Chapter XIV: Expected

SEVERAL weeks had glided by when, one day towards the middle of August, Harvey Dalrymple and his party were to arrive at the Hall.

He had not even yet plainly told Hermione that the widow and her child would be permanent members of his household. There was "time enough," and Harvey always deferred the unpleasant till to-morrow. So Hermione only knew that another bedroom had to be prepared.

"A strange time to come—before Harvey and Julia are even settled in," she said, sighing. "Things would have been bad enough without that."

Hermione had slept at the Rectory hitherto, but this night she would occupy her old quarters. Better so; the plunge had to be made, and the sooner was the wiser.

These past weeks had gone very peacefully, and to Hermione not unhappily. The sorrow had been a gentle sorrow, and she was surrounded by kindness. She was so young, and so attractive in her deep mourning, that few could look upon her unmoved. Wherever she went she met glances and words of pity or sympathy, alike from rich and poor. Mr. Fitzalan had never been more fatherly and kind than now in her time of severe loss; Marjory was nothing less than her abject slave; and Harry, returning home for his long vacation, forgot his own past strictures, to place himself, metaphorically speaking, at her feet. Why not? He was no longer bound, in loyalty to Mr. Dalrymple's desire, to hold aloof. Hermione could never belong to Harvey.

There could be no doubt that Hermione was soothed and comforted, that she liked this kind of thing. To find herself a centre of thought and care, of love and adulation, did not beget a conceited mood or manner, but had a gently lulling effect. She accepted all the petting, the care, the admiration, with a soft humility of demeanour which deceived almost everybody, herself certainly included. "So simple and unconscious," was the general verdict. Perhaps nobody in the place saw deeper except Mr. Fitzalan; for, if Harry could have seen, Harry would not see. He put on tinted glasses, and gave himself blindly up to the infatuation of her sweet presence. And Mr. Fitzalan said nothing. He knew that no words of his could make Hermione see herself as she was, and he knew that Hermione's time of trial was yet to come.

She kept well in health, able to sleep, eat, and walk as usual. She had taken to looking gently pensive and depressed, but this was only correct. Perhaps, if it did not sound cruel, one might even suggest that she looked so because it was correct—because she found that it was expected of her. And the pensive sweetness was very becoming. But Harry, poor fellow, was past seeing that now, and Hermione herself was unaware that she looked aught which she did not genuinely feel.

There was cause enough, undoubtedly, for a saddened face. Nobody would have been surprised at any amount of sorrow on her part. If she had been utterly crushed, it would have been considered only reasonable. But then she was not crushed at all. She was as much interested as ever in people and things, and in surrounding life, and as willing to be "appreciated" by everybody with whom she came in contact. People in overwhelming grief do not care much about appreciation, at least for the time.

There had been no talk as to business. Hermione asked no questions, and the subject had been carefully avoided by the Fitzalans. Mr. Fitzalan supposed that she had learnt from Harvey the true state of affairs, and while inclined to wonder at her silence, he respected it. He was not at all disposed to enter into any discussion about the will, or about what Harvey's duty might be.

But, in truth, Hermione knew little as to the state of affairs. She was vaguely aware that the estate had been left to Harvey, and that he possessed a right to live at the Hall. It never so much as occurred to her that she had a right to live there no longer, except with his permission. She was very young—only nineteen years old—and accustomed to have whatever she liked for the asking. All her life had been spent at Westford, except an occasional month at the sea side, and one long bout of six months on the continent with her grandfather; which six months had transformed her from a complete child to a complete young woman. She went away spoilt, passionate, impulsive, yet pretty and most lovable. She came back lovely, composed, self-restrained, confident, and charming.

As for money matters, Mrs. Milton, the housekeeper, managed all household expenses, with merely a nominal reference to Hermione. Up to seventeen years old Hermione had been in the hands a governess—and a troublesome handful that poor governess found her. Since seventeen she had been her own mistress, and had been permitted to buy whatever she pleased, Mr. Dalrymple paying her bills and keeping her purse filled. She was about as well acquainted with the practical value of money as most children of eight or ten. When Harvey was at Westford Hall, he would occupy the same position that Mr. Dalrymple had occupied; and if there were bills to pay, no doubt Harvey would pay them. Hermione could dismiss the question thus easily. She was a clever girl, well-read, and with opinions on abstract subjects at least as decided as opinions are wont to be at the age of nineteen, but in regard to money matters she was complacently ignorant.

