"Yes,—oh, I know, father."
"Knowing is not always believing, is it? After all, my experience will not serve for you. Now go back to your couch, and have a quiet hour. I will see to the roses."
[CHAPTER III.]
A "SISTER" FOR HERMIONE.
WITHIN the Hall library Mr. Dalrymple sat before a massive escritoire, writing. All things in this commodious room were massive— bookcases, chairs, couches, pictures, ornaments, above all this central table, with its multitudinous drawers and receptacles. The June sunshine blazed in through a large bow-window, falling unheeded on the silver head of the old man.
He was tall and thin, and held himself erect, even at his desk, which after seventy-five is not usual. The silvery hair curled still about the finely-moulded head; and the clean-shaven delicate face, a uniform pale bronze in hue, was steadfastly set to the work in hand, the eyes fixed, the lips somewhat compressed.
Mr. Dalrymple spent the greater part of his life in this room. He had been there now for hours off and on, writing letters, always writing letters. A wide and varied correspondence was his, including the personal management of his property, intercourse with the friends of a long life, interchange of ideas with literary and scientific men of note, and the perpetual response to perpetual appeals for money or aid. People said he ought to keep a secretary, and he had made the attempt, only to fail. Somehow he never could find a secretary to suit him; the reason perhaps being that he never could endure to let anybody answer his letters except himself.
"If you want a thing done, do it!" is a good piece of advice, within limits. Mr. Dalrymple carried this principle to excess. He was very independent; his friends said he never would be helped.
In habits of life he was most regular. He lived by rule, rose and went to bed by rule, ate and drank by rule, worked and took recreation by rule. His was no self-indulgent existence, governed by the sway of his own desires. Always up at six o'clock, he had his morning constitutional before breakfast, except in the depth of winter; he had his ride with Hermione late in the afternoon; and each hour between held its own occupation.
He was particular and precise in his employments—not in a disagreeable fashion, but certainly in characteristic modes. Every letter that he despatched left its exact copy behind, always in Mr. Dalrymple's well-formed and beautiful handwriting. A secretary might at least have copied these letters; but no, Mr. Dalrymple would do the whole himself. Every drawer and pigeon-hole in the huge writing-table had some special use assigned to it. Every paper possessed by Mr. Dalrymple could be found without fail at five minutes' notice.