"Oh, if you had been near me—if I had known you always, and you had brought me up, and made a good woman of me."

"Perhaps I ought," murmured Anne, thoughtfully. "But, just then, it would have been so hard—so hard!"

"What are you saying? Say it again. All your words are good words. Tell me."

"Nothing, dear. Except"—here Miss Valery raised herself with a sudden effort mental and bodily—"Agatha, will you go with me to Weymouth?"

"If you like. Anywhere to be with you. I am sick of myself."

"We all are at times, especially when we are young, and do not quite understand ourselves or others. The feeling passes away. But as to Weymouth—do you still dislike to go near the sea?"

"Yes—no! I will try to bear it; I think I could, by your side. And you shall not go alone on any account."

"Thank you," said Anne, taking her hand. So they went.

An innocent line of railway darted past Kingcombe, in the vain hope of waking that somnolent town. It was a pleasant whirl across the usual breezy flats of moorland, by some meadows where a network of serpentine streams flashed in the sun. Agatha felt more like her own self; with her, the spirit of Nature was always an exorciser of internal demons; and Anne's conversation aided the beneficent work.

At Dorchester they took a carriage, and drove across the country to Weymouth.

"Are you not getting weary? you looked so but lately," said Agatha to Miss Valery.

"Not at all, I feel strong now." Her eyes and cheeks were indeed very bright; she leaned forward and gazed eagerly around.

"This Weymouth seems familiar to you, Miss Valery?"

"Yes; we used to come here every summer—Mr. and Mrs. Harper and the children and I, until she died. She was as good as a mother, or an elder sister"—here Anne hesitated, but repeated the words—"like an elder sister—to me. We were all very happy in those times. It is a great blessing, Agatha, to have had a happy childhood. Where did you spend yours?"

Agatha looked uneasy. "Chiefly in London—I told you."

"But before then, when you were a very little girl?"

"I do not know. Don't let us talk about that."

"Not if you do not wish it." Anne's eyes, which had watched her closely, turned away, and after a few minutes were riveted on a line of blue sea sweeping round a distant headland, and curving off to the horizon. As she looked she became very pale, and shivered. Agatha hardly noticed her, being so busy examining the new regions into which they now entered—the ordinary High Street of an ordinary country town. The sea view had vanished.

Suddenly the carriage turned a corner, and they burst upon the shore of Weymouth Bay. A great, blue, glittering bay, with two white headlands shutting it in; the tide running high, the waves dashing themselves furiously against the sea-wall of the esplanade, breaking into showers of spray, and curling back into the foaming whirl below.

Agatha started, and put her hands before her eyes. "I know that sight—I remember that sound. Oh! where is this place? why did you bring me here?"

At this cry Miss Valery, roused from her momentary fit of abstraction, took hold of Agatha's hand. The girl was trembling violently.

"My dear, I did not expect this, or you should not have come here. This is Weymouth. Now do you remember?"

"How should I? Was I ever here before?" She peered from under her hand at the sparkling sea. "No, it is not like that sea; it is too bright. Yet I hear the same roll against the same wall. It is very foolish, but I wish we could get away."

"Presently," said Anne's soothing voice. "We must drive along this shore, and then we will get out at an inn I know, and rest."

Her manner, her expression, as she fixed her eyes full upon her, struck Agatha with an indescribable feeling. She looked eagerly at Miss Valery, trying to read in that worn face some likeness to the one which had impressed her childish memory with almost angelic beauty.

"Tell me—you say you have been often here—did you ever one stormy day follow a ship that was outward bound? You were in a little boat, and the ship was standing out to sea, round that point—and"—

She stopped, for Anne's face was livid to the very lips. Agatha forgot her own question and its purport.

"Stop the carriage. Let me hold you. Dear—dear Miss Valery, you are worn out—you are fainting."

"No—I never faint—I am only tired. Don't speak to me for a minute or two, and I shall be well."

With a long sigh she forcibly brought life back to her cheeks—a feeble life at best. Agatha, watching her, was smitten by a dread which now entered her mind for the first time, driving thence all personal feelings, and making her gaze with sorrowful anxiety on the friend beside her who had been all day so cheerful and kind. And she thought with a remorse amounting to positive horror, that she herself during that day had more than once spoken sharply even to Anne Valery.

A great awe came upon her, reflecting how often we unconsciously walk hand-in-hand, and talk of our own petty earthly trials, with those whose souls' wings are already growing, already stirring with the air that comes to bear them to the unseen land.

It was a relief indescribable, when leisurely strolling along the pavement, she saw among many strange faces one that seemed familiar. The hands knotted loosely at his back, the light hair straggling out from under the hat, that was pushed far up from the forehead—no, she could not be mistaken. She uttered a cry of pleasure.

"Look, look! there he is; I am certain it is he."

Anne started violently.

"Mr. Dugdale, Mr. Dugdale!" Agatha called out.

He came up to the carriage with the most lengthened "E—h!" that she had ever heard him utter. "What brought you two here? This bleak day too. Very wrong of Anne!"

"But she would come. She said she wanted a breath of sea-air, and I think, besides, she has business."

"No," interrupted Anne, "no business, except bringing Agatha to see Weymouth. Now shall we rest, and have some tea at the inn. You'll come with us, Mr. Dugdale?"

"Yes, I want to speak to you, Anne. I've got news about—that little affair you know of. That was why I came to Weymouth to-day. Eh, now—just look there!"

With a countenance brimful of pleasure he came to Miss Valery's side, and pointed to a steamer that lay in the offing.

"It's the Anna Mary. She made the passage from New York in no time. I've been aboard her already. I fancied I might find him there. Now, what do you think, Anne?"

"Is he come?" said Anne, in a steady voice. She had quite recovered herself now.

"No—not this time. But he will sail, for certain, by the next New York packet to Havre."

"Thank God!" It was a very low answer—just a sigh, and nothing more.

"And we have satisfactorily ended all that business which you first put into my head," continued Duke, rubbing his hands with great glee. "It was a risk certainly, but then it was for him. My children will never be a bit the poorer."

"No," murmured Anne Valery to herself.

"And think what an election we shall have! With him to make speeches for Trenchard, and argue in this wonderful way about Free-trade, and tell the farmers all about Canadian wheat! Glorious!"

"What are you both talking about?" cried Agatha, who had been considerably puzzled. "Do let me hear, if it is not a secret."

"No secret," said Anne, turning round, speaking clearly and composedly, and not at all like a sick person. "Mr. Brian Harper is coming home."

Agatha clapped her hands for joy.

When they dismounted from the carriage, and had ordered tea at the inn, Anne still seemed quite strong. She said it was the sea-breeze that brought life to her, and stood at the open window gazing over the bay. Agatha thought she had never seen Miss Valery's face so near looking beautiful as now; it was the faint reflex of girlhood's brightness, like the zodiacal light which the sun casts on the sky long after he has gone down.

After tea,—at which meal Mr. Dugdale did not appear, a fact that nobody wondered at, since he was left to wander about Weymouth at his own sweet will, without Harrie to catch him and remind him that there was such a thing as time, likewise such sublunary necessities as eating and drinking—after tea Miss Valery and Mrs. Harper sat at the window together.

It was only an inn-window, the panes scribbled over with many names, and it lighted an ordinary inn-parlour, looking on the esplanade. Yet it was a pleasant seat; quiet, too, for the town was almost deserted as winter-time came on. The bay, smoothed by the ebbing tide, lay like crystal under a sky where sunset and moonlight mixed. Agatha ventured to look at the sea now. She beheld with a curious interest a sight till now so unfamiliar, taking a childish pleasure in watching the great white arm of moon-rays stretch further and further across the water, changing the ripples into molten silver, and making ethereal and ghostlike every little boat that glided through them.

By-and-by came a group of wandering musicians, playing very respectably, as German street-musicians always do. They converted the dark esplanade and the shabby inn-parlour into a fairy picture of visible and audible romance.

"It is quite like a scene in a play," said Agatha, laughing and trying to make Miss Valery laugh. She could not see her clearly in the moonlight, but she did not like her sitting so quiet and silent.

"Yes, very like a play, with 'Herz, mein Herz,' for a serenade. What a sweet old tune it is!"

"I used to sing it once." And Agatha began following the instruments with her voice. "No, I can't sing. I could sooner cry."

"Why? Are you sorrowful?"

"No—happy. Yet all feels strange, very strange." She crept to Miss Valery, wrapped her arms round her waist, and laid her head timidly on her shoulder. Anne drew her nearer, with a more caressing manner than she ever used to any one. Agatha Harper seemed that night of all nights to lie very near her heart.

