Chapter XIX: The Real Question

HARVEY seemed to be conscious of something in his own look which he could not quite control. He pushed the lamp aside with a hasty gesture, and raised one hand to his forehead, placing it as a half shield between himself and his wife, but he did not speak.

For one moment a feeling of horror had possession of Julia. It meant— what could it mean? The unwonted paleness, the stiffened features, the averted eyes, spoke to her of guilt, and of conscious guilt. But—what guilt? How utterly absurd! Julia rallied instantly, wroth with herself for the very idea. He was grieved, of course, with the accusation, even as she had been. How could she expect him not to be distressed at such things being said? Tears rushed to her eyes.

"Poor Harvey! It is horrid, I know. I wish now that I had not told you."

Harvey stood up. "There are letters ready for the post," he said in a curious curt voice, and he carried them himself into the hall, though it was not yet post-time, and Slade always came to the library at the last moment. When Harvey returned he seemed more like himself, as he remarked carelessly, "Quite right to tell me! But, after all, people will gossip. The less notice taken the better, sometimes."

"I did not think you would mind so much; I thought you would tell me I was foolish to care."

"Do I mind? Well—perhaps it is rather an unpleasant notion, at first sight. Besides, I have been seedy all day, to begin with. Westford does not seem to suit me, and I believe I am getting tired of this sort of life."

"Are you?" she said, with regret. He was standing a few paces off from the escritoire, his face in shade, so that she could not see it well. She came close, which was not what he wanted, and looked up anxiously. "I am sorry you are not well. If I had guessed, would not have bothered you."

"There is nothing much wrong. Perhaps I need change, and Francesca advises Brighton." He would have turned away, but Julia's hand was upon his arm.

"Does it hurt you to talk? I am so miserable about what that child said. Of course it doesn't really matter—at least, I suppose not—but I hate to have you accused of such a thing. Can't you take any steps to meet the gossip?"

"I! No. What can be said, except that Hermione has no right to anything not left her by her grandfather?"

"I wish he had left something; people would not talk so, then. It was odd that he did not. Still, I don't see why you are to be blamed. It was not your doing. If Hermione would only explain to the people here—"

"No! Let it alone, pray, Julia!" Harvey spoke sharply, for once even roughly. "The less said the better, I tell you. Pray don't meddle."

Julia scrutinised him in wonder, rather hurt. "Of course I will not speak to Hermione without your leave," she said. "But do you suppose that Mr. Dalrymple did not intend to leave her something—if he had lived a little longer?"

Harvey's look grew hard again. "Possibly," he said.

"If he did—!" Julia's black eyes, soft now as Mittie's, were bent upon him, and her second hand came with the first, holding his arm captive. "If Mr. Dalrymple did intend, and we knew it, should we not be bound to give to Hermione what he had meant her to have?"

"Certainly not."

"Are you sure?"

A red flush had come to Harvey's forehead—not a smooth brow now, but lined and ratted. The flush spread slowly.

"I see no particular object in such suppositions."

"No, for of course we do not know that he meant anything of the kind. Only perhaps the people about here fancy that it is so. I could not understand at first what old Sutton meant, but it may be that. What do you think?"

He shrugged his shoulders slightly. It was an occasional gesture with him, the only un-English result of long residence abroad.

"Old Sutton's opinion is of small importance."

Julia was silent, not satisfied.

"Well, is that all you want?" he asked.

"No; may I say more? You won't be vexed, will you? I am not business-like, I know, but it does sometimes seem to me as if things were not right. About Hermione, I mean. It seems as if she ought to have something more of her own. I can't help the feeling; though of course I would not allow it to any one in the world except you."

"I hope not!" escaped her husband.

"No, of course; but still I have the feeling. I know that you are not in any way bound. As I told Mittie, it is sheer kindness that makes you give Hermione a home at all. Still I can't help fancying that she really had reason to expect more from her grandfather, and that she must be disappointed. And then there comes the question—if he didn't do his duty, ought we not to do it for him? I suppose different people would look upon it differently. But there must be a right and a wrong. It isn't only a question of what one is obliged to do, but of what one ought to do? Don't you see what I mean?"

"You certainly are suffering from some confusion of ideas, Julia," her husband said. He was collected now, and able to speak in his usual manner. "But, as you say, you are not business-like. When women touch upon money matters they are apt to go astray."

"Yes, on the mere business part of it. I don't think this is mere business. It is a question of actual right and wrong."

"If any wrong was done to Hermione, my uncle was responsible."

"But you stand in his place now," Julia said slowly.

"That is different. Hermione was his grandchild. She is merely my second cousin, with no particular claims upon me. Except that I have promised to act the part of a brother to her, so far as she will permit."

"And you do not really know that Mr. Dalrymple ever intended to do more for Hermione?"

The question was very direct, but it had no answer. Harvey moved away to the table, and turned the lamp a little lower.

"My dear, if you have nothing more to say, I should be glad to get my letters done."

