Chapter VIII: For the Future

THE evening service was over, and so was the cold evening meal which followed. Mr. Dalrymple had been by no means sorry for the help of Harvey's strong arm on the way home. His head felt "heavy" again, he said, and once or twice he seemed not able to walk straight. "It was only the heat," Hermione decided; "such extreme heat for June." And, as she told herself, he was less knocked up than Marjory.

But physical weakness was with Marjory the ordinary condition of affairs, a part of herself, a thing to be regretted, yet not to cause alarm. Sudden feebleness, coming upon a strong and healthy man, is altogether another matter; and young as Hermione was, she might have known that difference.

She did for a moment feel uneasy when Harvey remarked, "You ought not to have gone to Church this evening;" and her grandfather answered, "No; I almost wish I had not." Would it not have been better if she had given the message? But Mr. Dalrymple might not have followed the advice; and a good-night would restore him. On the whole, however, Hermione hoped for the non-appearance of Mr. Fitzalan.

They were out upon the terrace now, enjoying the still twilight. Mr. Dalrymple was in a comfortable easy-chair, which Harvey had insisted on dragging out of the library. He did not mind trouble of that description, being too thorough a gentleman not to undertake small courtesies. As Mr. Fitzalan had remarked, laziness takes different forms, and certainly Mr. Dalrymple had found his great nephew most kind and attentive all day, ready to anticipate every wish.

None of the three showed at first much inclination to talk. After a while, Harvey broke in upon the silence, remarking, "Delicious scent of roses."

Mr. Dalrymple offered no response, and Hermione started another subject, "What interesting sermons we have had to-day!"

Another irresponsive pause.

"Did you not think so?" she asked, looking at Harvey.

Was the question malicious? Harvey was too honest to answer in the affirmative. He said only, "Were they?"

"This morning's particularly. Yes, I thought so. Did not you?"

"I am not a very good judge," Harvey replied carelessly.

"Were you talking about this morning's sermon?" Mr. Dalrymple asked, rousing himself. "What was the text? I cannot recall."

"I must refer you to Hermione," said Harvey, at whom the question was directed.

"Hermione is sure to know," the old man uttered lovingly.

"Yes, grandfather;" and in silvery tones she repeated, "'Know ye not, that to whom ye yield yourselves servants to obey, his servants ye are whom ye obey; whether of sin unto death, or of obedience unto righteousness?' With part of a verse just before, 'Yield yourselves unto God.'"

"Yes, my dear."

"Mr. Fitzalan spoke about the nature of the service as bondservice. Don't you remember, grandfather? That if we yield ourselves to God, we are bound to obey Him in everything; and if not yielded to Him, then we must be yielded to evil, bondservants to the Prince of Evil. I thought all that was very striking, the way he put it. And about the mastery of self too, the being slaves to self, or freed from self." Hermione hesitated an instant, recalling his utterance at the Rectory, which she had not so well approved; then she went on— "He spoke about the choice being left to us, though God has of course absolute right to our service—but still we are told—'Choose you this day whom ye will serve,' and then, 'Yield yourselves unto God.' Yes, it was very beautiful. And all about what is meant by yielding— real yielding—having no care for our own will, but only caring to please God."

Harvey counted an after-abstract of the day's sermons highly unnecessary. He was not interested in the said sermons, and to sit through them without listening seemed to him a sufficient tax upon his patience. Moreover, he was no more disposed to take Mr. Fitzalan's teaching secondhand from Hermione, than Hermione was to submit with meekness to Mr. Fitzalan's dictum, except as uttered from the pulpit. So he stirred restlessly, causing the wicker-work of his chair to utter long creaks, as a vent to his dissatisfaction.

"Would you not like another chair?" asked Hermione, disturbed by the squeaks.

"Thanks—no. This is very comfortable."

Mr. Dalrymple spoke next in quiet tones. "Yes, it is a blessed service," he said. "But the yielding of ourselves is not a matter of one moment's resolving or doing, as some would have us believe. It is a long battle."

"Only there has to be first the yielding of our will, grandfather. We have to give ourselves to Christ; and then, once yielded to Him, will He not keep His own?" She had an air of quiet certainty, and her face was bright in the twilight.