"Herz, mein Herz," died faintly away down the esplanade; there was nothing but the glitter of the bay, and the moon climbing higher and higher above the Isle of Portland.

Anne spoke at last, amidst the half-playful, half-tender caresses that were so dear to Agatha, who had never known what it was to be calmly and safely in a mother's arms. Lying thus seemed most like it.

"Do you think I care for you, Agatha, my child?"

"I cannot tell. Perhaps not, for I am not good enough to deserve it."

"Do you know what first made me care for you?"

"No—unless it was for the sake of my husband."

Anne gave no reply, and her husband's name plunged Agatha into such a maze of painful thought, that she was for a long time altogether silent.

"Shall I tell you a story, Agatha?"

"Anything—anything, to keep me from thinking."

"If I do, it is one you must not tell again, unless to Nathanael, for I would put no secrets between husband and wife."

"Ah, that is right—that is kind. Would that he had thought the same!"

"What did you say, dear?"

"Nothing! Nothing of any consequence. Don't mind me. Go on."

"It is a history which I think it right and best to tell you. You will both need to keep it sacred for a little while—not for very long."

As she spoke, a shudder passed through Anne's frame. Was it the involuntary shrinking of mortality in sight of immortality?

Shortly afterwards she began to talk in her usual sweet tone—perhaps a shade more serious.

"'There were once two friends—three I should say, but the third far less intimate than the other two. Something happened—it is now too long ago to signify what—which made the elder of the first two angry with his dearest friend and the other. He went away suddenly, writing word to his friend—his own—that he should sail next day, leaving England for ever."

"That was wrong!" cried Agatha. "People ought never to be passionate and unjust in friendship. It was very wrong."

"Hush! you do not know all the circumstances; you cannot judge," Anne answered hastily. "His friend, who greatly honoured him, and knew what pain his loss would bring to many, wished to prevent his going. She"—

"It was a woman, then?"

"Yes."

"And were they only friends?"

"They were friends," repeated Miss Valery, in a tone which, doubtful as the answer was, made Agatha feel she had no right to inquire further.

"She never knew how much he cared for her until that last letter he wrote, just after he had gone away. On receiving it, she followed him—which she had a right to do—to the place he mentioned, a seaport from which he was to sail. When she reached it, the vessel had already heaved anchor and was standing out to sea. She saw it—the very ship he was on board—in the middle of the bay."

"The bay! Was it then"—

"Hush, dear, just for a little,—I cannot speak long. It was a stormy day, and few boats would go out. However, there was on the beach a woman who was also very eager to catch the vessel. Together they managed to get a boat, and embarked—this lady I speak of—the woman and a little girl."

Agatha listened with painful avidity.

"It was not the woman's own child, or she could not have been so careless of it It was tossed into the bottom of the boat, and lay there crying. The lady felt sorry for it, and took it in her arms. They had gone but a little way from the shore when it was playing about her, quite happy again. While playing—she looking at the ship, and not watching the little thing as she ought to have done—the child fell overboard."

A loud sob burst from Agatha.

"Hush, still hush, my darling! The child was saved. The ship sailed away, but the child—you know that she was saved. I am thankful to God it was so!"

Anne wrapped her arms tightly round the sobbing girl, and after a few moments she also wept.

"I remember it all now," cried Agatha, as soon as she found words—"the shore, the headlands, the bay. I was that little child, and it was you who saved me!"

Anne made no answer but by pressing her closer.

"I felt it the first moment I ever saw you. I never forgot you—never! But how did you know me?"

"Was I likely ever to lose sight of that little child? And also, years before, I had once or twice met your father—though this would have been nothing. But from that day I felt that you belonged to me. And now, since you are become a Harper, you do."

Agatha embraced her, and then suddenly looked mournful.—"But yourself? Tell me, did you ever again meet your—your friend?"

No answer. A slight movement of the lips sufficed to explain the whole.

"And it was all through me," cried Agatha, to whom that soft smile was agony. "And what have I done in requital? I have lived a useless, erring life; I have suffered—oh, how I have suffered! Far better I had been left lying at the bottom of that quiet bay. Why did God let you save me?"

"That you might grow up a good and noble woman, fulfilling worthily the life He spared, and giving it back into His hands, in His time, as a true and faithful servant. Dare not to murmur at His will—dare not to ask why He saved you, Agatha Harper."

Saying this, as sternly as Anne Valery could speak—she tried to put Agatha from her breast, but the girl held her too fast.

"Oh, do not cast me away. I have nobody in the world but you. Forgive me! Guide my life which I owe you, and make it worth your saving. Love me—teach my husband to love me. If you knew how miserable I am, and may be always."

"No one is miserable always," returned Anne faintly, as she leaned back, her hands dropping down cold and listless. "We grow content in time. We shall all be—very happy—some day."

She spoke with hesitation and difficulty. The next minute, in spite of her declaration that she never fainted, Miss Valery had become insensible.



CHAPTER XXII.

"What, up and dressed already, without sending for me? Did you not promise last night that I should do everything for you just as if I were your child? How very naughty you are, Miss Valery."

Agatha spoke rather crossly; it was a relief to speak so. Anne turned round—she was sitting at the window of the inn bed-chamber looking on Weymouth Bay.

"Am I naughty? And you have assumed the right to scold me? That is quite a pleasure. I have had no one to scold me for a great many years."

There was a certain pathos running through her cheerfulness which made Agatha's heart burst. She had lain awake half the night thinking of Anne Valery, and had guessed, or put together many things, which made her come with uncontrollable emotion into the presence of her whose fate had been so knotted up with her own. For that this circumstance had in some way or other brought about Anne's fate—the one fate of a woman's life—Agatha could not doubt. Neither could she doubt who was this "friend." But she said nothing—she felt she had no right.

"Don't look at the sea, please. Look at me. Tell me how you feel this morning."

"Well—quite well. We will go home to-day. What did you tell Mr. Dugdale last night?"

"Only what you desired me—that, being wearied, you felt inclined to stay the night at Weymouth."

"That was right.—Look, Agatha, how beautiful the sea is. I must teach you not to be afraid of it any more. Next year"—

She paused, hesitated, put her hand to her heart, as she often did, and ceased to speak; but Agatha eagerly continued the sentence:

"Next year we will come and stay here, you and I; or perhaps, as a very great favour, we'll admit one or two more. Next year, when you are quite strong, remember. We will be very happy, next year."

She repeated the words strongly, resolutely, dinning them into Miss Valery's ear, but she only won for answer that silent smile which went to her heart like an arrow. She rushed for safety to the commonplaces of life, to the quick, hasty speeches which relieved her. She began to be very cross about some delay in breakfast.

"Never mind me, dear," said Anne's quieting tones. "I am quite well, and want nothing. Only let us sit still, and look at the sea." And she drew her from her eager bustling about the inn-parlour to the place where they had both sat the previous night. Agatha balanced herself on the arm of the chair, determined she would not be serious for an instant, and would not let Anne talk. Yet both resolutions were broken ere long. Perhaps it was the bright stillness of the sea view, sliding away round the headland into infinity, which impressed her in spite of herself. Still she struggled against her feelings.

"I will not have you so grave, Miss Valery. Mind, I will not."

"Am I grave? Nay, only quiet; and so happy! Do you know what it is to be quite content with everything in one's life—past, present, and to come, knowing that all is overruled for good, forgiving everybody and loving everybody?"

Agatha linked her arms tighter round Miss Valery's neck.

"Don't talk in that way, or look in that way—don't. Be wicked! Speak cross! I will not have you an angel. I will not feel your wings growing. I'll tear them out. There."

She laughed—laughed with brimming eyes—until she sobbed again. Her feelings had been on the stretch for hours, and now gave way. Anne bent down from her serenity to notice and soothe the wayward child.

"Poor little thing, she wants taking care of as much as anybody. When will her husband come home?"

"Never—never!" cried Agatha, hardly knowing what she said. "I shall lose him—you—all."

Miss Valery smiled—the composed smile of one who ascending a mountain, sees the lowland mazes around laid out distinct and clear, and looks over them to their ending.

"Yes, my child, he will come back. Absence breaks slender ties, but it rivets strong ones. Have faith in him. People like him, if they once love, love always. He will come back."

There was a great light in Miss Valery's countenance, which irresistibly attracted Agatha. She dried her eyes, forgot her own personal cares, and listened to the comforter.

