Chapter XI: Wonderful Composure

HERMIONE did not break down, as all around expected, under the fearfully sudden blow. When first they brought the news of what had occurred, she grew indeed pale as ashes, but neither fainted nor screamed.

"My grandfather taken ill, and I not told I how cruel! how wrong!" she said reproachfully, and for some minutes she seemed to hold at bay the dire truth that he was gone. When at length it gained entrance, she went resolutely straight to his room, undeterred by all remonstrances—and saw for herself.

Even then she bore up with a fortitude extraordinary in one so young. She turned to no one for comfort, leant upon no one for support. Only as she stood by the bed in tearless sorrow, she lifted to Harvey a pair of anguished eyes and said, "If you had written—if you had done differently—Harvey—your own conscience—" There she stopped, and he had again the curious sense of being called to account by this mere girl, so delicate in look, yet so inviolable in composure.

He made no attempt to defend himself. It was natural that at the moment she should ascribe her grandfather's death, at least in a measure, to the shock of Harvey's unexpected return. Had she known how unwelcome to the old man had been the news of Harvey's marriage, she would have counted the case against him yet stronger. Harvey could not think of this without pain and self-reproach, although for his comfort he already knew that during many weeks past both Mr. Pennant and Mr. Fitzalan had noticed distinct signs of failing in Mr. Dalrymple—so much so that Mr. Pennant had twice warned him to be more careful of himself. But of this Hermione was ignorant, and when, a little later, she was told, she did not seem to believe it.

"My grandfather was so well up to Saturday afternoon," she said mournfully; and after all, no reasoning could explain away the actual fact of a shock received. Mischief might have been brewing, but also the brewing mischief might have been hastened.

Hermione had her own bitter additional grief, but for which she would have blamed Harvey far more unreservedly. If she had followed Mr. Fitzalan's advice, and kept her grandfather at home—as she might have done, for he would always yield to his darling, if to no one else—and if she had followed Harvey's suggestions of sending for Mr. Pennant, who could say but that the fatal attack might have been warded off? This thought pressed upon her with leaden heaviness, yet she spoke of it to no one. She was very reserved, very reluctant always to admit blame to herself as due. Harvey made no allusion in her hearing to his rejected advice; such an allusion could now have been only cruel. Mr. Fitzalan said nothing of the message he had sent, which he supposed to have failed in its effect, for he would not needlessly add to Hermione's distress.

People hear grief in very different ways, and Hermione's fashion of grief-bearing was not to sink beneath it. Though so slight in appearance, she was healthy and vigorous. Where another might have been crushed, she seemed rather to be stimulated into an intense restlessness. She could not read, could not work, could not talk consecutively. No needless allusion to her loss ever passed her lips, yet when necessary she spoke of Mr. Dalrymple with outward composure, gave all needful orders, wrote countless letters, arranged everything, left no duties unperformed.

From the first she had not been known to shed a tear, and the usually smiling eyes had a dry look of fixed sadness; nevertheless she did weep when alone in her own room, and she was not utterly overwhelmed. She did not appear to be suffering in health, but only was always on the move, unable to rest, passing hither and thither incessantly, upstairs and downstairs, from one room to another, her soft step never varying in its style.

Harvey wondered at her. He was full of pity for the poor girl, and this sudden death of the kind old uncle whom he had not treated rightly came to him as a sharp blow. He would have liked to draw nearer to Hermione in her loneliness, to have shown brother-like sympathy, and to have tried to comfort her. But Hermione eluded all such attempts. She was his polite and cousinly hostess—nothing more. Any further approach drove her instantly to "letters that must be written," or "something that had to be done." Harvey acquiesced at length, taking long walks about the neighbourhood, and seeing a good deal of the Fitzalans, but holding very little intercourse with Hermione. And so the slow days wore away until the funeral.

Marjory was by far the more broken down of the two girls. From the moment of receiving the sad news she had scarcely left her couch. She could not sit up or stand without a sickening whirl of everything present. Parish work and other work had to wait. The girl seemed crushed by her friend's loss.

The two had not met as yet. Hermione kept strictly to the house, and Marjory could not go thither—the utmost she was able to accomplish being to dress herself and creep down to the drawing-room.

Harvey commonly found her there when he came in, as he did on some pretext or other once, if not twice, each day. Life at the Hall was dull for him, and he seemed glad to get out of the sombre atmosphere; and Marjory could detect a natural impatience to be with his young wife again. "I should have liked to send for her here," he said once, "but Hermione seems to disapprove; and I suppose, under the circumstances, as they are strangers—"

He looked doubtfully at Mr. Fitzalan, and the answer was, "I think you will be wise to wait." To Marjory's relief; Harvey acquiesced.

Friday came, and all the village followed the remains of the village-benefactor to the grave. Hermione was there, notwithstanding her cousin's opposition. Harvey thought that the ordeal must be too great, and would fain have had her remain at the Hall. But he needed not to have feared. Hermione was entirely composed throughout— "stoical" one person said to himself, and that person was not Harvey, for Harvey could not at all make up his mind about Hermione.

