Chapter XXX: From Miss Dalton

"COUSIN HERMIONE, what time will mother and Uncle Harvey come home?"

Hermione was writing letters at a davenport, when the little voice timidly invaded her absorption. Somehow Mittie had grown timid lately. She always had a sense of being "in the way" with Hermione.

"I don't know exactly. You can ask Milton."

"I did ask Milton, and she thought it would be rather early. But I don't know what 'rather early' means; and she's so busy, she says she can't be bothered. May I get some flowers for mother's room out of the conservatory?"

"No, certainly not," Hermione answered. "You will spoil the whole look of things."

"But I do want it so much," sighed Mittie.

Hermione wrote on, unheeding.

"Then if I mustn't get any flowers out of the conservatory, I think I'll try to find some pretty leaves in the fields," murmured Mittie. "I'm sure mother would like them. If Marjory wasn't away all to-day, I'd ask her for some. But I dare say some nice red and yellow leaves would do. Do you think mother won't come for half-an-hour, cousin Hermione? Because I don't want to be out when she comes?"

Hermione looked up vacantly.

"Half-an-hour? No, I dare say not! Do run away, child. I am busy, and I cannot attend to you just now."

Mittie stole off without another word, and Hermione finished her letter, having no further interruptions. She closed, addressed, and stamped it. Then leaning back with a grave and worried air, Hermione drew from her pocket the scrawled note which she had received from Mrs. Trevor the day before. It was as follows:—

"BRIERLY COTTAGE."

"DEAR HERMIONE,—Harvey has decided to go home to-morrow, as he is quite equal to the drive; and I shall come also. Julia will have to wait, probably for another week— not longer, we hope."

"I don't suppose we shall get to East Bourne for another fortnight."

"Harvey wishes the brougham to be here before three o'clock, as he would like to start early.—Yours sincerely, F. TREVOR."

"What made her say that about East Bourne?" murmured Hermione. "It was unnecessary. They will not get off in a fortnight. If Julia cannot stand this short drive for another week, she will not be fit for a long railway journey only one week later. But Mrs. Trevor cannot rest without making me feel her power. That is to say, her power over Harvey and Julia. How Harvey can be so weak is astonishing. She has no power over me. When they go to Eastbourne I will go to the Daltons. Not for enjoyment, certainly! It is not a friendship I would choose. But if the Fitzalans fail me, and if I am driven to it by Mrs. Trevor—"

Hermione's fair brow was contracted, and a flush rose in her cheeks.

"Anything rather than to be under Mrs. Trevor's power! Right and wrong! I do not see that I should be wrong." This was in answer to a distinct whisper of remonstrance from within. "I am not bound to go to East Bourne."

Then it struck her, with a passing sense of compunction, that she might after all have answered Mittie's question if she had taken the trouble to look at Mrs. Trevor's note.

"That child leaves one no peace!" was the self-excusing comment. "The brougham to be there before three; yes, of course, that was what I told Slade. But I did not remember at the moment. One cannot always remember. Three o'clock! They ought to be here by four."

The clock struck four as if in response, and Slade came in with the letters, three for Hermione.

"Thanks!" Hermione said, with the gracious manner she always put on towards the servants. "I suppose Mrs. Trevor and Mr. Dalrymple will arrive directly. Better have tea up as soon as they come. I will ring when I want lights. Do you know where Miss Mittie is?"

Slade did not know. Hermione went to her letters, without troubling herself to inquire further, and Slade disappeared.

Two were lengthy epistles from distant friends. Hermione went through them sheet by sheet in leisurely style, paying small heed to the flight of time. Then she opened the third, finding, to her surprise, that it was from Miss Dalton. What could Miss Dalton have to say?

"She need not suppose that I am going to get into a correspondence!" thought Hermione, with a touch of something like resentment.

