Chapter IV: After Eight Years

"I OUGHT to have written, of course," Harvey went on. "But you know how one puts off. It was a rather sudden affair, just at last. Perhaps too I had a fancy that I would prefer to come and tell you in person."

Still silence.

"Julia is an orphan. She has only one sister—a widow, with a little child. I have left them together in Paris; but, of course—"

Continued silence.

"I am afraid it must seem unkind not to have communicated with you beforehand, only—"

Another break. Harvey was at a loss how to carry on his remarks in the face of this irresponsiveness. Though he would not say a word that was not true, he did not wish to confess that he had purposely abstained from appealing to Mr. Dalrymple until he should have put it out of Mr. Dalrymple's power to interfere. Purposely, after a fashion. Harvey was more apt to drift in the wake of his own desires than to follow out a certain line of action determined on by himself. Also, he undoubtedly was a procrastinator in the letter-writing line. But beneath the usual putting-off in this case there had been a more than usual unwillingness to yield to the temptation.

"Mrs. Trevor is the sister—Francesca Trevor. Badly off I am sorry to say. That was one reason why I thought—why delay seemed unadvisable. Julia was dependent on Mrs. Trevor, and, of course, a young widow—"

Harvey came to another stop. It was evident that Mr. Dalrymple had ceased to listen. He leant back in his chair listlessly, a pallid and even shrunken look replacing the bronzed hue of health. None but himself could know how sharply fell this blow, dispelling a long-cherished dream.

For years Gilbert Dalrymple had dwelt upon the dream, until it had grown into an almost certainty for the future. He had spoken of it to his friends, till there were few in Westford, besides Hermione, quite ignorant of his desire. He had, of course, been aware of the possibility that either Hermione or Harvey might fail to care for the other, but he had not realised it. He had scarcely allowed it, and all difficulties had gone down in imagination before his intense longing that Hermione Rivers, the darling of his old age, should possess, through marriage, the estate from which she was cut off by entail.

And now this hope was utterly at an end!

Mr. Dalrymple was not angry with his great-nephew—not nearly so angry as was Marjory Fitzalan. It did not come upon him as a matter for displeasure. That which had so grieved Marjory—the slight conveyed to himself in Harvey's silence—scarcely weighed at all, for it was lost in the sharper trouble of his slain desire. Westford never could belong to Hermione! There lay the real grief.

It was not anger with Harvey which kept him silent and pale. Rather he was displeased with himself, distressed at the strength and stiffness of his own will shown by this test. He was used to take all that came to him in life direct from Above, ignoring second causes; and the disappointment which had now fallen came thus like everything else. Yet Gilbert Dalrymple's whole being rose in protest against it, because he craved his own way in life for his darling, not God's way.

Seventy-six years old, and his will not yet subdued! Shame, shame! he told himself. This it was which bent the silver head and silenced speech, which kept him from even hearing Harvey's lame excuses. It did not trouble him, as Harvey had expected, that the wife brought no money with her. He was thinking other thoughts.

Harvey made no further attempt to gain his attention, and prolonged silence effected that which words had failed to effect. Mr. Dalrymple came back from the contemplation of his ruined dream to the consciousness of the present. He looked at Harvey, then at his watch, and stood up slowly, laying a hand on the mantelpiece, as if for support. The healthy hue had not returned to his face; it was pallid and shrunken still. Harvey could not help thinking how the old man had aged in these few years. Yet he had not thought so on his first entrance.

"Past tea-time. Hermione will be waiting for us," Mr. Dalrymple said absently.

"I shall not be sorry for a cup of tea after my walk from the station," remarked Harvey, rising also.

"True—yes—I had forgotten." Mr. Dalrymple spoke vaguely, his hand on the mantelpiece still. "Yes, we will go. There was something else which I had to say; but—"

"Time enough, isn't there?" Harvey asked, in a cheerful manner. He did not wish to have it supposed that he knew or guessed aught of what had been passing in the other's mind. "I want to make Hermione's acquaintance. She must have grown out of all knowledge."

Mr. Dalrymple's eyes were fixed upon Harvey.

"Yes; it is about Hermione," he said with earnestness. "Things have been deferred too long. It has seemed to me—perhaps—that there might be no occasion to—but I will have no more delay. I should wish to look into certain business matters with you."

"Certainly. Another day," suggested Harvey. "I think you are fatigued this afternoon, hardly up to business."

"I have done nothing to cause fatigue." Mr. Dalrymple spoke decisively, yet as he crossed the room, leading the way, Harvey noted a certain unsteadiness.

Slade stood in the hall, apparently on the watch

"Has Miss Rivers returned?" asked Mr. Dalrymple.

"Miss Rivers is in the drawing-room, sir—" Slade stopped, evidently impressed by his master's unwonted paleness.

"Well?" Mr. Dalrymple said.

"Sir, I informed Miss Rivers that you were engaged; and Miss Rivers desired me to let you know, when the interview should be over, that she is waiting tea for you."

Mr. Dalrymple said, "Right," mechanically; and Slade opened the drawing-room door.

"Grandfather! Oh, I am so glad. I was afraid from what Slade said—"

Hermione saw the stranger, and paused; then, with a pretty hesitating air, she came forward.

There were three windows on one side of the room, and a glass door at the farther end leading into a spacious conservatory, whence came a blaze of geranium scarlet to the eye. Near this door a basket-table held cup and saucers of Crown Derby china, a cosy of Indian embroidery hiding the teapot. The room contained handsome ornaments, as well as valuable oil-paintings, and the furniture was good, though somewhat old, and of a subdued tone of colouring.

"Shall I be recognised? Don't introduce me," Harvey had said outside, and Mr. Dalrymple complied, though he scarcely seemed to hear the words. He crossed slowly to a favourite armchair, absorbed and silent still.

Harvey's first glance was one of pure curiosity. He had at once to confess to himself that neither Sutton, Marjory, nor his great-uncle had been guilty of exaggeration. No tamer adjective than "lovely" would do to describe the girl coming to meet him.

She was only nineteen, not very tall, but slightly over middle height, and looking taller from her slenderness. The simple white dress was unrelieved by any colour, except that of a blue enamel brooch. The little head was well set on the little throat; and short brown hair, in wavy natural clusters, set off a skin of peculiar fairness. The nose was a trifle too short, but that is a fault on the right side for a woman; the mouth was a trifle too wide; and the blue eyes were not large.

All this, however, gives a poor idea of the true Hermione. For the attractiveness, about which none who knew her failed to speak, dwelt more in expression than in outline, more in manner than in form.

Harvey had seen many pretty girls in his lifetime but he had never seen aught before quite like this: He cast his recollections back to the child of eight years earlier, and marvelled.

There was a radiant happiness about Hermione's brow, a smiling sunshine in the eyes, a buoyant sweetness of look and bearing, indescribably fair. Form and colouring might perhaps have been matched elsewhere, though not easily, but the wonderful joyousness and grace of the whole being came upon Harvey as something unique. She seemed to be one whose life hitherto had passed without a shadow. Marjory Fitzalan's face carried already the traces of battling and pain, but Hermione's bore no such sign.

She gave one glance at her grandfather, one glance at Harvey, then drew near, her lips parted.

"Don't you know me, Hermione?" asked Harvey, and she sprang to greet him with a flash of delight.

"Oh, I knew, I knew!" she cried. "I was sure it must be Harvey himself! I knew you would come. Dear Harvey, I am so glad."

"And you will be my little sister still, after all these years?" he asked, holding her hands in brotherly fashion.

"Why, Harvey, as if anything could ever alter that!" she cried.