Chapter XVII: On Both Sides

HERMIONE would never place herself in a false position by striving after that to which she had no lawful right. She had too much tact and sense, too much regard for her own dignity, and for appearances generally.

So soon as she saw clearly that Harvey and Julia were real master and mistress, that she herself was merely a subordinate member of the household, she withdrew all claims to authority, giving everything over into Julia's hands. There were no struggles, no clashings. The change was made at once, well and thoroughly. If Slade appealed to her, "I am not the mistress now, Slade," she would say meekly; "you must go to Mrs. Dalrymple." If Milton brought a complaint as of old, "I have nothing to do with it now, Milton," she would answer, with a touch of gentle sorrow. "I can only advise you to speak to Mrs. Dalrymple." If the head-gardener desired her opinion, "I think I had better leave it all alone," she would reply, sighing. "Mr. Dalrymple must decide. It is better for me not to interfere."

No doubt it was wise and right to refrain from meddling, and so far the change was made not only thoroughly but also well. Still, there are different ways of doing what is right—so different, that even that which is right may become that which is wrong simply through the mode in which it is done. Hermione might have abdicated her authority without giving the impression that she was an injured and suffering person.

Somehow her sweet sad look and pensive utterances had an unhealthy effect on those around. Hermione did not intend this, of course; people seldom do intend to do any harm. She only wanted sympathy, and liked to be interesting; and she did not measure the extent of her influence. But the Hall servants and the villagers began more and more to look upon her as one cheated out of her rights— "That poor dear young lady!" they called her—while in inverse ratio they grumbled over the "new master and mistress," not to speak of "that there furrin lady, with her flyaway hair—and she a widder!!" —this being usually the climax of rustic indignation. Harvey was aware of averted glances and grumpy answers as he came and went, but neither he nor any one, certainly not Hermione herself, knew how closely they were connected with Hermione's "touching sadness," as some neighbours called it.

There could be no doubt that Mrs. Trevor, the dependent "wielder," had the upper hand of her sister and brother-in-law. Where a woman is bent on managing she can generally succeed in doing so, and Mrs. Trevor was bent upon it. That which is tersely expressed by the old saying as "playing second fiddle" was not at all in her line. Julia was nominal mistress, but Mrs. Trevor ruled through Julia.

Though Harvey saw and disapproved, he was too lazy a man to stand out, except where his own comforts were concerned, and he had not much chance against Mrs. Trevor. It would have been his wish that nothing in the house should be altered during at least some weeks, having regard to Hermione's feelings, and Julia had no wish in the matter apart from his. Nevertheless, before a week passed the drawing-room had undergone a complete transformation at Mrs. Trevor's hands. Harvey shrugged his shoulders, but submitted, and Hermione said nothing. She only held aloof, determined to make no sign of pain.

This proud distance of bearing was noted by Julia Dalrymple with a sense of strong disappointment.

For, despite what her husband had said about not taking Hermione as her model, Julia had looked forward much and wistfully to Hermione's companionship.

She was growingly conscious of something lacking in herself, something which she could not at all define, even while she was aware of the want. There was a sense of dissatisfaction, of insecurity, of worthlessness, in all she had to do; express it how one will, it came to this, that Julia hungered after what she had not, and she saw no means of getting it unless through Hermione.

No use to go to her husband. Julia had learnt so much by this time— had learnt it with a new pain. Dear as he was to her, passionately as she loved him, they were in touch only as to the things of every-day life. Beyond all was haze. Julia stood alone and lonely in her higher cravings, for if he ever experienced the same he would not avow it. To consult Harvey on any question of religious import she had found to be almost as useless, though not so impossible, as to consult Francesca.

But here was Hermione Rivers, good, really good; a thoroughly religious person; one who read her Bible regularly, and believed in the power of prayer; one who taught in the Sunday-school, and found pleasure in Church-going, and went in for good works. Julia might have a certain dread of over-much religious talk, yet that dread had gone down lately before the stronger desire to learn. After weeks of delay, she had come to Westford Hall, full of the thought, anxiously expectant of what she might gain from Hermione.

Then disappointment fell. For the first greeting was chill, the after-companionship was nought, the religions atmosphere was nowhere. This excellently good and devoted girl, from whom Julia had expected so much, was hardly more to her than a pensive and lovely shadow, coming and going indeed among them, but keeping aloof, living a life apart, seldom speaking needlessly, persistent in a gentle icy sorrow.

Julia's loneliness grew upon her as time went by. Harvey was very busy, riding about the place, looking into necessary matters which did not interest her at all, except in their connection with him. Mrs. Trevor largely undertook household arrangements, only requiring a nominal assent from Julia. Callers came, but Julia did not take to these new people; they were Hermione's friends, and too plainly pitied Hermione, whereas Julia counted herself the person most to be pitied. Position and wealth went for little in her estimation. She did crave often for a true friend, one who would sympathise and understand below the surface, not merely meet her politely and kindly above it; and though she resisted the craving as almost a wrong to her husband, it sprang up anew.

For there was no getting below the surface with him. He distinctly repelled any attempt on her part to do so, distinctly shrank from it. Julia became more and more aware of a certain something in him which she could not fathom. There was a locked door, and she might not glance through the door.

