Chapter XXI: "stiff-Necked."

HERMIONE was miserable. She had scarcely reached her own room, when the tide of shame and unhappiness rushed over her, swamping even wrath for the moment.

She knew how she had fallen, knew how she had disgraced herself, knew how this petty ebullition of temper must have lowered her in the eyes of all who witnessed it,—Francesca, Julia, Mittie, Mr. Fitzalan, Harry, even Slade. Hermione went over the names, not refusing to look the truth in the face. A bitter truth it was. She who so prided herself on calm repose of manner and control of temper—she to have been betrayed into a childish outburst of fury. Hermione could not understand how it had come about, how in one instant her shield of composure had given way. The thing seemed incredible, after all these years of self-command.

A very agony of shame overpowered Hermione—shame at having so lowered herself. That was the real grief; the unbearable pain. Her sorrow was for her own disgrace. She despised herself for the fall, and she hated Francesca for being the cause of her fall. As she sat by the bed, her face buried in the pillow, her hands clutching the counterpane, no softer regrets mingled with the bitter shame and anger.

For once she gave full rein to passionate tears. What did it matter? Everybody knew. The very servants in the kitchen, down to the little scullery-maid, all would hear.

No; Hermione wronged the faithful heart of Slade in thinking this. Gossip enough goes on ordinarily in kitchen regions; but Slade was no ordinary servant. Not for worlds would he have breathed to another what should bring discredit on his beloved Miss Rivers. Even Milton heard nothing from him.

As Hermione wept on, the thought of her grandfather came up, dear old Mr. Dalrymple, kind and courteous to everybody, and always loving to "his child." Oh, the difference of those days and these! Hermione sobbed afresh, with a stricture of loneliness at her heart. And then the resentful question arose, "Why, why had he left her so, left her in the power of these people? Things might have been so different. Had he really loved her as he seemed to do?"

A tapping at the door aroused Hermione. In one moment she sprang up, tears ceasing. What business had any one to interrupt her? To come and spy out her wretchedness?

The tapping paused, and soon recommenced. Hermione could not at once respond. She pulled straight the disturbed bed-clothes, and walked to the looking-glass. It was getting dark, still she could see how blistered and reddened her face was. She smoothed her hair, and deliberately lowered the blinds to make the room still darker. After which she unlocked the door, and opened it a few inches, keeping a firm hold upon the handle.

Julia stood there, pale and troubled, evidently nervous also.

"Won't you let me come in?" was faltered.

"I would rather be alone, thanks," Hermione answered icily.

"Harvey wished—he is so annoyed—"

Hermione stood silent.

"If you don't mind—if I might say just a few words," pleaded poor Julia, really to be pitied, for she was almost equally afraid of her husband's displeasure on one side and Hermione's anger on the other, not to speak of Francesca's sneers.

"Well?" Hermione answered.

"May I come in? I don't like to talk outside, for fear of being overheard."

Hermione yielded so far as to retreat three or four steps, carefully keeping her back to the light. Julia entered, shutting the door.

"I wanted so much to say to you—Harvey and I hope you will not mind Francesca. It is her way to say sharp things, but nobody thinks anything of it. She has always done so. Harvey is excessively annoyed. He says he hopes you will come with us to Eastbourne, of course; but she ought not to have said what she did."

Julia's apologies might have had more effect, but for Hermione's smarting consciousness of her own miserable failure.

"I do not see that there was any need to discuss the question with Harvey. I must decide for myself."

"Yes, of course—I did not mean to discuss it, indeed. Only I knew Francesca would talk, and I thought it might be kindest to tell him myself first."

"Thanks!"

The manner was absolutely repellent. Julia shrank under it. Her mission seemed a non-success thus far, but she would not at once give up hope.

"I meant it kindly, indeed. Won't you believe so much? I can't understand how it is that you seem to think all of us are against you." Julia hesitated, and having no response, she went on earnestly, "I would do anything to persuade you that we really want to make you happy. It has been such a disappointment to me. Before I came I used to fancy that you and I would be like sisters, doing things together. Francesca was always so much older than me, more like a governess than a sister. I thought you would be a friend; and I thought I should learn so much from you, because I was told how good you were."

Was this said maliciously? Like lightning the query flashed through Hermione's mind, and like lightning a negative was supplied by Julia's troubled unconscious face. Then came the thought, hitherto crushed into the background, how grievously she had dishonoured her "good" profession, how unfaithful a "soldier and servant" she had shown herself. Hermione well knew what should have been her next step. Self-humiliation alone, with frank acknowledgment of having done wrong, might tend to undo ill results, side by side with secret confession and prayer for pardon. But alas, pride rose stiffly in the way. Hermione only stood still, listening.

"There are things I want to know—I don't mind saying so much to you. I have wanted it for a long time, and there seems no way of learning. Things which I have never been taught, and which, I suppose, you have always known—since you were a child, I mean. People are brought up so differently. I did hope when I was coming here that you might help me. But it always seems as if you only wanted to keep aloof, and did not care to speak to me. Don't you think things might be a little different?"

Was this actually Julia—the worldly irreligious Julia!—venturing to imply that Hermione had been in the wrong—venturing to suggest what Hermione ought to do? True, the suggestion was made humbly, and Julia's eyes were full of tears as she spoke. But Hermione did not love to have her duty pointed out even by her clergyman—much less was she likely to tolerate it from Julia. Conscience was speaking loudly, imperatively, within, yet Hermione drew up her head, answering in cold tones—

"I do not see what difference I could make."

