GIVING IN.
A WEEK later Julia came home. The day before, she had a letter from
Francesca, which she re-read carefully in the carriage on her way
back. Part of it ran as follows:—
"You will find things different in certain respects, not altogether
disagreeable respects. I told you about Hermione finding poor Mittie
on the wall, and actually carrying her part of the way home, with
Slade there by her side. Why she couldn't let Slade do it passes my
comprehension, but I suppose Hermione always must do things after her
own fashion, unlike other people. Anyhow, she is oddly changed since
that day. I must confess that I did for once speak out, when I found
how she had been neglecting that poor child, and I gave her a good
piece of my mind. She didn't say a word in answer, only turned so pale
that really I almost thought she meant to treat me to a fainting fit
by way of mild revenge. So perhaps the shot told. If so, I'm sure it
is not to be regretted."
"Anyhow, whatever is the cause, I am glad to have her moderately civil
to myself. More than civility I don't ask. As for the devotion which
has sprung up between her and Mittie, I suppose I might be jealous
if I were disposed to jealousy, which happily I am not. It is too much
trouble. Mittie is better, but we can't let her come downstairs yet.
She has had a narrow escape of rheumatic fever. Hermione sits with her
by the hour together, reading and telling stories, which saves me
trouble, so I don't object. Mittie's raptures are about equally
divided now between 'My Marjory' and 'Sweet cousin Hermione.' So long
as the child is amused, I really don't care what amuses her."
"I am giving you this little hint beforehand as to the present posture
of affairs, for fear you should blunder. Hermione evidently objects
to remarks on her proceedings."
"Harvey is getting impatient to be off to East Bourne, I can see.
I haven't an idea what Hermione will do. Miss Dalton paid her an
immensely long call two days ago. Yesterday I told her that we should
most likely be off before the end of next week, and she merely said
'Yes,' in her most composed tone. Harvey is by no means lively
just now, but I dare say you will put him right. He gets nervous about
himself, I suspect—wants a thorough change. I doubt if he will drive
over for you to-morrow, as you say that it is not necessary.
The distance both ways is really rather much for him just now, and I
am sure I cannot possibly spare the time. Hermione might, but she will
not think of it."
Whether Hermione did or did not think of it, she made no offer to go,
and Julia's only companion was Milton. Perhaps Julia had a sense
of forlornness through the silent drive. Her bodily needs were well
attended to, but Milton's ideas of propriety prevented any possibility
of conversation, and Julia had ample time for thought and
letter-reading. However if any such sense existed, it was driven away
by the warm welcome accorded on her arrival.
Prepared by Francesca's letter, Julia showed no surprise when told
that Hermione had spent the afternoon with Mittie. She said only,
"How kind!" and a softened look in Hermione's eyes showed that she had
said the right thing.
Harvey looked, as Francesca had said, by no means lively. Julia could
not make him out. He seemed to be under a weight, listless, wanting
in energy, often irritable without cause. Was it the effect of the
accident only, Julia often asked herself, or was that old question
of Hermione's possible claims pressing upon his mind? But she could
not bring the latter forward hastily again. She had spoken once
clearly and strongly, and Harvey had told her to wait, had desired
her to trust him. She did wait, and she tried to trust.
If Harvey did not seem happy, neither did Hermione. Julia noted this
increasingly day by day. But every effort on her part to draw nearer
to Hermione, during the remainder of that week, was evaded or
repelled.
After some hesitation, Thursday in the following week was fixed upon
for the journey to East Bourne. Julia begged her sister to say nothing
about it either to or before Hermione. She had a keen recollection
of Hermione's passionate outburst, and no less keen a recollection
of her husband's desire that she should "manage" Hermione's going
with them all to Eastbourne. Julia felt that her only hope of success
lay in preventing any further collisions between Francesca and
Hermione. Fortunately, Mrs. Trevor was so far gratified with
Hermione's attentions to Mittie as to fall in with Julia's wishes.
For more than a day and a half Julia put off speaking—not on
principle, but simply because she lacked courage, and could not find
a good opening. Sunday came, and she had said nothing. "Well, if you
don't, I will!" declared Francesca. "I'm burning to talk; and I can't
promise to keep mum any longer, with my head full of East Bourne."
This brought Julia to the point. She gave up the hope of a "good
opening," and resolved to make the opportunity which had declined
to make itself. Directly after early dinner Hermione disappeared
as usual for Sunday-school work, but later in the afternoon, when she
came home, Julia happened to be alone in the drawing-room.
"Julia—oh, I thought I should find Mittie here," Hermione said, with a
touch of embarrassment, and an evident intention to retreat. She
seemed to dread anything in the shape of a tête-à-tête just now
with anybody. Julia rose to meet her.
"Francesca called Mittie away. I think they are in the morning-room
till tea-time. Won't you stay, Hermione? I want so much to speak
to you."
Hermione stood still, two or three yards within the door,
not approaching any nearer. "Yes. What do you want?" she asked.
"Won't you come and sit down here just for a minute or two?"
Hermione seemed unwilling to comply, but Julia's pleading manner
prevailed, and she came slowly to the sofa.