"Think how much we love those that are away. Once perhaps we used to vex and slight them and be cross with them, but now we carry them in our hearts always. We forget everything bitter, and remember only the sweet; how good they were, and how dearly we loved them. Our thoughts and prayers follow them continually, flying over and about them like wandering angels, that must be laden with good. And all this loving—all this waiting—all this praying, year after year—I mean day after day"—she suddenly turned to Agatha. "Be content, my child. He will come back."

Agatha made no reply. She was not thinking of herself just then. She was thinking of the life, compared to which her own nineteen commonplace years sank into nothingness; of the love beside which that feeling she had so called, looked mean and poor; of the patient endurance—what was her patience? And yet she had fancied that never was woman so tried as Agatha Harper.

With a resolve as sudden as brave, and in her present state of mind to be brave at all it must needs be sudden, Agatha determined to put herself and her troubles altogether aside, and think only of those whom she loved.

"Come," she said, and rose up strong in the courage of self-denial. "We will indulge in no more dreariness; it is not good for you, and I won't allow it, my patient. You shall be patient, in every sense, for a little while longer, and then we'll all be very happy—all, I say, next year."

With this declaration she made ready to carry her friend off to Kingcombe—to her own little house—where she was bent on detaining Anne prisoner. Miss Valery declared herself quite willing to be thus bound for a day or two, until she was strong enough to go to Kingcombe Holm.

"But I'll not let you go—I'll be jealous. Why must you be wandering off to that dreary place?"

"Its not dreary to me; I always loved Kingcombe Holm; and I must pay it one last visit before—before winter."

"But there is plenty of time," returned Agatha, hastily. "Why go just now?"

"Because"—Miss Valery spoke after a moment's pause, very steadfastly—"Because I have reasons for so doing. My old friend, Mr. Harper, has a few strong prejudices, some of them to the hurt of his brother, and I wish to talk to him myself before Mr. Brian Harper comes home."

While Miss Valery said this name, Agatha had carefully bent her eyes seaward. In answering, her colour rose—her manner was more troubled and hesitating by far than that of her companion.

"Go, then. I will not hinder you. Nobody can feel more interest than I do in Uncle Brian. When do you think he will be here?"

"In three weeks, most likely."

Anne made no other remark, nor did Agatha. In a short time they were driving homeward along the margin of the bay. That well-remembered bay, the sight of which even now made Agatha feel as if she were dreaming over again the one awful event of her childhood. And Anne—what felt she? No wonder that she did not talk.

They came to a spot where the formal esplanade merged into a lonely sea-side walk, leading towards the widening mouth of the bay, and commanding the farthest view of the Channel as it curved down westward into the horizon. Agatha turned pale.

"I remember it—that line of coast with the grey clouds over it. I lay on these sands, and afterwards when you fell, I sat and cried over you. This was the place, and it was over that point that the ship disappeared."

Anne was speechless.

Agatha clasped her hand:—they understood one another. The next minute the carriage turned. Miss Valery breathed a quick sigh, and bent hurriedly forward; but the glitter of the ocean had vanished—she had seen the last of Weymouth Bay.

It was a weary journey, for Anne seemed very feeble. Her young nurse was thankful when the flashing network of streams told how near they were whirling towards Kingcombe. As the train stopped, Mrs. Dugdale was visible on the platform; Duke also, not at the station—that being a degree of punctuality quite impossible—but a little way down the road.

"Well, Miss Anne Valery and Mrs. Locke Harper! To be gallivanting about in this way! I declare it's quite disgraceful. What have you to say for yourselves? Here have I been running up to every train to meet you, and tell you"—

"What?" Agatha's cheek flushed with expectation. Anne grew very white.

"Now, Mrs. Harper, you need not be so hasty—'tisn't your husband. A great blessing if it were. All the town is crying shame on him for staying away so long."

Agatha threw a furious look at her sister, and dragged Miss Valery along, nor stopped till she saw the latter could hardly breathe or stand.

"Stay, my child. Harriet, you should not say such things. Nathanael is only absent on business—my business; he will come home soon."

These words, uttered with difficulty, calmed the rising storm. Harrie laughingly begged pardon, and was satisfied.

"Well, the sooner Nathanael comes, the better. There was a gentleman last night wanting him."

"What gentleman?"

"Can't tell. He left no name. A little wiry shrimp of a fellow who seemed to know all about our family, Fred included; so Duke, in his ultra hospitality, took the creature in for the night, and this morning drove him over to Kingcombe Holm. There, don't let us bother ourselves about him. How do you feel now, Anne? Quite well, eh?"

"Quite well," Anne echoed in her cheerful voice that never had a tone of pain or complaining. But it seemed to strike Mr. Dugdale, who had lounged up to her side. His peculiarly gentle and observant look rested on her for a moment, and then he offered her his arm, an act of courtesy very rare in the absent Duke Dugdale. Agatha walked on her other hand; Harrie fluttering about them, and talking very fast, chiefly about the wonderful news of yesterday, which her husband had just communicated.

"And a great shame not to tell me long before. As if I did not care for Uncle Brian as much as anybody does. What a Christmas we shall have—Uncle Brian, Nathanael, and Fred."

"Is Major Harper coming?" The question was from Anne.

"Elizabeth hopes so. He surely will not disappoint Elizabeth. And he must come to see Uncle Brian; they were such friends, you know. All the middle-aged oddities in Kingcombe are on the qui vive to see Uncle Brian and Fred. They two were the finest young fellows in the neighbourhood, people say, and to think they should both come back miserable old bachelors! Nobody married but my poor Duke! Hurra!"

So she rattled on until they reached Agatha's door. One of the Kingcombe Holm servants stood there with the carriage. Mrs. Locke Harper was wanted immediately, to dine at her father-in-law's.

"I will not go. I will not leave Miss Valery. They don't often ask me—indeed, I have never been since—No, I will not go," she added obstinately.

"Do!" entreated Anne, who had sat down, faint with a walk so short that no one thought of its fatiguing her—not even Agatha.

"T' Squire do want'ee very bad, Missus. Here!" And the old coachman, almost as old as his master, gave to Mrs. Harper a note, which was only the second she had ever received from her husband's father. It was a crabbed, ancient hand, blotted and blurred, then steadied resolutely into the preciseness of a school-boy—one of those pathetic fragments of writing that irresistibly remind one of the trembling failing hand—the hand that once wrote brave love-letters.

"You are highly favoured; my father rarely writes to any one. What does he say?" cried Harrie, rather jealous.

Agatha read aloud:

"My dear Daughter-in-law,

"Will you honour me by dining here to-day, without fail?

"I remain, always your affectionate Father,

"Nathanael Harper."

"'Your affectionate Father,'" repeated Mrs. Dugdale. "He hardly ever signed that to me in his life, though I am his very own daughter, and his eldest too. He never signed so to anybody but Fred. Bah! what a big blot He is almost past writing, poor dear man! Come, Agatha, you cannot refuse; you must go."

"She must indeed," echoed Anne Valery.

"Even though the Squire has been so rude as never to ask me or Duke, though Duke saw him this very morning, when he rode over to Kingcombe Holm to tell the news about Uncle Brian.—Bless us, Anne, don't look so. Is there anything astonishing in my father's letter? How very queer everybody seems to-day!"

Agatha felt Miss Valery draw her aside.

"You will surely go, my dear, since he wishes it."

"But if I don't wish it—if I had far rather stay with you! Why are you so anxious for my leaving you?"

"Are you angry with me again, my child?"—Agatha clung to her fondly. "Then go. Behave specially well to your husband's father. And stay—say I am coming to see him to-morrow."

"But you cannot—you are not strong."

"Oh yes, very strong," Anne returned hastily. "Only go. I will stay contentedly with Dorcas."

Agatha went, very much against her will She had shut herself up entirely for so long. It was a torment to see any one, above all her husband's family, who of course were constantly talking and inquiring about him. The stateliness of Kingcombe Holm chafed her beyond endurance; Mary's good-natured regrets, and Eulalie's malicious prying condolings; worst of all the penetration of Elizabeth. She fancied that they and all Kingcombe were pointing the finger at "poor Mrs. Locke Harper."

Pondering over all these things during the solitary drive, her good resolutions faded out from her, and her heart began to burn anew. It was so hard!

She crossed the hall—the same hall where she had alighted when Nathanael first brought her home. It looked dusky and dim, as then. She almost expected to see him appear from some corner, with his light, quick step and his long fair hair.