"Am I keeping you too long? Oh, I am sorry. I'll go at once."

She kept her word, losing sight of his non-response, and her last glimpse was of her husband sitting down to the escritoire once more.

But he did not remain there, and the letters which he had pleaded were not written. When the door closed behind her, he pushed pen and paper aside, and went to an armchair. The subject they had been discussing insisted upon attention. He could not give his mind to letters.

This "fretting ghost" of Hermione's claims, laid to sleep during many weeks, sprang up in new strength; and the brief letter of the dead man to his lawyer, read only once by Harvey, but never to be forgotten, confronted him anew.

"I have resolved to settle the sum of twenty thousand pounds upon my grandchild, Hermione, at once!"

Yes, that was it. Twenty thousand pounds! Of which Hermione possessed not one penny.

"Actually telling Mittie that you had taken possession of the money which ought to belong to Hermione!" This indignant utterance of Julia's recurred next. But, of course, it was absurd. No "ought" existed, so Harvey told himself, and it was no case of "taking possession." What he held was his own, lawfully his own. While Mr. Dalrymple lived, Mr. Dalrymple had the right to will what he chose to Hermione, apart from the entailed land. Now Harvey had the right to keep or give away, as he chose.

Yet still—

"It is a question of actual right and wrong," Julia had said.

Stuff and nonsense! It was a question of law. Women knew nothing about business. Absurd of Julia to meddle in such matters. Besides, even if it were a question of right and wrong, how could that alter the case?

"You do not know that Mr. Dalrymple ever intended to do more for Hermione?" Julia's voice seemed to ask anew.

Yes, of course he did know, but he was not going to inform Julia. Mr. Dalrymple's wishes did not restrain him. He was entirely free. He was most willing to give a home to Hermione, and some day the question of a marriage portion might come up. He fully meant to act an elder brother's part, consistently with the extent of his means and the requirements of the estate. But twenty thousand pounds! The idea was simply ridiculous.

"My poor old uncle must have been in his dotage," Harvey muttered, rousing himself from a dream, which had lasted much longer than he supposed.

"Did you speak?" The door was opening, and Julia came in. "It is post-time."

"Already?"

"Yes; I told Slade I would ask if you had any more letters ready."

"No, I have not."

She looked surprised.

"Slade will go in five minutes. Is there anything important that you can finish in a hurry?"

"No, to-morrow must do. The fact is, I am not in writing mood," Harvey added, with a little laugh.

Julia went outside to speak to Slade, then returned to her husband.

"I have been all this time in my room," she said, and she came to stand by his side as before, looking down earnestly. He had not left the easy-chair. "I have been thinking a great deal. May I tell you what about? I was so puzzled, so worried before. I could not see what was right. May I tell you what I have been thinking?"

"Well?" Harvey had much ado not to speak crossly.

"Something that little Mittie said has helped me. I don't mean that about old Sutton, but something else. Don't you think that if we—" Julia hesitated, flushing— "if we pray to be shown what is right, we shall learn it in time?"

No answer came, and Harvey did not return her gaze. He merely looked down, and seemed to wait for more. She went on, in a low happy voice—

"The thought is such a comfort to me; more of a comfort than I can tell you. It seems to open out a fresh life—a kind of vista—do you see what I mean? I am afraid I can't explain. But I have been feeling lately that I know so little—and this is like a gleam of light—a way in which one may be taught. At least, I mean to try. Don't you think that if one does honestly want to do the right thing, and if one prays to be shown, there will be an answer? I have had my Bible upstairs, reading parts here and there. I moat begin to read it more regularly now. And I could not help noticing one particular text I learnt the words by heart to say to you. They are just this, 'What doth the Lord require of thee, but to do justly, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with thy God?' Isn't that extraordinary? I never was so struck with anything in the Bible before. Don't you think that is what we have to do about Hermione—to do justly?"

Harvey moved in his seat, with a bored, not to say irritated, expression.

"Anything more?" he demanded.

"But you do agree with me?"

"Certainly. I am sorry you count me capable of injustice towards anybody."

"Oh, I did not mean—Pray don't misunderstand me! You don't mind my having said so much, do you? I thought I might, for once."

"You are at liberty to say what you choose, of course. I should not be sorry if I might, for once, have half-an-hour's peace."

"Harvey!" and tears rushed to her eyes. "Half-an-hour, after—"

"Yes, of course," he broke in. "But I should like a little longer. I beg your pardon for being unsociable," and there was a touch of apology in his manner. "I really have a wretched headache to-day, and this sort of discussion doesn't improve matters."

"Have you? Oh, I am sorry. Why didn't you tell me sooner? I'll leave you directly—only just one word," and her chest heaved. "You are not really vexed with me, are you?"

"There's nothing to be vexed about. Except that I don't wish to see my wife transposed into a feeble imitation of Hermione. As I once told you, I do not admire her style. All I beg is that you don't discuss these questions with anybody except myself."

Julia had had a complete douche. She murmured a promise of compliance, and stole away.