He talked freely, however, and was markedly affectionate to Harvey. Hermione's manner too had thawed. Recollections of old days came up, and time went on wings till they had to dress for Church.
"You will not come to-day, I suppose, as you are not well," Harvey remarked to Mr. Dalrymple, but the old man seemed astonished at the suggestion. Nothing short of absolute inability would have been counted by him a sufficient reason for staying at home.
Rain had by this hour ceased, and the walk was pleasant in the soft grey June atmosphere, clouds still low, but a bright promise of future sunshine gleaming through them, and all trees and herbage rejoicing in the past downpour. Hermione wore one of her favourite white dresses, simple enough in make, and Harvey bore her waterproof on his arm.
"You don't use the carriage for this?" he asked as they neared the Church. It was a good half-mile of distance.
"No, no—not unless it were a matter of necessity," Mr. Dalrymple said. "I like my men and horses to have as much as possible of a Sunday, besides myself. Hermione and I are able-bodied people."
Then they were within the old building, replete for Harvey with childish recollections. He seated himself purposely on that same side of the square pew where he had been wont, long ago, to sit beside his fair young mother.
Mr. Dalrymple and Hermione occupied another side of the pew, where Harvey had them in full view. As the service went on, he was impressed with the old man's reverence of manner and look of deep devotion. There was no lounging, no seeking after positions of ease, no occupation with others present. Mr. Dalrymple, albeit pallid still and manifestly not well, stood and sat and knelt as required, with no apparent relaxation in his fixed attention. That was genuine worship, and Harvey knew it.
He did not trouble himself to question what manner of worship his own might be. Marjory Fitzalan claimed his attention next. She was in a pew near, and she too looked pale, even suffering. The long bout of continuous sitting and kneeling was a trial to Marjory's physical powers, and the body was not with her subservient to the spirit, as with Mr. Dalrymple. She wore a worried and depressed air.
Then there was Hermione. Harvey came back to her, casting little glances from the hymn-book which he decorously held open, without any attempt to join in or even to follow the words of praise. He could understand Sutton's use of the word "angelic." Hermione really did look lovely, her blue eyes bent upon the open page, her lips parted as she sang, her face lighted up with a glow of reverent devotion, which might almost have been a reflection of her grandfather's. Was it so genuine as his? and was she at that moment absolutely absorbed, absolutely unconscious of the pretty picture she made? Harvey was disposed to answer both questions in the negative. Like people who are very lenient to themselves, he was not very lenient to others; not disposed always to take the most charitable view of their actions or motives.
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