"Come, then. Have you a hat at hand? I shall like a little fresh air."
The terrace, a broad gravel-walk with huge flowerpots along it at intervals, bounded one side of the house, and ran then for some distance round a lawn of green velvet, enriched by flower-beds. The roses were in full luxuriance, showing every possible tint from pure white to deep red-black; and geraniums bloomed in scarlet and crimson masses.
Hermione held one of Mr. Dalrymple's arms, unwontedly silent, as he paced the terrace. He too was still a little absent and dreaming, though he pointed out his favourite plants from time to time to the young man walking on his other side.
It might have been expected that the three would have had more to say one to another after eight years' separation. Conversation languished greatly. So long as Hermione declined to assist, Harvey's efforts seemed to be useless.
He gave her a glance now and then, growing provoked as the minutes went on. Evidently hers was a silence of judicial displeasure, acted out as a duty. She was looking wonderfully pretty in her white dress and straw hat, the summer sunshine lending brilliance to her pure skin. But after all, what business had she to take him to task in this fashion?—she, a mere child, only nineteen in age, two years younger than his young wife. And what did Hermione know about the matter? He could not of course explain to her the old man's intense desire for that which never could be, and never could have been.
No, never! Harvey felt this now more than ever. Fascinating as Hermione might be, formed by nature to reign over the hearts of others, she would never have done for him, even if he had not met with Julia. "Much too angelic and infallible a being for a lazy fellow like me!" he thought, with an inward laugh, while gravely responding to an observation of Mr. Dalrymple's; "The Baroness Rothschild, yes, a particularly fine specimen—splendid bloom—if only it had a scent."
But Hermione could not know of Mr. Dalrymple's long-cherished desire, once plainly uttered to Harvey. And Harvey would not have cared to admit even to himself, much less to anybody else, the undefined sense of weakness, which had made him so dread the moral coercion of a stronger nature and will than his own, that he had absolutely stayed away all these years from the fear of it. Then, when at length he was taken captive by Julia Pilchard, a half-cowardly dislike to the worry of possible opposition had come into play, and he had deferred speech until opposition should be useless.
He was not indisposed now to allow politely that a different course of action might have been on the whole better. But to submit his deeds to the judgment of Hermione was another matter. If she had excused him, he would have blamed himself—moderately. Since she blamed him, he stood upon the defensive.
There is a right and a wrong in all things, sometimes absolute and intrinsic, sometimes proportionate and relative. Some deeds are right or wrong always, in all places, for all people. Other deeds are right or wrong according to circumstances, and may at the self-same time be right for this person, wrong for that person.
Hermione, earnest, conscientious, decisive, saw plainly the bald fact of right being right, and wrong being wrong. Harvey, not half so conscientious, not half so earnestly bent upon doing the right, knew practically far more than did Hermione of the possible perplexities which may and do arise in connection with this ever-recurring question. But he knew also, if only he would have allowed it to himself, that there had been no such perplexity connected with the subject lately discussed.