FROM MISS DALTON.
"COUSIN HERMIONE, what time will mother and Uncle Harvey come home?"
Hermione was writing letters at a davenport, when the little voice
timidly invaded her absorption. Somehow Mittie had grown timid lately.
She always had a sense of being "in the way" with Hermione.
"I don't know exactly. You can ask Milton."
"I did ask Milton, and she thought it would be rather early. But I
don't know what 'rather early' means; and she's so busy, she says
she can't be bothered. May I get some flowers for mother's room out of
the conservatory?"
"No, certainly not," Hermione answered. "You will spoil the whole look
of things."
"But I do want it so much," sighed Mittie.
Hermione wrote on, unheeding.
"Then if I mustn't get any flowers out of the conservatory, I think
I'll try to find some pretty leaves in the fields," murmured Mittie.
"I'm sure mother would like them. If Marjory wasn't away all to-day,
I'd ask her for some. But I dare say some nice red and yellow leaves
would do. Do you think mother won't come for half-an-hour, cousin
Hermione? Because I don't want to be out when she comes?"
Hermione looked up vacantly.
"Half-an-hour? No, I dare say not! Do run away, child. I am busy,
and I cannot attend to you just now."
Mittie stole off without another word, and Hermione finished her
letter, having no further interruptions. She closed, addressed,
and stamped it. Then leaning back with a grave and worried air,
Hermione drew from her pocket the scrawled note which she had received
from Mrs. Trevor the day before. It was as follows:—
"BRIERLY COTTAGE."
"DEAR HERMIONE,—Harvey has decided to go home to-morrow,
as he is quite equal to the drive; and I shall come also.
Julia will have to wait, probably for another week—
not longer, we hope."
"I don't suppose we shall get to East Bourne for another
fortnight."
"Harvey wishes the brougham to be here before three
o'clock, as he would like to start early.—Yours
sincerely, F. TREVOR."
"What made her say that about East Bourne?" murmured Hermione. "It was
unnecessary. They will not get off in a fortnight. If Julia cannot
stand this short drive for another week, she will not be fit for a
long railway journey only one week later. But Mrs. Trevor cannot rest
without making me feel her power. That is to say, her power over
Harvey and Julia. How Harvey can be so weak is astonishing. She has
no power over me. When they go to Eastbourne I will go to the Daltons.
Not for enjoyment, certainly! It is not a friendship I would
choose. But if the Fitzalans fail me, and if I am driven to it
by Mrs. Trevor—"
Hermione's fair brow was contracted, and a flush rose in her cheeks.
"Anything rather than to be under Mrs. Trevor's power! Right and
wrong! I do not see that I should be wrong." This was in answer to a
distinct whisper of remonstrance from within. "I am not bound to go
to East Bourne."
Then it struck her, with a passing sense of compunction, that she
might after all have answered Mittie's question if she had taken the
trouble to look at Mrs. Trevor's note.
"That child leaves one no peace!" was the self-excusing comment.
"The brougham to be there before three; yes, of course, that was what
I told Slade. But I did not remember at the moment. One cannot always
remember. Three o'clock! They ought to be here by four."
The clock struck four as if in response, and Slade came in with the
letters, three for Hermione.
"Thanks!" Hermione said, with the gracious manner she always put on
towards the servants. "I suppose Mrs. Trevor and Mr. Dalrymple will
arrive directly. Better have tea up as soon as they come. I will ring
when I want lights. Do you know where Miss Mittie is?"
Slade did not know. Hermione went to her letters, without troubling
herself to inquire further, and Slade disappeared.
Two were lengthy epistles from distant friends. Hermione went through
them sheet by sheet in leisurely style, paying small heed to the
flight of time. Then she opened the third, finding, to her surprise,
that it was from Miss Dalton. What could Miss Dalton have to say?
"She need not suppose that I am going to get into a correspondence!"
thought Hermione, with a touch of something like resentment.
