Chapter I: Harvey

"MISS HERMINY'S a angel! That's what she be!" The old gardener at the Rectory, who was uncle to the head-gardener at the Hall, and who prided himself not a little on that social distinction, brought down his spade with an expressive bump. Then he rested his two aged and muscular hands upon the spade handle and peered upward into the face of the person addressed, before proceeding to deliver himself more fully of his sentiments.

"Miss Herminy's a angel! That's what I says! And I don't care who unsays it! She's got the wings a-wanting, and nought else. If 'twasn't for that, sir, she'd just soar right away, she would, to her native element, nor wouldn't stay no longer on this here sordid earth of ours. To look upon her now minds me of that what King David said, 'Oh that I had wings like a dove'—sir—not but what they be fitter words for an old fellow like me than a young thing like her. But sometimes I'm afeared it's that she will do one o' these days, when she comes along o' the path in her white frock, looking for all the world like a white-robed angel in them hymns we sings in Church, sir, and palms in their hands, and she so lightsome of spirit still, and her hair like gold, and a look of heaven in her blue eyes that's always smiling, and never a bit of pride nor a thought for her own self. Yes, sir, Miss Herminy's a angel, and no mistake!"

"Haven't the least doubt of it," responded the other, with a curious intonation. He might have been thirty or more in age, though young-looking for that. He was of good stature, good figure, good features, with a mouth lazily good-humoured and eyes lazily kind. As old Sutton rambled on, the younger man stood close outside the Rectory gate, one of those swing-gates which have five or six horizontal bars of wood, and another sloping diagonally from an upper to a lower opposite corner. He lounged against this gate with an air of gentlemanly indolence, partly holding it open, partly using it to support his weight.

"And if my word ain't enough, sir, why, there be the squire, and my master Mr. Fitzalan, and Miss Marjory, as is like own sister to Miss Herminy. Not for to speak of Mr. Harry, sir. And the Hall servants, sir, if I might make bold to mention 'em—and the village folk."

"Mr. Dalrymple, her grandfather!"

"Ay, sir, and a fine old gentleman he do be. I don't know a finer nowheres. And a good and God-fearing man as ever you see, who'll stand up for the poor man, and who'll set right over might, let what will happen. And he be that set upon Miss Herminy, sir! He've got nought but she in the world, and she've got nought but he; and they just do hang together, like—them two. And whatever's to become of Miss Herminy when he's a-taken away, for he's an old man, and it mayn't be long before the call 'll come; and if I'm not mistaking, it 'll be no sorrowful call to him, sir; no, for he's a man as do love and fear God with all his heart, and delights to worship in His temple. But whatever's to become of Miss Herminy when that time comes I don't know—that I don't."

"Estate entailed, I believe, on the male line," was the only remark made in answer.

"Ay, sir; so I've heard. And a wicked thing it he, giving away the place from she as has the right, to one away in furrin parts for years and years, never taking no heed to his heritage. He don't value it, sir, no more than Esau did as sold his for a mess of pottage. And Miss Herminy to have nought; and she the apple of the old man's eye. No, sir, it's a wicked thing—I don't know a wickeder."

The gentleman lifted his eyebrows. "The heir is a near relative, of course," he said.

"His father and Miss Herminy's mother they was first cousins, sir. And he as good as a brother to Miss Herminy in years past, till he took to wandering like a vagabond over the face of the earth. There's many a one thought summat 'ud surely come of that, sir; and it was Mr. Dalrymple's wish too, and no mistake. But it ain't come yet. Though there be no knowing—if so be he was to see Miss Herminy now. For if ever there was a angel on earth, it's Miss Herminy."

"She was a pretty child when I saw her last, Sutton."

Something familiar in tone and manner caught the old gardener's attention. He stared, and scratched aside two or three grey hairs which had wandered over his wrinkled forehead.

"I shouldn't wonder but I'd ought to know you, sir," he said, "if you was ever at the Hall before. I'm getting old now, and my eyesight ain't none of the best, nor my memory nayther. I shouldn't wonder if I'd ought to know you." He peered hard still, blinking a little. "And I'm thinking now as I sees summat. It ain't—surely—Miss Herminy's cousin—young Mr. Dalrymple!"

"I am Harvey Dalrymple," was the reply. "Yes—Miss Hermione's second cousin—or, if you like it, her brother."

"Young Mr. Dalrymple—his very own self!" ejaculated Sutton. "Well, well, sir—I'm glad to see you anyways. And maybe it's One above has brought you home for His own purposes, sir—if so be you'll pardon an old man saying it."

