Marjory, who would fain have been present also, had to give it up. She was only able to lie on her couch, weeping passionately for her friend, while Hermione in deep black, with an angelic sweetness on her fair face, stood forward alone as chief mourner, the observed of all observers. Harvey was near, but she would not have his support. Mr. Fitzalan's voice shook, and his hand trembled, while Hermione never faltered. When they sang a hymn round the grave, by Hermione's express desire, her clear tones took the lead, and her blue eyes were uplifted as if verily able to see "behind the veil."
At the words, "I heard a voice from heaven—" brokenly uttered by Mr. Fitzalan, who seemed quite unnerved and scarcely able to struggle through the service, that look came again to her face. Then a sob was heard, but it did not come from Hermione. A young man stood behind her, stalwart in figure, his fine boyish face working with strong emotion. Even in that sad hour Harvey had cast from time to time interested glances at Harry Fitzalan, down in Westford for the day. There were many who could tell him of Harry's devoted affection for Mr. Dalrymple. It was an attachment which did the young man honour.
Over at last! and the crowd broke slowly up. Harry would not go to the Hall, as somebody asked him to do. He did not want to hear the will read, so he hurried off alone to the Rectory. Marjory saw him coming, to cast himself dejectedly into a chair in the darkest corner of the drawing-room, and she checked her own tears to rise and meet him. "Poor Harry must feel it so terribly," she knew. "After Hermione, it was worse for him than for anybody."
"And Hermione!" she whispered, standing by his side, a few words having passed. "And poor Hermione?"
The young man made a movement as if of impatience. He was very like his father and sister in face, having the same irregular cast of features, with loose brown hair and expressive eyes, but he was half a head taller than Mr. Fitzalan, and strong in build, with a sunburnt healthy look, therein a marked contrast to Marjory.
"Poor Hermione!" he repeated, with a touch of mockery. "You need not trouble yourself, Marjory. It was all graceful attitudes and lovely looks—nothing more."
Marjory's eyes filled. "O Harry! indeed you are mistaken."
"I wish I were. She didn't shed a tear—but tears are not becoming, you know." Harry spoke somewhat doggedly, as if determined to stand by his own opinion. "I never do understand female stoicism. It is unnatural. And such a man as Mr. Dalrymple!" The words ended in a groan.
"It is not stoicism—indeed it is not. It is only that she will not give way before others."
"And now she will go home, do her duty to everybody, and be as charming as if—" Harry broke into a sigh. "Well, we needn't discuss the matter. It does no good—only worries you. We never shall think alike about Hermione, I suppose. That six months abroad spoilt her— and I see it, but you don't. I can't see why you need, either. After all, she's a lovely creature, Marjie—nobody knows it better than I do. Sometimes I wish I didn't know it quite so well. I should like to get her out of my head altogether—and I can't. He counted her perfect, dear old man! Only, one does look to see him mourned differently—"