It was hard indeed—too hard! She hurried through, and never looked behind.

Eulalie and Mary were sitting solemnly in the drawing-room.

"So you are come, Mrs. Harper. We never thought you would come again. We thought you would sit for ever pining in your cage till your mate came back again. What a naughty wandering bird he is!"

"Don't, Eulalie. No teasing. I am sure we were all very sorry for your loneliness, dear Agatha."

"Thank you for giving yourselves that trouble."

"Oh, no trouble at all," said the well-meaning and simple Mary. "And we would have come to see you or fetched you here, but I had to go so much to Thornhurst while Anne was ill, and Eulalie—somehow—I don't know—but Eulalie is always busy."

Eulalie, whose hardest toil was looking in the glass, and patting her dog's ears, assented apologetically. Perhaps she read something in her sister-in-law's face which showed her that Agatha was not to be trifled with.

"Will you go up and see Elizabeth? She has often asked for you."

"Has she? I will go after dinner," briefly answered Agatha She would not be got rid of in that way.

"Shall we sit and talk then, till my father comes in with that queer little man who has been with him all day? about whom Mary and I have been vainly puzzling our brains. Such an ugly little fellow, and, between you and me, not quite a gentleman. I wonder at papa's asking him to stay and dine. I shan't do the civil to him; you may."

"Thanks for the permission."

"Perhaps that is the very reason Papa sent for you," continued Eulalie, stretching herself out on the sofa. "The person said he knew you, and asked Mary where you were living, and whether you were very happy together, you and your husband."

Agatha rose abruptly, dashing down a heavy volume that lay on her knee—she certainly had not a mild temper. While she wavered between reining in her anger as she had last night vowed, and pouring upon Eulalie all the storm of her roused passions—the door opened, and Mr. Harper entered with his much-depreciated guest.

The old gentleman was dressed with unusual care, and walked with even more of slow stateliness than ordinary. He met Agatha with his customary kindness.

"Welcome. You have been somewhat of a stranger lately. It must not happen again, my dear." And drawing her arm through his, he faced the "little ugly fellow" of Eulalie's dislike.

"Mr. Grimes, let me present you to my son's wife, Mrs. Locke Harper."

"You forget, sir," interrupted Grimes, importantly; "I have long ago had that honour, through Major"—

The old Squire started, put his hand to his forehead—"Yes, yes, I did forget. My memory, sir—my memory is as good as ever it was."

The sharp contradictory ending of his speech, the colour rising to the old man's cheek and forehead, whence it did not sink, but lay steadily, a heavy, purple blotch, attracted Agatha's notice—certainly more than Mr. Grimes did.

"I had the honour, Mrs. Harper," said the latter, bowing, "to be present when your marriage settlement was signed. I had likewise the honour of preparing the deed, by the wish and according to the express orders of Major Har"—

"That is sufficient," interrupted the Squire. "Sir, I never burden ladies with the wearisomeness of legal discussion.—Did you drive or ride here, Agatha?"

"If you remember, you sent the carriage for me."

"Yes, yes—of course," returned the old man. "It was a pleasant drive, was it? Your husband enjoyed it too?"

"My husband is in Cornwall"

"Certainly. I understand."

Which was more than Agatha did. She could not make him out at all. The wandering eye, dulled with more than mere age—for it had been his pride that the Harper eye always sparkled to the last; the accidental twitches about the mouth, which hung loosely, and seemed unable to control its muscles; above all, the extraordinary and sudden lapse of a memory which had hitherto been wonderful for his years. There was something not right, some hidden wheel broken or locked in the mysterious mechanism that we call human life.

Agatha felt uneasy. She wished Nathanael had been at home: and began to consider whether some one—not herself—ought not to write and hint that his father did not seem quite well.

Meanwhile, she closely watched the old man, who seemed this day to show her more kindness and attention than ever,—there was no mistaking that. He kept her constantly at his side, talking to her with marked courtesy. Once she saw his eyes—those poor, dull, restless eyes, fixed on her with an expression that was quite unaccountable. Going in to dinner, his step, which began measured and stately, suddenly tottered. Agatha caught his arm.

"You are not well—I am sure of it."

"Indeed!" said Mr. Grimes, who was following close behind, with the very reluctant Miss Mary towering over his petty head. "No wonder that Mr. Harper is not quite well to-day."

The Squire swerved aside, like an old steed goaded by the whip, then rose to his full height, which was taller than either of his sons—the Harpers of ancient time were a lofty generation.

"Mr. Grimes, I assure you I am quite well. Will you do me the honour to cease your anxiety about me, and lead in my daughter to her seat?"

Grimes passed on—quenched. There was something in "the grand old name of gentleman" that threw around its owner an atmosphere in which plebeian intruders could not breathe.

"A person, Agatha," whispered the Squire, as his eyes, bright with something of their old glow, followed the evidently objectionable guest—"A person to whom I show civility for the sake of—of my family."

Agatha assented, though not quite certain to what. Scanning Mr. Grimes more narrowly, she faintly remembered him, and the unpleasant, nasal-toned voice which had gabbled through her marriage settlement. She wondered what he had come to Nathanael for?—why Nathanael's father paid him such attention?

On her part, the sensation of dislike, unaccountable yet instinctive dislike, was so strong, that it would have been a real satisfaction to her mind if the footmen, instead of respectfully handing Mr. Grimes his soup, had handed himself out at the dining-room window.

The dinner passed in grave formality. Even Mr. Grimes seemed out of his element, being evidently, as Eulalie had said, "not quite a gentleman," either by birth or breeding, and lacking that something which makes the grandest gentlemen of all—Nature's. He tried now and then to open a conversation with the Miss Harpers, but Eulalie sneered at him aside, and Mary was politely dignified. Agatha took very little notice of him—her attention was absorbed by her father-in-law.

Mr. Harper looked old—very old. His hands, blanched to a yellowish whiteness, moved about loosely and uncertainly. Once the large diamond mourning ring which the widower always wore, "In memory of Catherine Harper," dropped off on the table-cloth. He did not perceive the loss until Agatha restored it, and then his fingers seemed unable to slip it on again, until his daughter-in-law aided him. In so doing, the clammy, nerveless feel of the old man's hand made her start.

"Thank you, Mrs. Harper," he said, acknowledging her assistance with his most solemn bend. "And Catherine—Agatha, I mean, if you would be so kind—that is"—

"Yes? observed Agatha, inquiringly, as he made a long pause.

"To—remind me after dinner, my dear. I have duties now—important duties.—My friends!" Here he raised himself in his chair, looked round the dessert-laden table with one of his old smiles, half condescending, half good-humoured, then vainly put his hand on the large claret jug, which Agatha had to lift and guide to her glass—"My friends, I am delighted to see you all. And on this happy occasion let me have the honour of giving the first toast. The Reverend Frederick Harper and Mistress Mary Harper."

Mary and Eulalie drew back. "That is grandfather and grandmother—dead fifty years ago. What does papa mean?"

But the whisper did not reach the old man, who drank the toast with all solemnity. Mr. Grimes did the same, repeating it loudly, with the addition of "long life, health, and happiness." The daughters each cast down strange, shocked looks upon her untouched glass. No one spoke.

"Do you make a long stay in Dorsetshire?" observed the Squire, addressing himself courteously to his guest.

"That depends," Grimes answered, with a meaning twinkle of the eye—an eye already growing moistened with too good wine.

"Did you not say," Mary Harper continued, fancying her father looked at her to sustain the conversation—"did you not say you were intending to visit Cornwall?"

"No ma'am. Would rather be excused. As Mr. Harper knows, the place would be too hot to hold me after certain circumstances."

"Sir!" The old man tried hard to gather himself up into stern dignity, and collect the ideas that where fast floating from him. "Sir," he repeated, first haughtily, and then with a violence so rare to his rigidly gentlemanly demeanour that his daughters looked alarmed—"Sir—at my table—before my family—I beg—I"—Here he suddenly recovered himself, changed his tone, and bowed—"I—beg your pardon."

"Oh, no offence, Squire; none meant, none taken. I came with the best of all intentions towards you and yours. And if things have turned out badly"—

"Did you not say you were acquainted with Cornwall?" abruptly asked Agatha, to prevent his again irritating her father-in-law, who had leaned back, sleepily. He would not close his eyes, but they looked misty and heavy, and his fingers played lazily with one another on the arm of his chair; Agatha laid her own upon them—she could not help it. She lost her fear of the repellent Mr. Harper in the old man, so helpless and feeble. She wished she had come oftener to Kingcombe Holm, and been more attentive and daughter-like to Nathanael's father.