"My child, yes, He is faithful. But He will send tests. He will allow us to learn our weakness. That is part of the whole—part of the battle. Yours is only beginning. Mine is nearing the end. 'I have fought a fight,'—not 'a good fight' like St. Paul's, only a long fight with many failures. And He has been with me throughout. The 'crown of glory' is laid up—ready—safe in His keeping."

Harvey could listen now without any inclination to fidget. There was a humble reality in the old man's confidence which touched him, and even aroused in him a vague wish to possess the same—unlike Hermione's confidence. It vexed him that she should break in upon the dreamy soliloquy—

"But, dear grandfather, you don't really think that one never can have yielded up one's will and one's all to God until after very long fighting? Why should there be delay? Why not yield one's all at once?"

He smiled at her tenderly.

"The sapling doesn't grow into a great oak in one hour, Hermione. Yes; yield yourself now—self, will, and all, keeping nothing back. But you will find more and more to yield as you go on—hidden depths of self, unsuspected forms of wilfulness; and much that you have thought yielded you will find not yielded. That has been one of my latest lessons. It may be one of your latest."

"Would you say that we are never to have a will or a wish of our own?" Harvey asked unexpectedly.

Hermione began, "No, never—" but he turned from her, with two words which plainly directed the question to Mr. Dalrymple— "Would you?"

"Yes, my dear boy, any amount, only never apart from God's will. Give over everything to Him, and He will give back to you tenfold what you have yielded up."

Harvey seemed to be thinking. Hermione, a little offended, remained silent. Mr. Dalrymple presently moved, as if to stand upright.

"I almost think I will go in, if you will both excuse me," he said. "I am over-tired to-night. We will discuss everything to-morrow."

"Are you going to bed, grandfather?"

Hermione had never known such an event before as retirement before his usual time.

He put an arm round her waist, kissing the fair brow, and holding out a hand to Harvey.

"Yes; it is fatigue, I suppose. I shall be all right to-morrow, after a good-night. I do not feel that I can stay up any longer."

Harvey offered his arm, and they went, all three, through the conservatory into the lighted drawing-room.

"Thanks, my dear boy. It is a great comfort to have you here. You must come again very soon, and stay long, you and your Julia. I begin to feel that I am an old man, and it is a comfort to know that my Hermione has a kind brother—a brother and sister too—who will care for her."

"Yes, indeed," the young man said heartily.

"Yes, you would do it—would do all—will do all when the need arises. I have complete trust in your kind feeling. You will be a true brother to my darling—always!"

"Always!" repeated Harvey.

The word was very simple, but it had the force of a solemn promise in his estimation, he could hardly have said why.

Hermione stood somewhat apart, not moved by this as Harvey would have expected, but rather seeming not quite to approve of it. When Mr. Dalrymple turned for another "Good-night" of peculiar tenderness, her response was even a little cold. Whether Mr. Dalrymple noticed the fact it was impossible to tell. He went quietly from the room.

Half-a-minute of silence followed. Hermione remained motionless, the lamplight falling upon her dropped eyes. Harvey wished she would be so good as to sit down, that he might do the same, but she did not. The silence was broken by her voice.

"My grandfather is not well."

"I am afraid not."

"He was perfectly himself until you came. It is the worry."

"Are you sure he has not been failing at all? One does not always notice at first, but he has a worn look—hardly the result of one day's worry."

Mr. Fitzalan's words recurred to Hermione, but she put them aside, and answered in resolute tones, "Quite sure. I have never seen him like this before."

"In that case, I think you would be wise to have advice for him without delay. Yes; to-night—why not?"

"What is the use? It is only that he is unhappy."

"I don't wish to contradict a lady, of course, but he seems to me to be thoroughly unwell."

"Only because of that," she persisted.

"If you are absolutely certain to be in the right, discussing the matter will do little good," Harvey could not help saying. "But I have seen something of illness."

"He is worried, not ill. It is enough to upset him. If only you had written openly from the first! I do not wonder that he feels it so much."

Harvey ignored this.

"Then you will not even ask if he would like to see Mr. Pennant?"

"Now? No; it is half-past nine. I shall see how he is in the morning, of course. Will you read prayers to-night, as he cannot?"

She did not speak curtly. Voice and manner were always soft and gentle, yet Harvey knew that every intonation meant displeasure.

