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.