So weeks passed, and two lonely hearts walked side by side under the same roof—one a girl's, and one a wife's—never touching, for Hermione never guessed that the other needed her love.

Mittie ran wild these summer days, delighting in the country; yet not so wild as some thought, for a new influence had crept into her life, and already the plastic child-nature was responsive to the moulding touch of that influence. A governess was talked of, but Francesca said tranquilly, "No hurry; she might as well enjoy herself first;" and neither Francesca nor any one else at the Hall knew how the child haunted the Rectory. Even Hermione hardly realised it. Perhaps because she had not been herself to see the Fitzalans so often lately as usual.

She was a little shy of another tête-à-tête with Mr. Fitzalan. It was impossible to forget that he had been allowed an unwonted glimpse into her true self, and Hermione could hardly forgive herself for certain things she had said.

Harry Fitzalan was not much at Westford through his long vacation, not half so much as he wished to be. He had made other arrangements in the spring, and they could not now be broken through.

"You look uncommonly dismal this afternoon, my dear," Mrs. Trevor remarked to Julia one autumn day.

"Do I?" Julia had been yawning covertly behind a book. "I suppose there is nothing to be cheerful about."

"Because Harvey is out? You don't expect him to give up shooting, and sit at, home all day?"

Julia merely said, "No."

"Perhaps you will like to hear that I asked him this morning if we were to spend the rest of the year in rural captivity?"

"Did you?" Julia privately thought this question ought rather to have emanated from herself. "And he said—"

"Said he didn't know, of course. Harvey would not have been Harvey if he had made any other answer."

"He was talking of Scotland the other evening-only he seemed doubtful about Hermione."

Julia regretted her own words as soon as they were spoken. Mrs. Trevor rounded her eyes with horror.

"Scotch moors! After this! Very well for Harvey of course, out shooting all day—but imagine our condition! No, no, I had set my heart on Brighton."

"Harvey can't endure Brighton."

"My dear, a man will commonly like what he is told he likes. That is my experience. You leave it all to me, and I'll manage. We don't go to Scotland this autumn."

"But, Francesca, if Harvey and I wish to go—"

"You don't. Neither of you has any real wish that way. Imagine us three—you and Hermione and I—stranded in some dismal inn on a desolate moor, with nothing to do, nothing to see, nothing to read, nothing to think about! We should quarrel all day for sheer lack of occupation. No, no—Brighton is the thing. Plenty going on there. We all are getting positively stupified with the lack of a little wholesome excitement. As for Hermione, nothing would do that girl more good than to be shaken out of her pet rut. She has nothing on earth to do now, except to pity herself; and to go gossiping round with the villagers. Mischief-making, in fact."

The door opened slightly and was shut again, nobody coming in.

"Francesca, do be careful. If that was Hermione, she must have heard."

"She will only have heard a home-truth for once. Do her no harm—that."

Francesca snapped her fingers lightly, with a little laugh not quite agreeable in sound.

Mrs. Trevor had a certain desire to "get hold of Hermione," as she tersely expressed it, to feel Hermione in her power, and she had not yet succeeded. Endeavour as she might, Hermione always slid gracefully away, and the effort failed.

"I don't want her to hear home-truths from us. Harvey would be vexed. He is always so anxious that we should make her happy."

"She doesn't make herself so, whatever we may do. I'll tell you what, Julia, if people profess to be religious, they ought, in sheer common sense, to recommend their religion by being civil and pleasant, to say the least. I've no patience with this sort of nonsense—setting up for being a saint, and making everybody wretched with her airs and tempers. And, what's more, I don't believe in it. If religion itself isn't humbug—and I have sense enough to know it is not—then Hermione is a humbug. That's the long and short of the matter, and I believe I shall end by telling her so one day."

A red spot rose to either cheek as Mrs. Trevor burst into these unwonted utterances.

Julia gazed with astonished eyes. "Why, Francesca!" she said.

"Oh, you don't know—you don't understand half. You never see what is before your eyes. I know exactly what it all means, and how we are looked upon here. It's a case of angelic sweetness oppressed by hardhearted relatives! Want of home-sympathy, and all the rest of it! I wonder how long you expect it to be before you get beyond a distant acquaintance with all the people round about?"

"But you don't suppose—"

"My dear, I suppose nothing. I know only that Hermione acts her part consistently and cleverly. She doesn't count it to be acting, of course. Nobody does, except my naughty self. It is genuine depression, broken-heartedness, et cetera."

"I wish you would not sneer at everything and everybody," Julia said, standing up. "I shall go for a walk."

She went alone, for Mrs. Trevor did not offer to accompany her. There had been a shower, and Mrs. Trevor objected to country mud.

A solitary ramble was not ill-suited to Julia's taste. She liked time for thought, and there was a good deal to think about just now in her life.

Francesca's words rankled considerably. Could there be truth in them? Was Hermione unreal?

A difficult question this for any outsider to answer with respect to another, difficult enough for Hermione herself. For with many people self-knowledge is very small in amount, and there are almost unlimited capabilities of self-deception. Reality and unreality are often strangely intermixed, and entire transparency is as rare as it is beautiful.