"I like lanes better than streets," announced Mittie, as if her opinion were conclusive.
Julia did not care to enter into an argument. For her part she was content to be anywhere in the world, so long as Harvey was there too. Paris, Westford, Kamskatka, or Zululand, mattered little. A few minutes later she slipped away to her own room, and re-read more than once the hurriedly-written letter-one sentence especially.
"I am much afraid from what I hear that Hermione is left totally unprovided for. I do not think she is aware of this herself, and it is almost inexplicable with a man of such business habits as my uncle; but it appears that he has constantly put off, waiting for my return. I could wish now that I had gone back sooner. Regrets are useless, however. We shall have of course to give Hermione a home, though you need not at present mention this to Francesca, as it will not be known until after the reading of the will. Hermione is a pretty creature, and quite a saint, only perhaps a shade difficile in some of her ways. She bears up splendidly, and one cannot but admire her fortitude. I do not know how she and Francesca will suit, still I have no doubt that we shall shake down together somehow. I must stay here till after the funeral, as it is impossible to leave Hermione alone. You will understand this, my dear Julia, and will, I know, bear the disappointment bravely. After that we shall see what to do."
Julia sat long by the window, thinking. Hermione occupied but a small share of her attention. This sudden death in her husband's family touched her keenly, coming so soon after the shock of little Mittie's narrow escape. She could not yet turn from that recollection, could not shake off the horror of it. A sense of insecurity crept over her, of personal helplessness, of a wide surrounding abyss into which at any moment she or her husband might drop away from the other. For after all, life is not meant only for self-pleasing; and a butterfly existence cannot satisfy; and human love may fail; and there is a beyond to the present which may not be always ignored. Julia had a glimpse of the far beyond in that quiet hour, even while the next few days without Harvey seemed to her apprehension hopelessly long to wade through.
[CHAPTER XI.]
WONDERFUL COMPOSURE.
HERMIONE did not break down, as all around expected, under the fearfully sudden blow. When first they brought the news of what had occurred, she grew indeed pale as ashes, but neither fainted nor screamed.
"My grandfather taken ill, and I not told I how cruel! how wrong!" she said reproachfully, and for some minutes she seemed to hold at bay the dire truth that he was gone. When at length it gained entrance, she went resolutely straight to his room, undeterred by all remonstrances—and saw for herself.
Even then she bore up with a fortitude extraordinary in one so young. She turned to no one for comfort, leant upon no one for support. Only as she stood by the bed in tearless sorrow, she lifted to Harvey a pair of anguished eyes and said, "If you had written—if you had done differently—Harvey—your own conscience—" There she stopped, and he had again the curious sense of being called to account by this mere girl, so delicate in look, yet so inviolable in composure.
He made no attempt to defend himself. It was natural that at the moment she should ascribe her grandfather's death, at least in a measure, to the shock of Harvey's unexpected return. Had she known how unwelcome to the old man had been the news of Harvey's marriage, she would have counted the case against him yet stronger. Harvey could not think of this without pain and self-reproach, although for his comfort he already knew that during many weeks past both Mr. Pennant and Mr. Fitzalan had noticed distinct signs of failing in Mr. Dalrymple—so much so that Mr. Pennant had twice warned him to be more careful of himself. But of this Hermione was ignorant, and when, a little later, she was told, she did not seem to believe it.