Chapter XIII: Degrees of Goodness

"THERE'S something stopping at the hotel, Mittie—look!" cried Julia, who was at the farther end of the room, while Mittie sat close to the open window.

The child skipped out upon the balcony, and cried in shrill tones, "It's Uncle Harvey!"

"Now, Julia, pray don't rush madly out, and—" Francesca's exhortation came to an abrupt conclusion, fur Julia was gone.

"She wouldn't hear you, mother," commented Mittie, standing in the open window, while a slight breeze lifted her clouds of flaxen hair and swept them round her face. "Aunt Julia always does scamper when Uncle Harvey comes. I think she's too big to scamper, ever so much. But I like him, too—don't you? I like him better than Aunt Julia, 'cause he doesn't get cross."

"Mittie, there's a spot of grease on your sleeve," said Mrs. Trevor, perhaps not anxious to discuss the respective merits of her sister and brother-in-law.

"So there is," assented Mittie. "And here's another. I can't think why spots of grease come. Don't you like Uncle Harvey too, mother? He's got such a nicey sort of way of doing things, and he always looks kind. He doesn't never frown, you know—does he?"

"Doesn't ever, you mean. Uncle Harvey will frown if you talk bad grammar."

"No, he won't. He hasn't got that kind of pucker on his forehead like Aunt Julia has got when she's cross. Most men have got big puckers, and he hasn't. His forehead is as smooth as yours, mother."

"Well, Mittie! How do you do, Francesca?" Harvey's voice said, as he came in, Julia clinging to his arm with an upturned face of brilliant happiness, undeniably handsome at that moment. Mittie flung herself on him with a little shriek of delight, but bounded off at his kiss, exclaiming—

"Don't scrub! I hate moustaches!" and Francesca extended a hand graciously, without troubling herself to rise.

"So you have had a dismal time of it on the whole," she said.

"Not worse than I have had!" murmured Julia.

"Foolish child!" he said softly.

"Only two days short of a fortnight. It has seemed endless."

"I could not come sooner. It was not my choice. There was no getting away from Westford till late on Saturday, and a day in London on business proved imperative. As I told you, I was not sure of coming even to-day."

He threw himself into the corner of a couch, and Julia sat on a low chair close by, watching him with eager eyes and clasped hands. She could not understand his look. Was he bored, or vexed, or worried? Mittie, too, was gazing in evident perplexity, for upon Harvey's smooth brow lay two upright ruts not wont to be there.

Julia took refuge in the wifely question—

"Are you very tired?"

"No—yes; I believe I am. It has been a trying time altogether. Well, Mittie, what mischief have you been after?"

He held out an arm, and she came near cautiously, with the proviso, "Then I won't be scrubbed?"

"No; all right. I'll take care. How will you like a pretty young cousin to live with?"

"She isn't my cousin," said Mittie. "What have you got those ugly puckers for?" and her small fingers endeavoured to do away with the dents.

Harvey laughed, and the puckers disappeared. "If Hermione is not your cousin, you must adopt her."

"Is it settled that she lives with us?" asked Francesca.

"I believe so. We take it for granted."

"Is she really pretty?"

"Uncommonly."

"And—good?" Julia said, in a hesitating tone.

"Desperately."

"I shall be afraid of her. I don't like people of that sort. Must she live with us? Has she nowhere to go?"

"No."

"But if she has plenty of money?" put in Francesca.

"She has not." A curious metallic sound came into Harvey's voice, and the "puckers" were again apparent. Mittie endeavoured once more to smooth them out, and he turned from her as if teased.

"Mittie, do be quiet," said Julia.

"I'm quiet. I don't want Uncle Harvey to be ugly," Mittie said, in an injured tone.

"Oh, of course the estate was entailed," Francesca observed, not noticing the by-play. "Still, one fancies the old gentleman would have taken care of her future, if he were so devoted to her as you have thought."

"He has not."

"And she is dependent on you?"

"At present—in a measure."

"How does she like that?"

"She does not seem to know it yet."

"You did not tell her?"

"That was not exactly my business."

"I should think the kindest plan would have been to speak out."

"Her friends can do so. Of course she is aware of the entail."

"Uncle Harvey is frowning most awfully," murmured Mittie.

"I should never have expected Mr. Dalrymple to leave her unprovided for. It is not as if you had been quite the most attentive and devoted of heirs," Francesca said, with a little laugh.

"Your experience of life has not taught you one thing, seemingly."

"What thing?"

"That people are always doing exactly what nobody would have expected of them."

"Well, yes—sometimes; but still, in this case—"

"In this case you wouldn't have expected it? Just so. That only points my doctrine. A 'well-drawn character' in a novel always does what one expects of him, but individuals in real life are not so obliging."

Julia's large black eyes were examining her husband's face.

"Have you been very much bothered? You don't look like yourself—" and her hand stole to his coat-sleeve caressingly.

"Oh, by-the-bye, are we really to be buried alive in that country place?" inquired Mrs. Trevor.

"I shall have to take Julia there in a month or six weeks. You must please yourself about accompanying us."

A touch of irritation showed in the manner, and Francesca's colour rose. She gave him a good look, and stood up, saying coldly, "That was not precisely in your best style, when you know my circumstances. Come, Mittie—it is about time to dress for table d'hôte."

Harvey evidently felt the rebuke. He went to open the door for her, and said as she swept past, "I beg your pardon. I spoke carelessly."

