Chapter VII: June Sunshine

"MR. DALRYMPLE did not look quite himself to-day," remarked Mr. Fitzalan, as he sat down with Marjory to the cold early dinner usual on Sunday at the Rectory.

"I don't wonder," rejoined Marjory.

Mr. Fitzalan asked "Why?" not following her train of thought.

"Harvey!" was the comprehensive answer.

"Harvey! You mean the fact of his marriage. Yes, that might worry Mr. Dalrymple in some measure. Hardly to the extent of affecting his health."

"I don't know. There must be the feeling that he can never trust Harvey again."

"Trust him—how?" Mr. Fitzalan was fond of delving to the roots of things and words.

"Father, you know what I mean." Marjory's tone was a degree petulant, and a dent appeared on her brow.

"There are degrees and varieties of trust. You suppose that Harvey will be henceforward materially lowered in Mr. Dalrymple's opinion. I am not so sure."

"He must be lowered; he cannot be anything else."

"That depends upon the stand which he has taken hitherto,—in Mr. Dalrymple's opinion, I mean. He is not lowered in mine."

"Father!" The expression of the emotions in Marjory could at this moment no further go.

"I don't say that I approve of his action. I merely say that my opinion of him is not altered. He has always been a very pleasant fellow, willing and even anxious to please everybody, after himself. So much as that I have trusted him, and so much I may trust him still. He does not wish to distress anybody, and so far as is convenient he will make up for any distress which he may have given. It is not all men who would run away from a bride of three weeks to soothe the feelings of a great-uncle."

"Why did he not bring her with him?"

"Rather a startling step, under the circumstances. Suppose he had telegraphed, 'Expect my wife and myself by such-and-such a train!'"

"But if he had written earlier—if he had written at first."

"Yes, there it is. I don't defend the action, Marjie. I only say that it is nothing new, that it is the same Harvey whom we have known. He does not object to doing what is right, but he will do what is wrong rather than be inconvenienced. And he is ready to do any amount of kindness, after a lazy fashion, only self must be considered first."

"I don't think his hurrying home from Paris was lazy."

So Marjory had actually begun to defend her quondam hero.

Mr. Fitzalan laughed to himself in a noiseless style.

"Laziness has a variety of developments," he said, and the subject was dropped.

Not, however, for very long. Dinner over, Marjory had one of her necessary short rests on the couch, for she was far from strong. She lay perfectly still, after her usual wont, with shut eyes, and long thin fingers lightly crossed, not knowing, and for the moment not much caring, what other people were after. Very soon she would have to rise and bestir herself for afternoon Sunday-school. The short intervening space had to be utilised to the utmost.

Mr. Fitzalan's voice in the passage broke in upon her stillness.

"Hermione! How do you do? You are early to-day, and alone."

"Yes; I came to make excuses for my grandfather," Hermione's silver voice answered. "He seems to feel the heat so much, I have persuaded him to stay in for once, and Harvey is there too, so it really is best. Can you possibly manage without my grandfather?"

"Certainly. If no one else can take his class, I will do it myself. Come and see Marjory. You need not start for a few minutes."

"No. I thought you would rather know in good time."

Hermione entered, fresh, fair, and smiling, not in the least heated with her hot walk. Somehow she always looked the same. Marjory did not rise, for Hermione was never treated as a guest here. The younger girl bent in her graceful manner for a kiss, and then sat down near the couch.

"It is a lovely day," she said.

"Too hot for Marjory," Mr. Fitzalan observed. "Mr. Dalrymple was not quite himself this morning, I think, was he?"

"No. It is the worry about Harvey."

Marjory's eyes opened more widely for a glance at her father.

"So Marjie has been saying," he remarked, "But Mr. Dalrymple has not been entirely as he should for some weeks."

Hermione wore an incredulous air. "He is very well and strong generally," she said. "Nothing was wrong with him until Harvey came."

"You have not noticed any difference? Well, I would keep him quiet. Don't let him exert himself. He is not so young as he was. And tell him from me not to think of Church this evening. Perhaps I may look in afterwards to see how he is."