But the letter had to be read. It covered two sheets, and the writing was not peculiarly legible. For a while Miss Dalton appeared to have nothing particular to say. There was a good deal of chit-chat about her own doings, about the Parish and about the neighbourhood, and there was a certain amount of sympathetic gush about Hermione and Hermione's trials. Miss Dalton was past girlhood, but not past girlish gush. She seemed to be eagerly expectant of Hermione's visit, when "the rest of them," as she tersely expressed it, should be gone to East Bourne.

So far the letter was only commonplace and wearisome. On the second page of the second sheet, however, Hermione came upon something unexpected.

"I've only just come back from a week in London, and only think— one evening I met at dinner a very old friend of your dear grandfather's. His name is Ogilvie—Mr. Ogilvie—and I believe he is some sort of relation of the Mrs. Ogilvie at Brierly Cottage; not that I know Mrs. Ogilvie, for I never even met her, but just now, of course, her name has come up in connection with all of you. Mr. Ogilvie said something about a 'niece by marriage' living near Westford. But we did not talk of her; we talked about you. He seems a very frank kind old gentleman, and he said you were the prettiest and sweetest child he had ever seen, about six or seven years ago."

"Then he said how he regretted hearing of the death of his dear old friend, Mr. Dalrymple, and how he hoped you had been left properly provided for. I hope you will not think it very interfering of me to say all this, but really I think you ought to know exactly what passed. I said I was afraid things were not at all as they ought to be; and he said he was afraid they were not either; for the fact was, he had received a letter from old Mr. Dalrymple, written just before his death, speaking of what he meant to do for you. Mr. Ogilvie was almost sure from the date of the letter, and the date of Mr. Dalrymple's death given in the papers, that very little could have been done."

"I said that I thought he really ought to make Mr. Dalrymple's letter known for your sake, and he said he would be very willing to do what was right. He had kept the letter, as being the last written by his old friend. Of course he had not got it with him that evening, but he quoted it from memory. He said it was written in a scrawled weak way, not like Mr. Dalrymple's usual hand, and it spoke of the writer feeling very unwell. Then the letter went on something like this, 'You will remember my sweet grandchild, Hermione Rivers. She is lovelier than ever. I can feel no real fear about her future—so attractive as she is, so sure to make friends wherever she goes. But I have to provide for her future. The Westford estate is entailed. I have this morning resolved to leave ten thousand pounds to her!'"

"Now, my dear Miss Rivers, you see!! You see what ought to be yours. The letter was written on the Saturday, only two days before Mr. Dalrymple's death, so, of course, nothing was or could be done. And you are actually defrauded of this ten thousand pounds! Whatever you have of your own, this ten thousand pounds ought to be yours also. My father and my mother and myself feel most strongly on the subject, I assure you. We feel that it ought to be made known. We feel that if Mr. Dalrymple is made acquainted with his uncle's intention, and if pressure is brought to bear upon him, he surely cannot—as a man of honourable sentiments—he surely could not refuse to carry out what his uncle would have done had he lived long enough."

Hermione read so far, and neglected the effusive wind-up. She sat long, still as an image, lost in thought. The room grew darker, but she did not notice it. Her whole mind was bent upon this information which had so strangely come.

Ten thousand pounds! That would mean complete independence! It would mean being able to go where she would, to live with whom she chose. It would mean freedom from control, from Harvey, from Mrs. Trevor!

Mr. Dalrymple had fully intended this sum to be hers. He had that morning resolved it—only that last morning! Extraordinary! Why had he come to no such resolution earlier?

Hermione could not solve the puzzle. It was only another form of the old perplexity—why he had let all those years go by, and had made no provision in them for his darling?

She was more struck with another aspect of the matter, with the simple fact that so soon as he had come to a resolution to act, death had intervened, and the resolve could not be carried out.

With all Hermione's faults, she had been trained up into a very simple and child-like belief in God's overruling and absolute power. And this seemed to her very strikingly, very forcibly, like His interposition. Mr. Dalrymple had willed to leave her ten thousand pounds, and the Divine controlling touch had come, withholding from her what she might have had.

Was she now to grasp at the thing withheld, to condescend to the use of such means as Miss Dalton advised for the possible attainment of that which had been withheld?