Marjory, who would fain have been present also, had to give it up. She was only able to lie on her couch, weeping passionately for her friend, while Hermione in deep black, with an angelic sweetness on her fair face, stood forward alone as chief mourner, the observed of all observers. Harvey was near, but she would not have his support. Mr. Fitzalan's voice shook, and his hand trembled, while Hermione never faltered. When they sang a hymn round the grave, by Hermione's express desire, her clear tones took the lead, and her blue eyes were uplifted as if verily able to see "behind the veil."

At the words, "I heard a voice from heaven—" brokenly uttered by Mr. Fitzalan, who seemed quite unnerved and scarcely able to struggle through the service, that look came again to her face. Then a sob was heard, but it did not come from Hermione. A young man stood behind her, stalwart in figure, his fine boyish face working with strong emotion. Even in that sad hour Harvey had cast from time to time interested glances at Harry Fitzalan, down in Westford for the day. There were many who could tell him of Harry's devoted affection for Mr. Dalrymple. It was an attachment which did the young man honour.

Over at last! and the crowd broke slowly up. Harry would not go to the Hall, as somebody asked him to do. He did not want to hear the will read, so he hurried off alone to the Rectory. Marjory saw him coming, to cast himself dejectedly into a chair in the darkest corner of the drawing-room, and she checked her own tears to rise and meet him. "Poor Harry must feel it so terribly," she knew. "After Hermione, it was worse for him than for anybody."

"And Hermione!" she whispered, standing by his side, a few words having passed. "And poor Hermione?"

The young man made a movement as if of impatience. He was very like his father and sister in face, having the same irregular cast of features, with loose brown hair and expressive eyes, but he was half a head taller than Mr. Fitzalan, and strong in build, with a sunburnt healthy look, therein a marked contrast to Marjory.

"Poor Hermione!" he repeated, with a touch of mockery. "You need not trouble yourself, Marjory. It was all graceful attitudes and lovely looks—nothing more."

Marjory's eyes filled. "O Harry! indeed you are mistaken."

"I wish I were. She didn't shed a tear—but tears are not becoming, you know." Harry spoke somewhat doggedly, as if determined to stand by his own opinion. "I never do understand female stoicism. It is unnatural. And such a man as Mr. Dalrymple!" The words ended in a groan.

"It is not stoicism—indeed it is not. It is only that she will not give way before others."

"And now she will go home, do her duty to everybody, and be as charming as if—" Harry broke into a sigh. "Well, we needn't discuss the matter. It does no good—only worries you. We never shall think alike about Hermione, I suppose. That six months abroad spoilt her— and I see it, but you don't. I can't see why you need, either. After all, she's a lovely creature, Marjie—nobody knows it better than I do. Sometimes I wish I didn't know it quite so well. I should like to get her out of my head altogether—and I can't. He counted her perfect, dear old man! Only, one does look to see him mourned differently—"

"Don't!" Marjory entreated.

"Poor little woman!" He kissed her brow in tender fashion. Harry was a full year older than Marjory, though in looks four or five years her junior. "Too bad of me, isn't it? I'll never accuse you of being a Stoic, Marjory. And as for Hermione, perhaps you and I agree better than we seem to do on the surface."

"You know very well that nothing would grieve you more than to see her unhappy."

Harry made no response to this. He was so long considering what to say that he ended by not saying anything at all. He knew that Marjory spoke truth; yet quite as truly he could have added, "Except not to see her unhappy when she ought to be so." But this would have pained Marjory; and after all, how could he or any one say that Hermione did not grieve? He could only be sure that she was not overcome by her grief; and the question of being outwardly overcome depends, not only upon kinds and degrees of sorrow, but upon the mode of expression natural to each person in sorrow, upon the condition of health, and upon the strength of will, where that will is bent to the task of self-repression.

Marjory broke the long silence. "Did you speak to Harvey?"

"A few words. There was no need for more."

"He was kind—?"

"Why should he be anything else?" Harry spoke captiously.

"You have heard about his marriage!"

"Harvey Dalrymple's!" Harry spoke in a voice of amazement now, and he stirred himself to an upright posture, as if startled out of his depression.

"Yes."

"But I say, Marjie, I always thought—" Harry hesitated. "Mr. Dalrymple's wish—"

This was the first thought which occurred to every one who knew Mr. Dalrymple. The marvel was that he had never divulged it to Hermione herself.

"I say!" reiterated Harry, in blank boyish astonishment.

"He was married abroad nearly a month ago. He had not written beforehand, and he came home on that account to tell them here."

A curious revulsion of ideas was going on in Harry's mind, a revulsion the nature of which was not distinct even to himself. He sat staring at Marjory with those big grey eyes of his. "Then—Hermione—" he uttered.

"Hermione only cared that Mr. Dalrymple was not told, because it was a slight to him. Otherwise she would have been delighted. She told me so herself."

"And she will live with them?"

"My father does not know what else she can do, and Harvey expects it. But we want her to spend a quiet month with us first, to get over the shock."

Harry sank into a dream, making no response. Marjory had her own theory as to the subject of his dream.