"As to Cornwall," said Grimes, in a confidential whisper, "between you and me, Mrs. Harper, mum's the word."

Agatha drew herself up haughtily; but looked at the old Squire and grew patient. She even tried to eke out the flagging conversation, and luckily remembered the news which Duke Dugdale had that morning ridden over to communicate. She could not help thinking it very odd that no one in the house had hitherto mentioned Mr. Brian Harper's expected return.

"Shall you not be very glad, Mary, to see Uncle Brian. You have heard, of course, how soon he will be here?"

"Uncle Brian here!—And nobody told us. Only think, papa"—

"My dear Mary!" There was a gentleness in the Squire's voice more startling even than his violence.

"Did you know, papa, that Uncle Brian is coming home?"

"I think—I—Yes"—with a struggle at recollection—"my son-in-law told me that some commercial business which Brian is transacting for him will bring my brother home. I shall be very happy to see him. You, too, will all be delighted to see your Uncle Brian."

"An uncle? The usual rich uncle from abroad, eh?" whispered Mr. Grimes to Agatha. "I ask merely for your own sake, ma'am, and that of my friend Nathanael."

Agatha curled her lip. That the fellow should dare to speak of "my friend Nathanael!" She glanced at Mary that they might leave the drawing-room, when seeing her father-in-law was about to speak she paused.

The old Squire rose in his customary manner of giving healths. His voice was quavering but loud, as if he could scarcely hear it himself, and tried to make it rise above a whirl of sounds that filled his brain. "My friends and children—my"—here he looked uncertainly at Agatha—"Yes, I remember, my daughter-in-law—allow me to give one toast more—Health, long life, and every blessing to my son—my youngest, worthiest, only remaining son and heir, Nathanael."

"Only son!"—Every one recoiled. The worn-out brain had certainly given way. Mary and Eulalie exchanged frightened glances. Agatha alone, touched by the unexpected tribute to her husband, did not notice the one momentous word.

"Now, Squire, that's hardly fair," cried Mr. Grimes, bursting into a hoarse vinous laugh. "A man may go wrong sometimes, but to be thrown overboard for it, and by one's father, too—think better of it, old fellow. And ladies by way of an antidote, allow me to give a toast—Success to my worthy and honourable—exceedingly honourable client, Major Frederick Harper."

The old Squire leaped up in his chair, with eyes starting from their sockets. His lips gurgled out some inarticulate sound scarcely human; his right arm shook and quivered with his vain efforts to raise it; still it hung nerveless by his side. Consciousness and will yet lingered in his brain, but physical life and speech had gone for ever. He fell down struck by that living death—that worse than death, of old age—paralysis.



CHAPTER XXIII.

The whole household was in terror and disorder. Eulalie had rushed screaming from the room—Mary went about, trembling like a leaf, trying to get restoratives—Agatha knelt on the floor, supporting the old man's head in her lap, speaking to him sometimes, as by the motion and apparent intelligence of his eyes she fancied he might possibly understand her.

"Oh, he is dead, he is dead!" cried Mary, as she took up the senseless hand, and let it fall again with a burst of tears.

"No, he is not dead—he hears you;—take care," said Agatha, putting the frightened daughter aside with a firmness which rose in her, as in similar characters it does rise, equal to the necessity. She looked on the trembling Mary—on the servants gathering round with silent horror, and saw there were none who, so to speak, "had their wits about them," except herself. Scarcely knowing how she did it, she instinctively assumed the rule. She, the young girl of nineteen, who had never till then been placed in any position of trial.

"Send all these people away. Quick Mary! Bring some one who can carry him to his room. And—stay, Eulalie, sit down there and be quiet. Don't let any one go and alarm Elizabeth."

She gave these orders and everybody listened and obeyed; people are so ready to obey any guiding spirit at such a crisis. Then she bent down again over the poor corpselike figure that rested against her knee, kissed the old man's forehead, and tried to comfort him. She had heard of cases, when though deprived of speech and motion, the sufferer was still conscious of all passing around him. Therefore she wished as soon as possible to remove her father-in-law out of the way of the terrified household.

He was carried to his room through the hall where he had lately trod so stately,—the poor old man now helpless as the dead. Leaving the dining-room, Agatha thought she saw his eyes turn back, as if he knew that he was crossing the doorway he would never cross more, and wanted to take a last look at the familiar things. Otherwise he seemed continually watching herself. She walked beside him till he was laid upon his bed, and then tried again to speak to him. She did it caressingly, as though the old dying man had been a sick child.

"Be content, now—quite content. I will take care of you, and see that all is done right. I shall, not be away two minutes; I am only going to send for help—your own doctor from Kingcombe. We must try to get you well. Lie here quiet."

Quiet! It was like enjoining stillness to a corpse! Agatha shuddered when she had used the word. For a moment the dread of her position rose upon her. In that lonely house, at night too, with no help nearer than Kingcombe: and even then no husband, no friend—for she dared not send to poor, sick Anne Valery! And she so young, so inexperienced.—But no matter! She would try to meet everything—do everything. She felt already calm and brave.

The first thing necessary was to send for medical aid. This she did; having the forethought to write a few clear lines, lest the messenger should fail. She despatched word likewise to the Dugdales. She felt quite composed; everything right to be remembered came clearly into her head. It was the grand touch-stone of her character; the crisis of danger which shows whether a woman has that presence of mind which exalts her into a domestic heroine, an angel of comfort; or the weakness which sinks her into a helpless selfish fool.

The latter was hardly likely to become a true picture of Agatha Harper.

She went about with Mary, giving some orders to the servants, for sickness always comes startingly upon an unprepared and unaccustomed house; and tried to find a few soothing words for the terrified Eulalie, who clung crying about them both, forgetting all her affectations. If the Beauty had any love left in her, it was for her father. Lastly, Agatha took a light, and went swiftly along the passages to the distant wing of the house which Elizabeth occupied.

"Miss Harper," her maid said, "had gone quietly to rest, and was then fast sleeping."

Poor Elizabeth! this seemed the hardest point of all.

"When did she see her father?"

"This morning. The master always comes up every morning after breakfast to see Miss Harper."

And they would never see one another again, this helpless father and daughter—never, till they met bodiless, in the next world!

For the moment Agatha felt her courage fail She glided quickly from the door, but came back again. Elizabeth had waked, and called her.

"What is the matter? I know something is the matter."

"Do tell her," whispered the maid, "She'll find it out anyhow—she finds out everything. And she has been so ill all day."

Agatha entered. There was no deceiving those eyes.

"Elizabeth, dear Elizabeth—your father—it is very hard, but—your father"—She hesitated; it was so difficult to convey, even in gentlest words, the cruel truth. Miss Harper regarded her keenly. The bearer of ill-tidings is always soon betrayed, and Agatha's was not a face to disguise anything. Elizabeth's head dropped back on the pillow.

"I perceive. He is an old man. He has gone home before me. My dear father!"

The perfect composure with which she said this astonished Agatha. She did not understand how near Elizabeth always lived to the unknown world, and how welcome and beautiful it was in her familiar sight.

"No; he is alive still. But, if he should not come in to see you to-morrow-morning"—

"I shall go unto him; he shall not return unto me," murmured Elizabeth, as her eyelids fell, and a few tears dropped through the lashes. "Tell me the rest, will you?"

"He has been seized with paralysis, I think; he cannot speak or move, but seems still conscious. I do not know how it will end."

"One way—only one way; I feared this long. My grandfather died so. Agatha"—calling after her, for she was stealing away, she could not bear it—"Agatha, you will take care of him?"

"I will as his own daughter."

"And, if possible"—here Elizabeth's voice faltered a little—"give my love to my dear father."

Agatha fled away. She hid herself in the recess close by "Anne's window," as it was called, and for a minute or two cried violently. It did her good. With those tears all the selfishness, anger, and pain flowed out of her heart, leaving it purer and more peaceful than it had been for a long time. It was not a foolish, miserable girl, but a brave, tenderhearted, sensible woman, who entered the door of the sick-chamber where the poor old man lay.

No one was there but the coachman who had carried his master up-stairs. Many servants hovered about the door, but none dared enter. Either they were afraid of the Squire—afraid even now, or else the motionless figure that lay within the bed-curtains was too like death. Old John sat beside it, with tears running down his cheeks.