"So I supposed!" —and she was gone, Mittie following in her rear. Harvey came back to his seat, and there was an involuntary motion of his fingers through his hair. Julia watched with eyes of soft sympathy.

"Poor Francesca! I shall have to make my peace with her," he said, half smiling.

"Oh, no need. I have no patience with Francesca. She takes everything as a right, and shows airs when she ought to be only grateful. And just now, too, when you are so worried! Harvey, have things gone wrong? I can't quite make you out; you are not like yourself."

"I shall be all right now I am with you again."

The words were a great delight to Julia. She had the anxious clinging temperament which craves for much outward show of affection, and cannot trust without such evidence. Her cheek came down on his hand, and she said, "Then I don't mind anything—even Hermione."

"You and Hermione will get on well enough."

"Only if she is so very good—desperately, you said."

"I used the word in jest, of course. You don't wish her to be very bad, of course."

"No, no—but in that way—you know what I mean. One can't help being rather afraid of people who talk a great deal very religiously—don't you think so? Though, perhaps—" Julia hesitated— "I am not religious, but sometimes I think I ought to be, and I wish I could be different. If I were like you, it would not matter. You are always so true, so exactly what you ought to be in everything; it seems as if you always did right as a matter of course, not because it is right, but because you can't help it. I can't even imagine your doing anything really wrong. You have your little faults, I suppose, but I cannot see them. I never see any one else quite like you. But I—oh, I am so different."

"You are talking great nonsense, Julia."

"No, I am not; things are just as I say. You are always good, and I am not, and I wish I were. It frightens me sometimes. I had such a dreadful shock one day since you left. Francesca promised that she and Mittie would not tell you, but I should not be happy unless you knew. I could not endure the feeling of something being hidden. Harvey, I nearly killed Mittie."

Harvey looked incredulous.

"Yes, it is true. It was an accident, of course—I mean it would have been—but it was temper too." Julia told him in smothered tones of the arrival of his letter, of the struggle in the balcony, and of Mittie's narrow escape. "It seemed so awful," she said, "to think how I should have felt if it had happened. And it might if Francesca had not been so near. I never have much strength in my arms, and the fright seemed almost to paralyse them, so that I felt Mittie sliding away, and I could not keep her. I can't tell you what a horrible moment that was. It comes back to me now, and turns me cold."

"No wonder; but after all, Mittie is a troublesome little puss."

"Yes; only that was no real excuse for me. Then, when I opened the letter, I found the news about poor old Mr. Dalrymple. And I suppose it was the two things coming so close together—I could not shake them off. I felt for days after as if there was nothing to rest upon, and no safety in looking forward. Do you know what it is to have such feelings? But of course you don't, because you never do anything so wrong. Perhaps the feelings will go now I have you again."

"I hope so. You have certainly been in a morbid state, my dear."

"So Francesca told me—not that she knew anything of what I am saying now. She would only have laughed. And you don't think I ought to become more religious?"

"You are enough so for me."

"But if I ought—"

"I shall leave you to settle that point for yourself. Only, pray don't adopt Hermione as your model."

"Why? Don't you like her?"

"She is charming, as a girl. I do not admire her particular style of goodness."

"No; but you will help me?"

Harvey laughed, perhaps to hide a sense of embarrassment.

"I am not a very religious person myself, Julia. No use to come to me, I am afraid. Come, I really shall begin to suspect you of a small craze on the subject. It is time that you should dress."

"Yes, I am forgetting; no, it will do in ten minutes—I never take long."

"Better not be late; and I have my bag to unpack."

"I'll unpack it for you. Do let me—and then you can be quiet a little longer. Is the key upstairs? Oh, thanks; I'll be very careful with everything."

Harvey had remained a bachelor long enough to prefer unpacking for himself, but a stronger sensation at that moment was a desire to cut short the talk. He would not have had Julia know this for the world, so he fell in with her proposal.

"I'll put everything out ready, so as to save you trouble," she said, hastening away.

For ten minutes Harvey was alone, and during that short interval he came to a weighty decision, reversing a former intention. He would not speak to Julia about the letter from Mr. Dalrymple to Mr. Selwyn, or about the "ample provision" which had to be made for Hermione Rivers. At least—not yet. Harvey's determinations were apt to be somewhat vague. He did not resolve never to speak, but only not to speak "at present." After all, Julia was a mere girl, unversed in business affairs. The matter rested with himself; he would wait and consider. There was space enough ahead for action—why do things in a hurry?

Perhaps Julia's loving belief in her husband's "goodness," had to do with this decision. If she knew all, she might not feel quite so convinced of his excellence. He had no wish, naturally, to lower himself in her eyes. Everybody likes to be esteemed and admired—or, as we are apt to express it, "to be appreciated."

No, he would keep the matter quiet for a while, till he should "see his way."

Somehow Marjory's face came up, pale and reproachful, and her voice seemed to mingle sadly with the busy sounds of the gay street below, quoting the words she had quoted before:—

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

"Stuff! nonsense!" exclaimed Harvey, almost aloud. "I declare I am as bad as Julia—positively morbid. As if that had anything to do with the question. One would think Marjory had bewitched me! I have to consider my duty to the estate. If my poor old uncle's idea had been carried out, the property must have been completely wrecked—hampered for years at all events. Hermione shall have what is right, but I must have time for consideration. By-and-by I shall know better what really lies at my command."