"I have no objection, if it is a matter of reading only."

"Yes; we always have a short psalm on Sunday, and I will show you the prayer that my grandfather would use."

Hermione seated herself with a book, and little more passed between the two until the bell sounded and they went to the library. It was the first time within Hermione's recollections that she had ever been there for this purpose without her grandfather. His absence gave her a desolate feeling. She wished she had kissed him more tenderly, had asked more anxiously after his condition. Mr. Dalrymple was an old man, and not given to unimportant ailments. What if anything at all serious were impending? Might it not even now be best to send for Mr. Pennant, and ask him to look in for five minutes, just to see that nothing was really wrong? Mr. Pennant was so kind, he would not object, even should the errand prove to have been unnecessary. But, on the other hand, it was getting late, and most likely there was no need, and Mr. Dalrymple would dislike a fuss; and, besides—besides— why should Harvey manage things? He had behaved so ill—had forfeited all right to interfere. No, she would wait till the morning, and then certainly Mr. Pennant should be summoned, if Mr. Dalrymple were not better.

Hermione wore a reverent manner, but she heard not one word of the psalm which Harvey read, or of the prayer which followed.

After that they went to bed.

A soft rapping at Harvey's door roused him next morning from comfortable slumbers.

"All right," he answered drowsily, under the supposition that boots and hot water would be deposited outside. But the rapping went on, and in another moment he was wide awake.

A glance at his watch showed him that it was only half-past six, a full hour and more before he was usually called. He had a trick of locking his door at night, the fruit of foreign travel, therefore to say "Come in" was useless. He sprang up, flung on his dressing-gown, and turned the key.

Slade entered, subdued in manner and suppressed in voice, according to his wont. It was not Slade's way to get into a flurry. But the line across his forehead had grown into a deep rut, his hands trembled, and he shut the door behind him, as if fearing to be overheard.

"Anything wrong?" asked Harvey.

"Yes, sir—I am not sure," Slade answered under his breath. "I am sorry to disturb you so early, sir, but would it trouble you very much to come and take a look at my master? Mrs. Milton and me don't know what to make of him, sir; and it don't seem right to frighten Miss Rivers without there's good reason."

"No, certainly; don't say a word to her. I'll come in three minutes. He is not ill, I hope?"

Slade went into a brief explanation. At six o'clock punctually Mr. Dalrymple expected to be called, and this office was always undertaken by Slade himself—more from love to his master than because it appertained to his post. Personal attendance upon Mr. Dalrymple was Slade's delight.

As a rule the old man was found to be already wide awake by six o'clock, and it was rarely indeed that, as on the previous day, he should fall asleep again. But this morning Slade had rapped and rapped in vain. No voice answered, so at length he went in. He found Mr. Dalrymple in a heavy slumber. Slade spoke, and Mr. Dalrymple murmured indistinctly something about— "My head!—don't disturb me—" dozing off again immediately. Slade did not think very much of it at the first moment, and left the room; but presently a sense of uneasiness crept over him, and he sought the housekeeper, who took alarm at once.

"And we went back, sir, but we couldn't get any answer, not either of us," Slade continued. "And Mrs. Milton pulled up a blind, and let in the light—and then we saw, sir!" Slade's voice shook, and his face grew paler. "And Mrs. Milton said I'd best call you directly, for we don't like his look."

"Wait outside for me—three minutes," Harvey answered.

Scarcely more than the three minutes passed before he appeared, already dressed. The two went down the passage silently, entering Mr. Dalrymple's room.

Milton stood beside the bed, watching, and she turned upon Harvey a pair of distressed appealing eyes. Harvey gave her a glance, but at first he said nothing, only stooped to examine the face, to lay his fingers on the wrist. Slade waited near the door, trembling still with agitation, almost sobbing.

But that changed responseless face!—no wonder they had not "liked his look."

"Send for Mr. Pennant," Harvey said.

"Yes, sir. Sir, you think—" faltered Slade.

"Send at once—not a moment's delay!"

Yet as Slade vanished, he bent again to look narrowly under the half-closed eyelids, and almost unconsciously a mutter passed his lips—

"No use! Poor Hermione!"

Mrs. Milton burst into tears.