Chapter XV: Things Different

THE conservatory door was flung open, and a child came flying along the terrace, her lissom figure bending forward, her flaxen hair streaming, cloud-like, behind.

"Mittie, Mittie! Come back, you naughty child!" sounded from within doors, in faint shrill tones.

Mittie paid no regard to the sound. She rushed on, till within three yards of Hermione and Marjory. There she stopped abruptly.

"Are you the pretty cousin?" she demanded, fixing her black eyes fearlessly on Hermione, whom she seemed to select at a glance with a precocious child's penetration. "Uncle Harvey says I have got to adopt you, because you're not my cousin really, you know. But I think—" and the black eyes roved to and fro between the two faces— "I think I'd rather adopt the other!"

The words sounded comical from those rosy lips. Hermione was gravely silent, wearing a checked, even a displeased look, as if the infantine frankness were annoying. Marjory's heart went out towards the small engaging creature, so daintily delicate in figure and dress.

"Don't you think you might adopt both of us?" she asked adroitly. "We are very much like sisters. No, I am not Hermione—this is Hermione—I am only Marjory Fitzalan. And you are Mrs. Trevor's little girl?"

"I'm Mittie Trevor, of course." That seemed a self-evident fact to the eight-years-old maiden. "And Mrs. Trevor is my mother, and we've come to live here—but I wish it was you that had got to be my cousin. What makes you call yourself 'only' Marjory? I like Marjory for a name, and you are not a poor person."

Marjory could not resist stooping to give the kiss which Hermione ought to have given.

"Not a rich one, at all events," she said.

"Oh, but you know what I mean? I don't mean that, of course—mother isn't rich either, because she's lost all her money, and that's why we've come to live here; but she isn't a poor person, of course, don't you understand? What makes you look as if you had been crying? Grown-up people oughtn't to cry about nothing, mother says, because it makes them ugly—only you are not ugly. I mean to tell Uncle Harvey. I like you ever so much the best. The other looks like Aunt Julia when Aunt Julia is cross."

"Hush, you must not speak so," Marjory said hastily. But Hermione did not seem to hear the utterances. She was standing as if lost in thought.

"Impossible!" she said aloud. "He could never intend such a thing without consulting me."

"Don't you think you ought to go? I had better say good-bye," suggested Marjory.

"If you must. Yes, I have to go in; but—" Hermione faltered, looking at the child. Should she question Mittie? No, she could not stoop to that. Harvey, and Harvey alone, must answer for himself.

"Come to live here!" Those four words rang in Hermione's ears as she turned towards the house, forgetting even to respond to Marjory's good-bye. Mittie stayed behind, to pursue her new acquaintance through the garden, and Hermione entered the conservatory alone.

At the drawing-room door she paused, partly to observe, partly to rally her powers of self-command. For all in a moment it rushed over her how great a change had come in her life.

A tall lady-like girl, handsomely dressed, stood in the bow-window, studying the view. Hand-bags and small packages lay about the room, and Slade with his usual cautious air was carrying something away, it did not matter what. Hermione caught the tone of his assenting "Yes, sir," in mild response to an evident order from Harvey, who stood near the fireplace, with the air of one taking possession, albeit in his usual insouciant and gentlemanly style. A smaller and plumper individual than Julia—somehow Hermione knew at once which was Julia, though the widow's attire was by no means strongly marked as such—had thrown herself into Hermione's own especial easy-chair, and was remarking in distinct tones—

"Rather comical, isn't it, to desert the premises, and give nobody a welcome? But I suppose one may expect a certain rusticity of manners here. My dear Julia, I don't know what your sensations may be, but I am dying for a cup of tea. Do pray ring and order it. That man is a very embodiment of slowness; he will be an hour at least carrying up the tray. Yes, pray ring, Harvey; thanks. And this is the drawing-room! Not a badly-shaped room on the whole,—quite capable of being made pretty. Of course there is no sort of arrangement now. Everything seems to have been plumped down once for all exactly where it stands, and left there for twenty years. Not a vase that hasn't its exact match on the other side—and the way those curtains are draped is antediluvian, to say the least. I'm not sure that it isn't pre-Adamite. As for that row of chairs, with their backs against the wall, they are enough to give one the nightmare. Nous allons changer tout cela, I suppose, and the sooner the better."

"Francesca!" her brother-in-law uttered, in a warning undertone. He had caught sight of Hermione standing in the conservatory doorway, and he went forward to meet her, not without some secret embarrassment, but with a kind brotherliness of demeanour. For he wanted very much to make Hermione happy. He had set his heart on doing all that he possibly could to repay her for what she was losing, short of adequate money-repayment. He did not of course allow that she was a wronged individual, or that she had any actual claim upon him. He had reasoned himself by this time into looking upon the £20,000 settlement as an absolutely preposterous notion. It seemed to him a doubtful matter whether the estate would stand the strain of losing even half of that sum; and after all he was, legally, free to do or not to do exactly as he chose. Still there was a distinct wish to "make up" to Hermione for something—he did not define what!

Hermione's manner could not be called sisterly, and when she allowed him to lead her to his wife there was no warmth in her welcome. Mrs. Trevor's words, involuntarily overheard, did not heat her into outward anger or freeze her into rigidity; and she came forward gracefully as usual, with only a slight deepening of colour; but there was a calm dignity, a displeased distance, in her bearing, curious in one so young.