"Oh, Mrs. Harper, look at th' Master. He be all alive in's mind. He do want bad to speak to we. Look at 'un, Missus!"

"Give me your place, John. I will try to understand him. Father!"—She faltered a little over the word, but felt it was the right word, now. The old man moved his head towards her with a feeble smile. The expression of his face was clearer and more natural, only for that terribly painful inarticulate murmur, which no one could comprehend.

"I have done all I could think of," Agatha continued, speaking softly and cheerfully. "The doctor will be here soon; Mary and Eulalie are down-stairs. I have myself told Elizabeth that you are ill;—she is composed, and sends her love to her dear father. Was all this right?"

Mr. Harper appeared to assent.

"I will sit beside you till the doctor comes, and then I will write to my husband. You would like him to come home?"

He seemed slow of comprehension, troubled, or excited. Agatha vainly tried to analyse the dumb expression of the features. With all her quickness she could not make out what he wanted. At last, a thought struck her. His eldest son, his favourite—

"Would you like me to send for Major Harper?"

No words could tell the change which convulsed the old man. Abhorrence—anger—fear—all were written in his countenance. He rolled his head on the pillow, he struggled to gasp out something—what, his daughter-in-law could not guess. She was inexpressibly shocked. One thing only seemed clear, that for some cause or other the mere mention of Frederick's name worked up the father into frenzy.

"Hush! do not try to speak. I will send for no one but Nathanael. Will that content you?"

He made a motion of satisfaction, and became quiet. His features gradually composed themselves, and, he sank into torpor.

Agatha still sat by the bed, holding his wrist, for she knew not moment by moment how soon the pulse might stop. The old man's own daughters were too terrified to approach him. They came on tiptoe to the door, looked in, shuddered, and went back. No one stayed in the room but the old coachman, who had been Mr. Harper's servant since they were both boys; and he sat in a corner crying like a child, though silently. Agatha might as well have sat there quite alone, the atmosphere around her was so still and solemn.

She had never before been in her father-in-law's room—-the state bedroom, in which for centuries the Harper family had been born and died. The great mahogany bed itself was almost like a bier, with its dark velvet hangings, and dusty plumes. Everything around was dusty, gloomy, and worn out; the Squire would have nothing changed from the time when the last Mrs. Harper died there. In a little curtained alcove the lace hung yellow and dusty over her toilet-table, just as she had left it when she laid herself down to the pains of motherhood and death. Her portraits—one girlish, another matronly, but still merry and fair—hung opposite the bed. Between them was a longitudinal family-group, in the very lowest style of art—a string of children, from the big boy to the tottering baby, in all varieties of impossible attitudes. Their names were written under (not unnecessarily)—Frederick, Emily, Harriet, Mary, Eulalie. The only names missed were Nathanael and "poor Elizabeth."

Mechanically Agatha observed all these things during the first half-hour of her vigil; involuntarily her mind floated away to musings concerning them, until she forcibly impelled it back to consider the present. It was in vain. Innumerable conjectures flitted through her brain, but not one which she could catch hold of as a truth. Of one thing only she felt sure, that something very serious must have happened—some great mental shock, too powerful for the Squire's feeble old age. And this shock was certainly in some way or other connected with Major Harper.

An hour later, when she was beginning to count every beat of the old man's pulse, and look forward with dread to a midnight vigil beside that breathing corpse, the doctor came.

Agatha waited for his dictum—it needed very little skill to decide that. A few questions—a shake of the head—a solemn condolatory sigh; and all knew that the old Squire's days were numbered.

"How long?" whispered Mrs. Harper, half closing the door as they came out.

"I cannot say. Some hours—days—possibly a week. We never know in these cases. But, I fear, certainly within a week."

What would be "within a week?" Why is it that every one dreads to say the simple word "die?"

Agatha paused. She had never yet stood face to face in a house with death. The sensation was very awful. She glanced within at the heavy-curtained bed, and then at the fair, girlish portrait which peered through the folds at its foot—the painted eyes, eternally young, seeming to keep watch smilingly. The old man and his long-parted wife, to be together again—"within a week." It was strange—strange.

"His sons should be sent for," hinted the doctor. "Mr. Locke Harper is in Cornwall, I believe; but the other—Major Harper"——

"Frederick—Yes, we must send for Frederick," sobbed Mary. "My father cares more for him than for any of us. Oh, poor Frederick!"

"But," Eulalie said—they were all whispering together at the door—"I don't think any one of us, not even Elizabeth, knows Frederick's address just now. A week ago he was passing through London, but he does make such a mystery of his comings and goings. Oh, if he were only here!"

"Ask my father," cried Mary—"ask him if he would like to see Frederick."

As she said this rather too loudly, there was a strange smothered sound from the bed. Agatha ran. The old Squire was gasping, choking, with the frightful effort to speak. His face was purple—his eyes wild—yet the poor bound tongue refused to obey his will.

"Hush! be composed," said his daughter-in-law, soothingly. "You shall see no one. No one shall be sent for. Will that do?"

He grew calmer, but restless still.

"Shall my husband come? He will do you good—he does everybody good. Would you like to see Nathanael?"

A faint assent—scarcely intelligible—and then the Squire dropped off again into sleep. Agatha left him and went to his daughters, who lingered outside.

"I think Major Harper has somehow vexed him. He will only see my husband. A messenger must be sent to Cornwall. Who will write?"

"Who but yourself," said Eulalie, hardly able even then to repress a look, beneath which Agatha's cheek glowed fiery red; "who so fit as yourself to tell this to your husband?"

"You are right;" and she smothered down her swelling heart into a grave dignity. "Get the messenger ready—I will write here—in this room."

She turned-within—closed the door—looked once more at the old man, trying by that mournful sight to still the earthly anger that was again rising in her heart,—and sat down to write.

It was a hard task. She scribbled the date, and paused. This, strangely enough, was the first letter she had ever written to him. She did not know how to begin it. Her heart beat—her fingers trembled. To tell such news to the dearest friend and husband that ever woman had, would be a difficult and painful thing, and for her to tell it to him, as they were now! For the first letter he ever had from her to be this! And how could she write it?—she who till to-day would almost have cut off her right hand rather than have humbled herself to write to him at all. Yet now all the wrath was melting out of her, and tenderness swelling up afresh. We always feel so tender over those that are in trouble.

"Yes, I will do it," muttered Agatha. And she wrote firmly the words—"My dear husband" They seemed at the same time to imprint themselves on her heart as a truth—invisible sometimes, yet when brought near to the fire of strong emotion or suffering, found ineffaceably written there.

The letter was a mere brief explanation and summons; but it bore the words, duty-words certainly—yet which no duty would have forced Agatha to write had they been untrue—"My dear husband"—"Your affectionate wife."

She despatched it, and re-entered the sick-room. All was quiet there—the very hopelessness of the case produced quiet. There was nothing to be done, watched, or waited for. Doctor Mason sat by his patient, as he had declared his intention of doing through the night. He sat mournfully, for he was a kind, good man—the family doctor for thirty years.

"Let all go to bed," he said to Agatha, seeming to understand at once that she was the moving spirit in the family. "Make the house perfectly quiet, and then"—

"I will come and sit up with you."

Doctor Mason looked compassionately at the slight girlish figure, and the face already wan with the re-action after excitement. "My dear Mrs. Harper, would not a servant do as well?"

"No, I am his son's wife. What should I say to my husband if—if anything happened, and he not there, nor I?"

"Good. Then stay," said the doctor, kindly grasping her hand. He was a man of few words.

It took some time and patience to quiet the house, and persuade Mary and Eulalie to retire. When all was done, and Agatha passed swiftly, lamp in hand, through the dark, solitary rooms, she felt frightened. The house seemed so silent—already so full of death.

There was one thing more to be done—to write a line ready for Anne Valery's waking, otherwise she would expect her home, as she had promised, in the early morning. How would she tell all these horrors, even in the gentlest way, to the feeble Anne, for whom, however unknown to others, and disguised by the invalid herself, Agatha felt an ever-present dread that she in vain tried to believe was only born of strong attachment. We never deeply love anything for which we do not likewise continually fear. Agatha almost recoiled from the idea of mentioning danger or death to Anne Valery.

She went into the dining-room to write. Everything there appeared just as when this great shock struck the household into confusion; the dessert was not removed—the wine in which he had drunk Nathanael's health, remained yet in Mr. Harper's glass. Agatha shrank back. She half expected to see some shadowy form—not himself but Death, rise and sit in the arm-chair whence the old man had fallen.