Dalrymple did not look offended; it was not his way to take offence easily.

"I hope I am come for no bad purpose, at all events," he rejoined lightly. "After eight years' absence, it is not so very astonishing that I should turn up again for a couple of nights. You can tell Mr. Fitzalan of my sudden appearance, and say that I would have called if anybody had been indoors. By-the-bye, I have not asked yet after Miss Fitzalan."

"Miss Marjory be as usual, sir. She don't never complain."

"And Mr. Harry?"

Sutton's face lighted up proudly.

"Mr. Harry do be growed a fine young gentleman, sir—as fine a young gentleman as ever I see. And they do say he be mighty thought of at the 'Varsity, he be that clever. And as fine a young gentleman! To see him a horseback now!"

The sight of Harry Fitzalan on horseback plainly went beyond old Sutton's descriptive powers. He nodded his head, and was mute.

"Good day. We shall meet again," Dalrymple said, with a friendly nod.

Sutton remained motionless, staring blankly after the retreating figure.

"Young Mr. Dalrymple, his very own self. And I to be talking of he to he, and never a thought in my head as he'd come back. And all them years in furrin parts. Well, well, he ain't too early nor he ain't too late neither. For the old squire he be living, and Miss Herminy she ain't married. And I shouldn't wonder—no, I shouldn't." Sutton shook his scant grey locks, leaving the sentence incomplete.

Meanwhile Dalrymple, following the dusty highroad by which he had already come through the village and passed the Rectory, rounded another curve and found himself close to the Church of whitish stone, matching the whitish Rectory. A square tower was dressed in a garment of aged ivy, and the windows of tinted glass had ivy fringes around them.

Dalrymple knew from personal recollection how those green leaf fringes could be seen from within, showing through the dull-tinted diamond panes. He had been used to worship in this Church, week by week, through early boyhood, standing, sitting, kneeling, by his mother's side. He had been there also in later years, but the childish remembrances were the strongest.

Almost a quarter of a century had gone by since that mother's death, yet he could recall her still, vividly as if he had seen her but one month before. The graceful girlish figure came back to him now, as he lingered, and the sweet fair face, and the heavenly calm of the soft eyes. He seemed to see himself again as a small boy in the big "squire's pew," gazing up into those rapt eyes with a child's half-adoring love, as her clear voice rang out in words of praise, mingling with the less tuneful notes of the village choir.

"If ever an angel lived in human form, she was one," he murmured.

Then he roused himself to go on, but paused anew, for a girl was coming along the road straight towards him. He knew in a moment who it was.

She wore a dress of summer serge, dark-grey in colour, fitting closely, and made in a style of absolute plainness. There were no plaitings, puffings, or braidings about any part of it, while the collar and cuffs were of thick white linen. Rather below middle height, she had a face uniformly pale, and habitual shadows under the eyes. The features generally were irregular, boasting no beauty, but the outline of the cheek seen from behind was pretty; abundant brown hair sheltered the broad forehead, falling partly over it in loose waves; and the grey eyes, with their depths of feeling, gave character to a face which otherwise was not remarkable. A straw hat hung over one arm, and she carried a mass of small white roses in an open basket.

Dalrymple went forward a few steps, and held out his hand.

"Marjory herself!" he said.

There was one swift glance of scrutiny.

"Mr. Dalrymple—is it?—" in a surprised tone; and she gave him her hand somewhat constrainedly.

"It used to be 'Harvey,'" he remarked, smiling. "Am I so altered?"

"I don't know. Things are altered. And I was a child then."

"True. Would you have known me if I had not spoken?"

Marjory lifted her eyes for another rapid examination, The eyelids had a trick of dropping—as if with their own weight—so soon as the eyes had seen enough for the business in hand.

"Yes—perhaps—I don't know. I did not expect—Hermione had not told me—"

"Hermione does not know yet that I am on English ground."

Marjory responded only by a vague "Oh!" Her face showed disapproval.

"It was a sudden resolution. I am not much given to letter-writing, as you know."

She said "Yes," and then "No," in answer, vaguely still. A slight movement brought her close to the churchyard gate.

"You are tired," he said, as she leant against it, "Come inside and sit down."

"O no! I must go home. It is only the heat."

"Not stronger than you used to be, I am afraid."

"I don't know. One learns not to give in so easily."

Harvey Dalrymple made no immediate answer. He was gazing up at the tower, and his next remark was an involuntary— "How it recalls old days!"

"When you were here last?"