Julia did not know what to make of it. Her face, which had lighted up, fell quickly, and she scanned Hermione inquiringly as their hands met. Mrs. Trevor's lips wore an odd expression, like one bracing herself for a conflict. She had expected a pretty young girl, whom she might patronise agreeably out of the plenitude of her worldly experience; and this stately young creature seemed hardly susceptible to patronage. Hermione had often looked sweeter, sunnier, more lovable than at this moment, but perhaps seldom more beautiful. And Mrs. Trevor did not like beautiful women. She objected to being outshone.

Remarks trickled slowly from one to another, Hermione speaking just so much as was necessary, not more. She seated herself on the sofa, as if receiving guests, and she made polite conversation in a chilled and chilling manner which Mrs. Trevor thoroughly understood. "That girl has been spoilt, and needs putting in her right place," the widow thought. "Julia will never succeed; she lets things go too easily. I shall have to take her in hand myself."

Queries as to the journey were answered, and Hermione explained her own absence at the moment of arrival, apologising for it in quiet tones. She had not expected their train to be so early, she said. Then Mittie's name came up, with wonderings as to what could have become of her, in the midst of which Mittie herself came flying through the conservatory, to deposit her little person in the big armchair which had always been Mr. Dalrymple's.

Harvey saw and understood Hermione's look. "Come here, you witch," he said; "I want to know what you have been about." But Mittie declined to be dislodged.

"No; I like this best," she said. "You always kiss me, and scrub so with your moustache. I mean to sit here. I've been out in the garden, and it's very pretty. It's a nice place to live in, I think. And there's a person that I like very much. Her name is 'only Marjory,' she says. That does sound so funny, but I love her. She's just as pale as can be, and her eyes look so big and tired, and she's not like nobody else I ever saw. I like her ever so much better than cousin Hermione."

"That child wants bringing into order, Francesca," Harvey said, in a displeased tone.

"She's too much for me. Hold your tongue, Mittie, and don't be rude, or I shall send you to bed."

Mittie did not hold her tongue. She responded simply, "Then I shall cry, mother!" and examined Hermione in a prolonged gaze.

The entrance of tea effected a diversion. Slade hesitated a moment where to place the basket-table, glancing from his former to his present mistress; but Julia paid no attention, and Hermione, as a matter of course, signed him to the usual place. Mrs. Trevor noticed this, with a strengthening of her previous determination. She noted, too, the calm air of possessorship with which Hermione dispensed tea and offered cake. Unmistakably the young girl was, in her own eyes, hostess still. The time had scarcely come yet, however, for speech, and nothing would have been said but for the presence of that embarrassing child. Mittie munched and considered, curled up in the big armchair, with her tumbled mass of flaxen hair and her soft wide-open eyes.

"Does everything here belong to cousin Hermione? I thought Aunt Julia was to be the mistress. Mother said so."

"Mittie, you are a very rude impertinent little girl! If you don't hold your tongue, you shall leave the room," said Harvey, with sufficient sharpness.

"I know mother said so," murmured Mittie, very nearly in tears, for a real rebuke from her uncle was rare, and she loved him dearly enough to mind it.

No further notice was taken, and Mittie subsided into silence. Hermione scarcely seemed to have heard the childish utterance, yet it had stung severely. Her hand trembled, causing one cup to clash against another, and an unwonted flush became fixed in either cheek. Once or twice, when addressed by Harvey, she appeared lost in thought.

For Mittie had done at last what all these weeks since her grandfather's death had failed to do. Hermione's eyes were opened to see in a flash, and that no welcome flash, her new position in the household.

Not for worlds would she have had those around guess what she was feeling. She kept her seat and her quiet manner, doing what had to be done, only a little flushed and grave and silent. Harvey knew that the unconscious arrow had sped, and he was very uneasy in his knowledge; but the two ladies, not being aware of her usual looks and ways, were not struck with the variation. They only thought her cold and proud—pretty in no common degree, but not attractive.

"Can you manage without me for a little while? I have something that must be done," Hermione said, rising when tea was over.

"Pray don't stay on our account," Mrs. Trevor said at once.

Harvey followed Hermione into the hall, with intent to apologise for Mittie's rudeness, but she was too quick for him. He only saw her out of reach, passing up the broad staircase.

Once within her own door, safe from observation, a change swept over Hermione. The fair face grew white and wild, with a look of inexpressible loneliness. She stood in the centre, her eyes cast down, her arms drooping listlessly, her lips moving with scarcely articulate utterances.

"How can I bear it? How shall I be able? Oh, grandfather—oh, grandfather—so utterly alone! Must I stay? It is my home, but so different now! Everything altered! I cannot understand; but I must ask the Fitzalans—not Harvey. Those people to live here, and I not even told! Oh, it was cruel of Harvey—cruel of everybody. And Julia the mistress! Yes, I suppose so; but I did not see before what it meant. O God—oh, God, must I bear it?"

Then there came a sharp struggle with a very storm of sobs, which seemed almost as if they must rend the slight figure. Hermione writhed and bent beneath the agony, yet pride was strong, and she would not yield. Mrs. Trevor and Julia might not, should not, see that she had been weeping; and she did not weep. Not a tear was allowed to force its way from her eyes. The strife was soon over. Strange to say, Hermione did not pray, as one might have expected. She spoke half aloud, to herself, as it were, with but that one brief appeal which could hardly be termed prayer; and then, having conquered the bout of strong emotion, she stood up, going to the looking-glass.

"No, they will not know," she murmured, examining the face reflected there. She even smiled gently to herself. "Yes, that will do. I shall not be overcome now."

Five minutes later she was passing alone through the garden on her way to the Rectory.