Brave she was, but she was still a girl, and a girl of strong imagination. Her heart beat audibly; she put the lamp down in the middle of the room, where it might cast more light, and render less ghastly the last flicker of one wax-candle, the fellows of which had been left to burn out in their sockets. Then she sat down, covered her eyes, and tried to think connectedly of all that had happened this night.

Something touched her. She leaped up—would have screamed, but that she remembered the room overhead—the room. She crouched down—again covering her eyes.

Another touch, and a stirring in the window-curtain near which she sat. There was something—every one knows that horrible sensation—something else in the room besides herself.

"Who is it?" she said, still not looking up, frightened at her own voice.

"It's me, ma'am—only me."

Everybody in the house had forgotten Mr. Grimes.

Half-intoxicated at the time of Mr. Harper's seizure, he had stayed behind in the dining-room, drunk himself stupid, and slept himself sober—or partly so. They say drink is a great unfolder of truth; if so, the old lawyer's sharp face betrayed that, in spite of all his past civility, he had not the kindest feeling in the world towards the Harper family.

"So, young lady, I frightened you? You did not expect to find me here."

"I did not, indeed; I had quite forgotten your very existence," said Mrs. Harper, point-blank. She had conceived a great dislike to Mr. Grimes, and Agatha was a girl who never took much trouble to disguise her aversions.

"Thank you, ma'am. You are polite, like the rest of the Harpers. But words, fair or foul, won't pay anything. Where's the Squire? He and I have not yet settled the little business I came about."

"Mr. Grimes, perhaps you are not aware that my father-in-law is dangerously ill—can enter upon no business, and see no person."

"In-deed?" His thorough insolence of manner brought Agatha's dignity back. She remembered that she was a lady belonging to the house, and that this fellow, whose behaviour made his grey hairs so little worthy of respect, was her father-in-law's invited guest.

"Sir," she said, drawing up her little figure, and trying to look as much Mrs. Locke Harper as possible, "you must be aware that in the present state of the house a stranger's presence is undesirable. It is not too late to order the carriage. Will you favour me by going to sleep at Kingcombe?"

Mr. Grimes looked disposed to object; but she had her hand on the bell, and her manner, though perfectly civil, was resolute—so resolute, that he became humble.

"Well, Mrs. Harper, I'm willing to oblige a former client, but I should like to put to you a few questions before leaving."

"Put them."

"First—what's wrong with the old gentleman?"

"He has had a paralytic stroke—probably caused, the doctor says, by some great shock, which was too much for him, being an old man."

The other old man looked uneasy, as though some touch of nature smote him for the moment.

"You don't think"—here he crept backward, shambling and cowardly—"you don't think I had any hand in causing this—this very melancholy occurrence."

"You?" There was undisguised scorn in Agatha's lip. As if any Mr. Grimes could do harm to a Harper! "Nothing of the kind—pray do not disquiet your conscience unnecessarily."

"But I did bring him unpleasant news, for which I'm rather sorry now. I had much better have told his son. When shall I be likely to see my friend Nathanael?"

His friend Nathanael! Agatha could have crushed him and stamped upon him, had he been worth it.

"Mr. Locke Harper," she said, trying hard to keep her temper—"Mr. Locke Harper will be at home to-morrow night. You can then make to him any communications you please. At the present, the greatest benefit you can confer on this sad house is to absent yourself from it."

"'Pon my life, Mrs. Harper, you might waste a little more breath on me, lest I might think it worth while to spend a little too much breath on you and yours. Do you know what claim I have upon your family?"

"That of being Major Harper's lawyer, I believe, and possibly mine before my marriage. It is not likely that my husband has continued to use your services afterwards."

Agatha said this sharply, for she was annoyed to feel herself in such total darkness regarding her husband's affairs. For a moment she felt half alarmed at the expression, "My friend Nathanael." Could they be allied, he and this disagreeable man? Could Grimes have acquired any power over him, that he was smiling in such a sinister, mysterious way?

"My services? Really, Mrs. Harper, this is very amusing. You surely must be aware that your husband has not the slightest occasion for anybody's services in the management of his affairs. One can't make something out of nothing, and when there is not a halfpenny left"—

"Explain yourself."

"My dear young lady, is it possible you don't know the unfortunate circumstance, at least one of the unfortunate circumstances which brought me here? Why, Mr. Locke Harper knew it months ago. He and I had several conferences together on the subject. But we husbands are obliged to be uncommunicative, as my wife would tell you, if you had the pleasure of knowing Mrs. Grimes"—

"Will you keep to the point, sir?" said Agatha, sternly. She felt very stern—very bitter. The old wound was reopening sorer than ever. Nathanael had "held conferences" with this fellow—confided to him secrets which he had not told to her—his own wife! Here was a new pang—a new indignity. In its sharpness she forgot everything else; even the silent room overhead. She had just self-possession and pride enough not to question; she would have been more than human had she not paused to hear.

"Well, Mr. Grimes!" she said, confronting him, her hand still on the door, where she had placed it as a mute signal which he refused to understand.

"I own, Mrs. Harper, it is a hard case. At the time I really felt as sorry for you as if you had been my own daughter. All to happen so soon after your marriage, too! Some persons might blame me for consenting to keep back the facts, but I assure you Major Harper compelled me to draw up the settlement exactly according to his orders."

"Sir—will you hasten—my time is occupied."

"So is mine, madam; fully occupied. I shall waste no more of it in giving advice to young women who are as proud as peacocks, and as poor as church-mice. If it wasn't for that highly respectable young man, your husband, I should say it served you right."

"What?" said Agatha, beneath her breath.

"Mr. Locke Harper found out, a month after his marriage, that somebody had made ducks and drakes of all his wife's property. So, as I hear, the poor young man has had to turn land-steward just to keep his kitchen fire burning. That's all. Very odd you don't know it."

"I do now."

"Well, you take it quietly enough. You seem quite satisfied."

"I am so."

Mr. Grimes regarded her in perfect bewilderment. She showed no token of dismay or grief, but stood calmly by the open door.

"I'm not satisfied though," cried he, at last growing heated—"I'm not going to have shareholders coming down upon me, and be hunted from London and from my profession, just because Major Harper"—

"I would rather not hear of Major Harper, or any one else, to-night. Once more—will you oblige me by leaving?"

Her thorough self-possession, her air of command—controlled the man in spite of himself. He moved away, bidding her a civil good-night.

"Good-night, Mr. Grimes; I will light you to the door."

"Ugh!" He gave a grunt—seemed inclined to hesitate—looked up at Mrs. Harper, and—obeyed.

Agatha came slowly back through the hall, feeling all stunned and stupified. She sat down, smoothed her hair back with her hands, heaved one or two weary sighs, and tried to think what had happened to her.

"So, I am no heiress. I have lost all my money, and am quite poor. He knows it—knew it a long time ago, and did not tell me. Why did he not tell me, I wonder?"

Here was a pause. For a moment she felt inclined to doubt the fact itself; truthful people have little suspicion of chicanery or falsehood, and when she came to think, innumerable circumstances confirmed Grime's statement. Yes, it must be true. This, then, was Nathanael's secret. Why had he kept it from her.

"As if he thought I cared for money! As if"—and a choking filled her throat—"as if I would have minded being ever so poor did he only love me!"

The thought burst out naturally, like water forcing its way through muddy reeds—showing how, deep down, there lay the living spring.

"Now, let me consider. He must have had some strong reason for keeping this secret. It cost him much; he said so. But I never heeded that. How I wearied him about not taking the house; how angry I was at his acceptance of the stewardship. And it was for me he wished to toil—for me, and for our daily bread! Yet he would not tell me. And all the while he must have had numberless cares and anxieties without, and his own wife blindly tormenting him at home. Last of all I called him mercenary. And what did he answer? Nothing! Not one reproach—not one word of anger. Yet still—he kept his secret Why?"

Here she paused again. All was mystery.

"It might have been through tenderness—to save me pain. Yet no—for he could not but see how his silence stung me. Then since he kept not this secret for love of me—and I am hardly worth such loving—it must have been from some motive, perhaps higher than love—some bond of honour which he could not break. Did he not say something to that effect once? Let me think."

Again she sat down, and so far as her excited feelings would allow, tried to recall the story of their acquaintance, courtship, marriage—a six-month's tale—how brief, yet how full. Amidst its confusion, amidst all the variations of her own feelings, stood out one steadfast image—her husband.