"I must not stay," she said in an uneasy manner, not like her old
self-confidence. "I have to take off my hat and jacket before tea—
and it is getting rather late."
"Half-an-hour before tea—isn't it? I want much to say something."
Julia's cheeks were flushed, and her hand was unsteady. "Ought you not
to be lying down?" asked Hermione.
"No; it doesn't matter. I have been resting, and I am so much better
now. Isn't it wonderful to think how different things might have been
in that dreadful accident?—and now both of us are getting on so well."
"Yes," was Hermione's response.
"I can never forget it. A time like that must make a difference to one
all through life. At least I hope so. I don't feel as if I could ever
take things lightly and carelessly again. Won't you help me, dear
Hermione? I know you can—as so few could."
Julia spoke with a grave truth and naturalness which showed that she
thoroughly meant what she said. But Hermione shrank under the words,
and drew her hand away from Julia's touch. "O no!" escaped her lips.
"Won't you?—when there is so much that I want to learn, and you can
give me just the help that I need?"
"No, no!" The words seemed wrung from Hermione, and she turned her
head away. "I can't. Not I. Mr. Fitzalan—"
"Yes, indeed, he does help me more than I can tell. I am always
learning from his sermons. But still—you and I live together, and it
does seem as if we ought to be friends. Your training has been so
different from mine. Couldn't you teach me the things you have learnt
all your life?—the things I have only just begun to know?"
"Oh no! I don't deserve—"
The words were scarcely audible. Julia could not be quite sure what
Hermione said, only there was no mistake about the accompanying sob.
"Then shall we help one another?" she asked affectionately.
Hermione made no answer to this, and her face was still turned away,
but she did not repel the arm which came softly round her waist.
"That was not all I had to say. There was something else," Julia began
after a little break. She was afraid of interruptions. "I have been
wanting to tell you all yesterday and to-day. About going to East
Bourne—"
"Yes. Mittie says it is to be next Thursday."
Julia augured ill from the cold tone, but she went on, "Yes, I think
so. There seems no reason for putting-off longer, and we all need
a change. Will you come with us, Hermione?"
The response was delayed. Julia began to tremble.
"Please do. I want it so much, and my husband too. If you knew
how anxious he is that you should—"
"I have decided not to go to the Daltons."
"And you will come with us?"
"Yes. Mittie begged it, and I have promised."
"Dear little Mittie!" Julia murmured. "Thank you so much! It is very
good to do what we wish. We will try to make you happy there."
"I must take off my hat now."
And Hermione was gone. She could not resolve to unbend farther
just then, though not insensible to the kindness of those loving and
humble words which made yielding so much easier for her. The contrast
between Julia and herself smote her painfully; and at the same time
her pride writhed beneath the pain of having to give way, when she had
so repeatedly declared that she would not.
Another grief lay below, the grief of a sorrowful new self-knowledge
following upon long self-deception. Hermione had only endured it
hitherto, refusing to face the truth bravely. But Julia's words took
effect. Hermione did face it that evening in Church, solemnly,
silently, with many tears.
Mr. Fitzalan went home after the evening service, counting his day's
work done, and was met by Marjory, who had arrived first. She said,
"Father, Hermione is in the study. She wants a word with you. Slade
was to see her home, and he is waiting in the kitchen."
Mr. Fitzalan made a sign of assent, and went to his study, closing the
door behind him. Hermione stood near the table, her head bent, and
traces of tears on her cheeks.
"Well, my child?" he said kindly, speaking as a father might have
spoken.
Hermione put her hand into his. "I am going to East Bourne," she said
brokenly.
"That is good news. I am sure you are wise."
"Mittie—wants it—"
"Yes. She is a dear little child."
"I told her—but it is not only Mittie. I know I—ought."
"I think you are right. By-and-by you must come here for a long visit.
After your return."
Hermione's head drooped lower, and she clasped her hands, resting them
on the table. She looked wonderfully fair, standing thus, he thought—
fairer than in her more confident and smiling moods.
"Mr. Fitzalan, is it—"
"Is it—what?"
"Is it—has it been—"
He waited.
"Has it been—all—deceiving?"
"What makes you ask?"
"Mrs. Trevor said—" Sobs shook her frame, and she could not go on.
"One cannot judge another. Nay, more—we cannot judge our own selves
fairly. You must take that question to your Master."
"Is He that—to me?" she asked, as if brokenhearted with the doubt.
"Yes, He is that to you by absolute right, and you are bound to His
service by Baptismal promise and vow. He is your Lord and Master.
And if you have been untrue to Him—devoted to your own interests
rather than to His—is not that it, Hermione—?"
"Oh—yes!" she moaned rather than said.
"Then, dear child, what is there for you—what is there for any of us—
but to go back to His Feet and tell Him all? Never mind how often you
have or have not been to Him truly before. He is waiting to receive
you to-night—whether for the first or the hundredth time. He will
give you the help you need. He is yours, and you are His bounden
servant. But let the service in the future be true and thorough—
not half-hearted. Not 'Some of self, and some of Thee!' but 'None of
self, and all of Thee!'"
"Thank you! Oh, I will!" Hermione whispered with a burst of gentle
weeping such as had scarcely been seen in her before.