dalton.
The effusiveness vexed Hermione, though she did her best to conceal
vexation and to respond only with a gentle dignity. "For of course
it is most kind of them," Hermione thought— "most kind, and I am
really grateful. But I do not intend to be drawn into an intimacy.
I see no need for that. We shall continue on pleasant terms—nothing
beyond."
After which her glance fell upon Mittie's troubled face, and the
hall-sobbing question reached her— "O cousin Hermione, have you
heard?"
"Heard what?"
"About—about Aunt Julia and Uncle Harvey?"
"I don't understand. What have they done?"
"The horses ran away, and the carriage is all smashed, and—and—poor
Emperor is dead," sobbed Mittie. "And mother has gone off to Aunt
Julia. And Marjory came here, and stayed with me ever so long—she did,
cousin Hermione—and you were so dreadfully late, she couldn't wait any
longer. And Aunt Julia is very bad, and Uncle Harvey is hurt too."
Hermione stood gravely looking down on the child with an air of
grieved concern, exactly the right air for the occasion. Nobody would
have guessed the instant thought which shot through her mind, that
East Bourne would now be given up, and there would be no need for her
to go to the Daltons'. Hermione would have been the last to confess
the thought; she scarcely allowed its existence even to herself.
"Who brought the news, Mittie?"
"John did. He came back from Captain Woodthorpe's."
"Are they there—at Captain Woodthorpe's?"
Mittie was crying too bitterly to respond further than by a nod.
Hermione led her to the drawing-room, where she rang for Slade.
The whole tale was then told her.
"And you understood that Mrs. Dalrymple was in danger?" Hermione said
at length. It seemed very terrible. Only a few hours earlier in full
health, with every prospect of a long life, and now—!
"I did, Miss," Slade answered solemnly. "John was under that
impression."
"Is John here now?"
"He drove back with Mrs. Trevor to see the horses."
"And Mr. Pennant—you say that Mr. Pennant was to follow."
"Mr. Pennant was absent on his rounds, Miss, but Mrs. Pennant
undertook that Mr. Pennant would set off immediately on his return.
He did return about an hour later, and when he left, Mr. Fitzalan went
also."
"I must know when Mr. Pennant and Mr. Fitzalan come back," said
Hermione. "Send some one to the Rectory to wait. Mr. Fitzalan may come
here, but if he does not I should like a message."
She had to wait long for news. Mittie went to bed, vainly imploring
to sit up longer. Hermione had her own ideas of discipline for
children, and she counted this no bad opportunity for counteracting
in some small degree the mother's spoiling method. So Mittie
disappeared, sobbing in a heart-broken style, and Hermione sat alone
with a book, keeping anxious watch.
Hermione really was very much grieved and shocked, though not to any
crushing extent. Such an accident happening to even a mere
acquaintance would come as a blow, and Hermione felt it quite as a
blow. She could not settle down to her book in any comfort. Harvey had
shown her invariable kindness, and Julia had almost succeeded in
winning her affection. "Poor Julia!" Hermione said repeatedly, with a
little sigh of commiseration. Perhaps, as she sighed, the recollection
would dart into her mind, "Now I need not go to the Daltons'!"
followed by a regretful wish, "If only I had waited one more day!"
But she did her best to smother down these suggestions, and only to
let herself think pityingly of "Poor Julia and Harvey!"
The announcement, "Mr. Fitzalan!" came at length abruptly. Hermione
sprang up, greeting him with outstretched hand.
"Oh, I am so glad! You have been to Captain Woodthorpe's, have you
not? How are they both? Where is Mr. Pennant?"
"He will not return till morning," Mr. Fitzalan answered.
Hermione's face fell. "Are things so serious? Is it—Julia?"
"Yes. Mr. Dalrymple is in no danger, though much hurt."
"And they thought Julia was not hurt at all at first, Slade tells me.
Do sit down, Mr. Fitzalan!" for he stood facing her, with his hand
on the back of a chair.
"She did not appear to be."
"Was it true that she walked over two miles? Could she?"
"She did. It was wrong, of course; but till they had gone some
distance she was not aware of her own state, and then she struggled
on for Mr. Dalrymple's sake. That made matters much worse. She ought
to have given in at once. They seem all to have been under the
impression that Mr. Dalrymple was much more hurt than has proved to be
the case."
"And Julia gave in—when?"
"When the doctor pronounced him to be in no danger."
"Slade spoke of a fainting fit."
"Yes—the result of over-exertion, I suppose—and there are internal
injuries. They have not dared to move her from the sofa where she was
first carried. Captain Woodthorpe's doctor was obliged to leave, and
Pennant said he would remain till morning."
"You did not see Julia?"
"For three minutes I did. It was her wish that I should pray. Talking
was not allowed."
"And she did not say anything? Poor Julia! How did she look?"
"Very ill, and very calm. Yes, she whispered a few words. She said,
'My love to Hermione. Tell her—all is peace.'"
Mr. Fitzalan's eyes were moist. Hermione only said, "I am glad. But I
should not have expected—"
"Expected what?"
"That Julia—I have never fancied that Julia had much real religion."
"Our fancies about one and another are very apt to be mistaken."
"But—one may sometimes judge—" began Hermione.
"No, that we have not to do. We may judge lines of conduct, but we may
not judge individuals. Happily the decision on that head does not rest
with us. If it did, we should too often in our conceit shut out those
who may be nearer Christ than we are ourselves."