"No; farther back. When my mother was living."

"Before I was born."

Though her face might have belonged to any age under thirty, Marjory was only twenty-one.

"Yes; before you were born, and before your father had the living. . . . I have just been recalling childish fancies of mine in those days connected with the big square pew. By-the-bye, that pew is soon to be a thing of the past, isn't it? Hermione writes of projected improvements. There was a certain window just in front, which, imagination, to my infant imagination, was the gate of heaven. Yes, that corner window—ivy all round, just as it used to be." He spoke half lightly, half seriously, adding, in a moved tone, "When my mother was taken, I fully believed that she had gone upward that way, through a path of sunbeams and green leaves."

"Children sometimes see farther than grown people," Marjory asserted gravely.

"At all events, they fancy more."

"They see farther sometimes."

He seemed a little amused again, and remarked, "You used to hold your opinions very strongly, I remember."

Marjory looked up, and asked, "Do you think living much in the world sharpens one's spiritual sight? I don't."

"Ah, this is old days over again! You and I were always dropping into arguments. Must you have a categorical answer? Well, perhaps not."

"I suppose—" Marjory said, and paused.

"Yes?—" questioningly.

"I was only thinking of those lines—of course you know them—"

"'But now 'tis little joy To know I'm farther off from heaven Than when I was a boy!'"

"Isn't that a rather serious deduction from the loss of a childish fancy about green leaves and sunshine?"

"I am not making any deductions. I do not know you well enough— yourself. We were speaking of children generally, I thought."

Perhaps Harvey had had enough, and did not care to pursue the subject. His next words were, "I have had to walk from the station, of course, through sending no previous notice. Curious to see old Sutton in your garden still!"

"Sutton is a fixture."

"Everything is a fixture at Westford. Even you are hardly changed— only, I suppose, older."

He had known her well, eight years earlier, with a brother-and-sister intimacy. It had not occurred to him, till now, that the young man's recollections of the child of thirteen might be more distinct than the child's recollections of the young man of twenty-four. In truth it was not so, for Marjory's mental pictures of Harvey were most vivid. Still, during his long absence she had passed from childhood to womanhood, while he had only gone on from an earlier to a more advanced stage of young manhood; and it was by no means so easy for her as for him to drop at once into the old grooves of intercourse.

"Yes, much older. I do not feel myself the same."

"And Hermione?"

"Hermione? Oh!" Marjory's whole face lighted up. "You will find Hermione everything that you could wish. She is—no, I can't describe her. There never was any one like Hermione."

"Angelic, in short. You and Sutton seem to be of the same opinion."

"Yes; and you will not wonder when you see her. So lovely, so unlike other girls. There are not two opinions about Hermione. At least—no, not really two; only, of course, people see differently. But I cannot tell you how she is beloved in the village—almost worshipped. The surliest man there can't say a rough word to Hermione. We all look up to her. Yes, she is younger than I am; but what of that? One looks up to another because of what she is, not because of any particular age."

"Well, perhaps—no. And Hermione is pretty?"

"She is—no, I will not describe her. You must see for yourself."

"She could be an arrant little fury, I remember, if anybody crossed her will. You were the victim occasionally."

"Was I? I have forgotten. Nothing of the kind ever happens now."

"Why, no. At nineteen one doesn't expect tornadoes of wrath."

"But there is no temper—no readiness to be vexed. She is sweetness itself. Nothing ever puts her out. If she had a temper as a child, that is all over. You had better not set me off about her, because I shall not know when to stop. I think—I almost think I could die for Hermione."

Marjory spoke the last words under her breath, and the downcast eyes glowed with a fervour of devotion. Harvey was touched, yet entertained. His easy and pliant nature, though not without its reservoirs of strong feeling, was hardly capable of understanding Marjory. Before he had decided what to say, she added, "But I ought to go home, and I must not keep you from them longer."

Harvey lifted his hat, and shook hands. In the act of turning away he stopped short, faced her once more, his sunburnt cheek slightly flushing, and said, "My old friends will have to congratulate me."

Marjory's voice and eyes alike asked, "What for?"

"On my recent marriage."

The eyes opened more widely. Harvey had not the smallest doubt that, in her mind, as in old Sutton's, he had been the destined husband of Hermione Rivers.

"Well?" he said, smiling, though not so much at his ease as usual.

"I never know how to congratulate," Marjory replied abruptly. "We don't learn that sort of thing in this rustic place—as a matter of form, I mean."

She turned off with so decisive an air that he had no choice about pursuing his solitary way.