"Is there anything I could do differently so as to please you? I would try, indeed I would, if I only knew how!"

Again there was a sound of tacit blame, not intended by the speaker, and Hermione chafed beneath it.

"If you would only believe me! I do so want to have things smooth and pleasant, not to have Harvey worried."

Hermione turned half away. "Harvey must take the consequences of introducing such a person as Mrs. Trevor into the house!"

"My sister!" Julia said only these two words.

"She is not mine!" Hermione replied, resisting an impulse to apologise.

"No; but—" Julia hesitated, having said almost as much as she dared. "Hermione, won't you try to forget all this of to-day? Won't you kiss me, and let me be your sister?"

The kiss was rather accepted than given. Julia sighed, with a baffled feeling that she had done her utmost and had failed.

"It is so cold up here. Are you not coming down soon?"

"Not till dinner-time."

Julia left the room without another word, and half-way downstairs, as she passed a little alcove on a landing filled with plants, Mittie seized upon her.

"Aunt Julia! Aunt Julia! come in here! Mother's in the drawing-room, and I want to speak to you first. Have you been to cousin Hermione?"

Julia had not meant the fact to become known. Being a bad hand at fencing, however, she said, "Yes," and submitted to be dragged into the retreat.

"Is cousin Hermione angry still? Or is she miserable?"

"I dare say she is not very cheerful; but that is not your business, Mittie?"

"But I want to know." Mittie twined an arm round Julia's as she spoke. "Because my Marjory says that if we do love God, Aunt Julia, we must be awfully unhappy to make Him sorry. And cousin Hermione was in a dreadful temper, wasn't she? So she ought to be miserable."

"People are unhappy in different ways," Julia answered judiciously. "When were you in a temper last?"

"Oh, not for a whole week. And I don't mean to be, never again!"

"But everybody does wrong sometimes."

Mittie shook her head. "Nobody oughtn't," she said. "And when they do, they've got to be awfully sorry, and go and tell Jesus, and try harder."

"Yes; that must be right," said Julia, with a sudden wonder in her heart—why had not she tried this plan?

There was sufficient light for her to see the upturned face of the child, with its surrounding cloud of flaxen hair.

"Mittie, how do you know enough about—about Him—to be able to love Him?"

"Why, Aunt Julia! You love Him!"

Julia made no reply.

"I know quite well you do, 'cause you've been ever so much nicer lately. And that's why. I expect—" and Mittie paused thoughtfully. "I expect cousin Hermione doesn't love Him much to-day, else she wouldn't have got into such a rage."

"I don't think you had better talk about Hermione. We have to do right ourselves, not to discuss other people."

"That's just exactly what my Marjory says," Mittie answered, in a tone of profound satisfaction, as she clasped both arms round Julia's waist. "Aunt Julia, I love you heaps more than I used. I told my Marjory so, and I said I wished you'd come and hear her talk. And she said you was too old."

"Too old!"

"Yes; you're as old as she is, and you don't want to be taught. My Marjory said you was old enough to read your own Bible, and to listen to everything in Church. And she said God's teaching was the best. I do try now to listen in Church as much as ever I can, only I s'pose I'm too little to understand it all. There's some hard words, you know. But I always know what it means when His name comes in, and it does come in so very often. That's nice, isn't it? And I s'pose by-and-by, when I go to Church, God will teach me; but now, you know, Marjory teaches me."

Julia would have wished to hear more of the simple prattle. Somehow, it seemed to help her. Through the infantine words she caught glimpses of truths hitherto veiled from her eyes.

Old enough to read her Bible, and to listen to everything in Church. That suggestion would remain, Julia had read her Bible regularly of late, but the reading had been formal, mechanical, superficial— a thing that had to be done because it was right, not an earnest searching to find out the mind and will of God. She had gone to Church regularly, often of late twice instead of once on Sunday, but the going had been from a sense of duty, not to join in heartfelt worship, in prayer, in praise, and not with thirsty craving for instruction. At least, if the thirsty craving had been there, she had not looked to have it satisfied. Something of this dawned upon Julia as the child spoke. But no more could be said, for Mrs. Trevor's voice sounded in raised tones—

"Julia! Where are you? What are you doing?"

"I am here," Julia answered, coming out of the alcove, and descending the lower flight. Mittie remained behind. Mrs. Trevor retreated before Julia into the drawing-room.

"Where have you been? You might have remembered that I should be alone all this time? Except when Harvey appeared, which was worse on the whole than solitude. What made you go and tell him all about that scene? He is in a nice state of mind!"

"I thought he ought to know."

"Another time it is to be hoped you will think differently. I never heard such nonsense. As if a man could understand! I only hope for my part that Hermione will not come with us to Eastbourne. I am perfectly sick of that girl's airs. Have you seen her yet?"

Julia again said, "Yes."

"Where?"

"In her room."

"You went there! I declare you are more courageous than I should have supposed! Well—what manner of reception had you?"

"She has not got over it yet."

"Of course not. And won't for another week. That's her style of saintliness, my dear."

"Whatever is wrong, it is not Hermione's religion that is in fault. It is herself!" Julia answered.

Mrs. Trevor was so astonished with the unexpected utterance, that she stared at Julia, and made no further remark for full two minutes.