Mr. Fitzalan remarked one day that it was "kind" of Harvey to give her a home. Hermione opened surprised eyes. "Why?" she asked, and Mr. Fitzalan spoke of something else. Though he did not know of the letter to Mr. Selwyn, he knew enough of Mr. Dalrymple's intentions to count Harvey morally though not legally bound to provide for Hermione; he knew quite enough, therefore, to deter him from discussing things with Hermione.

Morally, but not legally! So it was the old question again of right and wrong—of what a man would like to do versus what a man ought to do! But money is very blinding to the moral eyesight where legal freedom exists. Mr. Fitzalan wondered often how Harvey would view his own position.

Marjory had afternoon tea at the Hall with Hermione, the day on which the travellers were expected. Hermione did not seem nervous or timid, as Marjory would have been in her place—as, indeed, Marjory was now. She only looked pensive. Milton had arranged abundance of flowers in the drawing-room, and Hermione altered the arrangement here and there, with some critical remarks. Then she went for a walk on the terrace with Marjory, to while away the time.

"I suppose we shall hear the bells ringing soon?" she said.

"If only that need not have been!" sighed Marjory. "Harry has gone for a long walk to get out of the way. He said he could not stand it."

"Poor Harry!" Hermione observed, in her elder-sisterly tone. "He was always so fond of my dear grandfather."

"Do you think Harvey will keep up things as he did?" faltered Marjory.

"I hope so, indeed. I shall use all my influence, Marjory, and if Harvey did not, I should think it right to speak to him plainly."

Hermione, the girl of nineteen, might speak, but would Harvey, the man past thirty, listen? Marjory, with all her devotion to Hermione, was conscious of something a little out of joint here, of something not quite as it should be. For, after all, everybody is not called upon to set everybody to rights. There are limits to our duties.

To suggest that Hermione was labouring under a mistake lay beyond the reach of Marjory's capabilities. She said only, "You like Harvey really, do you not? in himself, I mean."

Hermione wore a look of thought. "Yes," she said; "I like him certainly—as my cousin. That does not always mean much, does it? A cousin may be a great deal to one or nothing at all. He wishes to be a brother to me, and I have no objection, so far as it is possible, though he did not behave as he should to my grandfather. The past cannot be undone, and he was willing to pass it over. I believe it is wisest to drop the thought of the past, and to begin afresh. If Julia will let me, I shall be a sister to her. Only I cannot help wishing that this Mrs. Trevor had kept away just now. Hark, the bells are beginning."

Marjory was in tears. Hermione slipped a hand through her arm.

"Dear Marjory, I know you feel so much for me," she said.

Marjory could not have told whether she felt most keenly for Hermione or for herself at that moment. She was one to suffer keenly from every "new departure" in life.

"I must go, Hermione. They will be here directly."

"Not yet. Cannot you stay with me to receive them?"

"My father thought it best not. I have no right, and it might seem like intrusion."

"Intrusion? If I ask you to stay?"

Yes, even if Hermione asked it, for Hermione was no longer mistress. But Marjory could not suggest this. She did not know what to say. Her own instinct was strongly opposed to the step, yet she could not bear to leave Hermione alone at such a trying moment. They took one more turn together, and when at the farther end of the terrace a sound of wheels stopping at the front door was heard.

"They have come!" exclaimed Marjory, flushing.

Hermione paused. "Impossible," she said. "It is some caller. Slade will say that I am engaged."

"But everybody knows—nobody would come to-day. Had I not better go home?"

Hermione hesitated, sure that her own conjecture would prove to be in the right. The train was one proverbially behind time, and Hermione had not looked for the travellers to arrive until a full quarter of an hour later. Besides, the bells had only just begun to ring.

For once, however, the late train was early; and the bell-ringers, as well as Hermione, were taken by surprise.