Hermione was not so fond of receiving as of giving directions. Mr. Fitzalan often aroused in her a small spirit of opposition. She could not have told why, even if she was aware of the fact. Perhaps it was because he did not exactly rank as one of her devotees. Hermione was so accustomed to be "looked up to," as Marjory expressed it, that she could hardly understand being looked upon in any other mode; and though Mr. Fitzalan was most kind and fatherly, he did not bow to her opinion, nor did he cease treating her somewhat as if she were still a child. Hermione loved him as a dear old friend, but sometimes without doubt he did provoke her a little.

She would not pursue the subject of Mr. Dalrymple's health, but said with her pretty girlish dignity, "Harvey has behaved very wrongly. I do not wonder that my grandfather is unhappy."

"Has he told you any particulars about the lady of his choice?" asked Mr. Fitzalan, rather anxious to ward off an exciting duet of condemnation between the two girls. Marjory looked worn enough already. He knew that a very little more would incapacitate her for the afternoon's work.

"Not much. I have not cared to ask," Hermione answered. "He does not deserve that we should show interest. Her name is Julia— Julia Pilchard it was-and she is two years older than I am."

"Ah, a mere chicken," murmured the disrespectful Rector.

Hermione would not notice the interruption. She held herself a little straighter, and proceeded, "Two years older than I am, and Harvey does not seem to know whether she is pretty. That means of course that she is plain. She has only one sister, a widow with one little child. They lost all their money lately. Harvey says I shall like the sister; but I do not know; I do not much care. All this is beside the mark. Harvey has forfeited all right to our sympathy. My grandfather is most kind and forgiving—far more than Harvey deserves. But for me it is different. I have to show what I think for my grandfather's sake, not for my own."

"Take care, Hermione. Self is very subtle."

Mr. Fitzalan hardly spoke the words, he breathed them rather. Hermione's colour deepened a little.

"You do not understand me," she said in a voice as low as his, with a touch of reproach.

"It may be so. But is it certain that you and I perfectly understand Harvey?"

"I understand the circumstances of the case. There can be no mistake, and no excuse."

Mr. Fitzalan made one negative movement of his head, the expressive eyes saying much that he did not put into words. He at least knew more of those circumstances than Hermione could know; and while not at all disposed, as he had said, to defend Harvey's manner of proceeding, he could make allowance for the difficulties of Harvey's position; he could believe that this sharp cutting of the Gordian knot had been done from motives not altogether thoughtless or unkind, though in his estimation mistaken. His view of the affair was perhaps even more indulgent than Harvey's own view, just because he was better acquainted with the strength of Mr. Dalrymple's desire, and the persistency of Mr. Dalrymple's will.

But he was aware that to argue the question with Hermione would be fruitless, and he turned from her towards the couch.

"Marjie, are you fit for school this afternoon?"

"Yes, father. Is it time to go?"

"Nearly. Time for you to get your hat, I am afraid. Would you not rather stay at home?"

"O no. I can't be spared."

She went at once for hat, parasol, and books, struggling against a degree of lassitude which even her father did not suspect, or he would have insisted instead of only suggesting. There were no lounging airs or gestures of fatigue, such as many people adopt in not very strong health; and she would not allow herself to lag behind the other two in their ten minutes' walk to the schoolroom. Rather oddly it had been built at the farther end of the village, not near the Church.

Clouds were gone, and the June sun blazed in through the schoolroom windows, not much softened by yellow blinds. Children and teachers were alike languid that day, with the exception of Hermione, who sat upright in her white dress, cool and collected, speaking with ready words and earnest persuasive looks. She was a very successful Sunday-school teacher. The worst children in the school were by common consent handed over to her, and Hermione could do what she chose with any of them.

Marjory, a few yards off, just struggled through her lesson and no more, the last half hour being one long haze of exhaustion. Once a rush of sounds filled the air, and the row of little sleepy faces receded into a far distance; but Marjory talked on resolutely, not in the least knowing what she said, and somehow things came back to their normal condition. She said nothing to anybody about herself; only hoped she had not spoken utter nonsense, dismissed her children, collected books, and did various small things which always fell to her share. Then she crept home uncomplainingly through the hot sun, wondering at each step how many more would be possible, and on reaching the Rectory dropped down upon her couch. She had done her utmost for that day.

Hermione had farther to walk, but her light step never faltered. She found her grandfather seemingly better, strolling in the garden with Harvey, and enjoying a long chat. Hermione did not give Mr. Fitzalan's message. She was rather averse to doing so, she could hardly have told why, and she decided that there really was no need.

After all, "Grandfather was the best judge."