But the letter had to be read. It covered two sheets, and the writing
was not peculiarly legible. For a while Miss Dalton appeared to have
nothing particular to say. There was a good deal of chit-chat about
her own doings, about the Parish and about the neighbourhood, and
there was a certain amount of sympathetic gush about Hermione and
Hermione's trials. Miss Dalton was past girlhood, but not past girlish
gush. She seemed to be eagerly expectant of Hermione's visit, when
"the rest of them," as she tersely expressed it, should be gone
to East Bourne.
So far the letter was only commonplace and wearisome. On the second
page of the second sheet, however, Hermione came upon something
unexpected.
"I've only just come back from a week in London, and only think—
one evening I met at dinner a very old friend of your dear
grandfather's. His name is Ogilvie—Mr. Ogilvie—and I believe he is
some sort of relation of the Mrs. Ogilvie at Brierly Cottage; not that
I know Mrs. Ogilvie, for I never even met her, but just now,
of course, her name has come up in connection with all of you.
Mr. Ogilvie said something about a 'niece by marriage' living near
Westford. But we did not talk of her; we talked about you. He seems
a very frank kind old gentleman, and he said you were the prettiest
and sweetest child he had ever seen, about six or seven years ago."
"Then he said how he regretted hearing of the death of his dear old
friend, Mr. Dalrymple, and how he hoped you had been left properly
provided for. I hope you will not think it very interfering of me
to say all this, but really I think you ought to know exactly what
passed. I said I was afraid things were not at all as they ought
to be; and he said he was afraid they were not either; for the fact
was, he had received a letter from old Mr. Dalrymple, written just
before his death, speaking of what he meant to do for you. Mr. Ogilvie
was almost sure from the date of the letter, and the date
of Mr. Dalrymple's death given in the papers, that very little could
have been done."
"I said that I thought he really ought to make Mr. Dalrymple's letter
known for your sake, and he said he would be very willing to do what
was right. He had kept the letter, as being the last written by his
old friend. Of course he had not got it with him that evening, but he
quoted it from memory. He said it was written in a scrawled weak way,
not like Mr. Dalrymple's usual hand, and it spoke of the writer
feeling very unwell. Then the letter went on something like this,
'You will remember my sweet grandchild, Hermione Rivers. She is
lovelier than ever. I can feel no real fear about her future—so
attractive as she is, so sure to make friends wherever she goes. But I
have to provide for her future. The Westford estate is entailed.
I have this morning resolved to leave ten thousand pounds to her!'"
"Now, my dear Miss Rivers, you see!! You see what ought to be yours.
The letter was written on the Saturday, only two days before
Mr. Dalrymple's death, so, of course, nothing was or could be done.
And you are actually defrauded of this ten thousand pounds! Whatever
you have of your own, this ten thousand pounds ought to be yours also.
My father and my mother and myself feel most strongly on the subject,
I assure you. We feel that it ought to be made known. We feel that if
Mr. Dalrymple is made acquainted with his uncle's intention, and if
pressure is brought to bear upon him, he surely cannot—as a man
of honourable sentiments—he surely could not refuse to carry out what
his uncle would have done had he lived long enough."
Hermione read so far, and neglected the effusive wind-up. She sat
long, still as an image, lost in thought. The room grew darker,
but she did not notice it. Her whole mind was bent upon this
information which had so strangely come.
Ten thousand pounds! That would mean complete independence! It would
mean being able to go where she would, to live with whom she chose.
It would mean freedom from control, from Harvey, from Mrs. Trevor!
Mr. Dalrymple had fully intended this sum to be hers. He had that
morning resolved it—only that last morning! Extraordinary! Why had he
come to no such resolution earlier?
Hermione could not solve the puzzle. It was only another form of the
old perplexity—why he had let all those years go by, and had made
no provision in them for his darling?
She was more struck with another aspect of the matter, with the simple
fact that so soon as he had come to a resolution to act, death had
intervened, and the resolve could not be carried out.
With all Hermione's faults, she had been trained up into a very simple
and child-like belief in God's overruling and absolute power. And this
seemed to her very strikingly, very forcibly, like His interposition.
Mr. Dalrymple had willed to leave her ten thousand pounds, and the
Divine controlling touch had come, withholding from her what she might
have had.
Was she now to grasp at the thing withheld, to condescend to the use
of such means as Miss Dalton advised for the possible attainment
of that which had been withheld?