His character was peculiar—very peculiar. Its strength, reticence, power of silentness and self-control were beyond her comprehension; but its uprightness, truth, and rigid immaculate honour—she could understand those. It must have been his sense of honour and moral right that in some way impelled this concealment, even at the hazard of wounding the wife he loved—if he ever had loved her.

For a minute or so Agatha's mind almost lost its balance, rocking on this one point of torture—then it settled. "God knows I did love you, Agatha." He had said so—he who never uttered a falsehood. It was enough.

"Yet he 'did' love me; that means he does not now. I have wearied him out with my folly, my coldness, and at length with that one last insulting wrong. I—to tell him he 'married me for my money'—when all the while I was a beggar on his hands! Yet he never betrayed a word. Oh, no wonder he despises me. No wonder he has ceased loving me. He never can love me any more."

She burst into a passion of tears, and so remained for long. At last a sudden thought seemed to dart through her sorrow. She leaped upright, clasping her hands above her head in the rapturous attitude of a child.

"There is a better thing than love—goodness. And whether he loves me or not, he is all good in himself. I know that now. It is I only that have been wicked, and have lost him. No matter. Anne was right. My noble husband! I would not give my faith in him even for his love for me!"

She said this in a delirium of joy—a woman's pure joy, when she can set aside the selfish craving for love, and live only in the worthiness of the object beloved. It was beautiful to see Agatha as she stood, her features and form all radiant. One person, creeping in, did see her.

Old John the coachman, stood in the doorway with his mournful face.

Agatha awoke to realities. Death all but present in the house—misfortune following—and she had given way to that burst of joy!

She drew her hand across her forehead—sat down at the table—wrote the three lines she had intended to Anne Valery, and then went her way, to watch all night long beside her husband's father.



CHAPTER XXIV.

A night and a day had passed, and the household had grown somewhat accustomed to the cloud that hung over it. It was but natural. How soon do most families settle themselves after a great shock!—how easily-does any grief become familiar and bearable! Likewise, saddest thought of all—how seldom is any one really missed from among us, painfully missed, for longer than a few days—a few hours!

By evening, when all Kingcombe was yet talking over the "shocking event" at Kingcombe Holm, the "afflicted family" had subsided into its usual ways—a little more grave perhaps, but still composed. Some voluble fresh grief arose when Anne Valery came—Anne, ever foremost in entering the house of mourning—and took her place among the daughters of the family, ready to give sympathy, counsel, and comfort. It was all she was strong enough to do now. The chief position in the household was still left to Agatha.

Dr. Mason gave his directions and went away. There was nothing more to be done or hoped for. The form which lay in the Squire's bedroom might lie there for days, weeks, months—without change. The old coachman and his wife watched their master alternately; but he took little notice of them. In every conscious moment his whole attention was fixed upon Agatha. His eyes followed her about the room; when she talked to him he feebly smiled. She could not imagine why this should be, but she felt glad. It was so sweet to know herself in any way a comfort to the father of Nathanael.

She sat for hours by the old man's bedside, trying to think of nothing but him. What were all these worldly things, loss of fortune or youth, or even love itself, to the spirit that lay on the verge of a closed life—passing swiftly into eternity?

So she sat and strove to forget all that had happened, or was happening to herself; ay, though every now and then she would start, fancying there was a voice in the hall, or a step at the door. And she would hesitate whether to run away and hide herself from her husband's presence or wait and let him find her in her right place—beside his dying father.

And then—how would he meet her? how look—how speak? Yet these conjectures were selfish. Most likely he would scarcely notice her—his heart would be so full of other thoughts. What right had she, his erring wife, to obtrude herself upon his feelings at such a time? She could only look at him, and watch him, and silently help him in everything. Alas, she might not even dare to comfort him!

Towards evening the suspense of expectation grew less, from the mere fact of its having lasted so many hours. Agatha went down in the course of dinner. The dining-table looked as usual, only fuller, from the presence of the Dugdales and Miss Valery. Mary had of necessity taken her father's place, but not his chair—it was put aside against the wall, and nobody looked that way.

Agatha seated herself next to Miss Valery, quietly—they were all so very quiet. Anne whispered, "How is he?" and the rest listened for the answer—the usual answer, which all foreboded. Then Harriet made an attempt to speak of other things—of how the rain pattered against the window-panes, and what an ill night it was for Nathanael's journey. She even began to doubt whether he would come.

"He is sure to come," said Miss Valery.

And while she was yet speaking there swept round the house a wild burst of storm, in the midst of which were faintly discerned the sound of a horse's feet. They all cried out—"He is here!"

A minute more and he was in the room—drenched through—flushed with riding against wind and rain. But it was himself, his own self, and his wife saw him.

When those who are much thought of return from absence, for the first minute they almost always seem unlike the image in our hearts.—It was not thus that Agatha had remembered her husband. Not thus—abrupt, agitated: anything but the calm and grave Nathanael.

He looked eagerly round the room—all rose: but Miss Valery was the first to take his hand.

"Thanks, Anne, I knew you would be with them. Is he"—

"Just the same—no change."

The young man breathed hard. "Are you all here?" He took his three sisters and kissed them one after the other, silently, brotherly—Anne likewise. There was one left out—his wife, who had hidden behind the rest. But soon she heard her name.

"Is Agatha with you?"

She approached. Her husband took her hand—paused a moment—and then touched her cheek with his lips, as he had done to his sisters. He did not look at her or speak—it seemed as if he were not able.

They drew round Nathanael, nearly all weeping. There was, as is natural at such times, an unusual outburst of family tenderness. And, as was natural also, no one seemed to think of the young wife—the stranger in the circle. Agatha slid away from the group and disappeared.

Shortly after, she had taken her usual place in the sickroom. It had struck her that the old man ought to be prepared for his son's coming, so she had at once proceeded to his bedside. But it was useless—he was sleeping. She sat down noiselessly in her old seat, and watched, as she had done for many an hour in this long day, the smiling portrait at the foot of the bed—her husband's mother, whom he never saw.

While she sat, footsteps entered the room. Agatha turned quickly round to motion the intruder to silence, and perceived that it was Nathanael.

She fancied—nay, was sure—that he started when he saw her. Still, he came forward. She rose, and would have given him her seat, but he put his hand on her shoulder, and gently pressed her down again. The old servant who watched near her went respectfully to the further end of the room.

It was a solemn scene; the dim light—the total silence, broken only by the feeble breathing of the old man, who lay passive as death, without death's sanctity of calm. Over all, that gay youthful portrait which the lamp-light, excluded from the bed, kindled into wonderfully vivid life—far more like life than the sleeper below.

The young man stood mournfully watching his father, until startled by a flash of fire-light on the canvas, his eyes wandered to the painted smile of his unknown mother, and then turned back again to the pillows—the same pillows where she died.. His fingers began to twitch nervously, though his features remained still. Slowly, Agatha saw large tears rise and roll down his cheeks. Her heart yearned over her husband, but she dared not speak. She could but weep—not outwardly, but inwardly, with exceeding bitter pangs.

At length the old man stirred. Agatha remembered her duty as nurse, and hastily whispered her husband:

"I think you should move aside for a minute. Don't let him see you suddenly—it will startle him."

"That is thoughtful of you. But who will tell him?"

"I will—he is used to me. Are you awake, father?"

Nathanael caught the word, and looked surprised.

"Dear father," she continued, soothingly, "will you not try to wake now? Here is some one come to see you—some one you will be glad to see."

The Squire's eyes grew wild; he uttered a thick, painful murmur.

"Some one who was sure to come when he knew you were ill—your son." She paused, shocked at the frenzied expression of the old man's face. "Nay—your younger son—Nathanael—may he come?"

She perceived some faint assent, beckoned to her husband, saw him take her place at the bedside, and then stole away, leaving the son alone with his father.

Agatha rejoined the rest of the family. They were all sitting talking together as Nathanael had left them. After her leaving, they said, he had hardly spoken at all, but had gone up directly after her.

In about half-an-hour he re-appeared—greatly agitated. His sisters all turned to him as he entered, but he avoided their eyes. Agatha never lifted hers; she sat in a dim corner behind Miss Valery.

"What do you think of him, Nathanael?" asked Mary, in a low voice.

"I cannot yet tell; I want to hear how he was seized. Which of you saw most of him yesterday?"

"No one, unless it was Agatha. He was shut up in his study until she came."

"And who has been most with him since?"

"Agatha."

A soft expression dawned in the young man's eyes as they sought the dim corner.

"Will Agatha tell me what she thinks of my father's state?"

This appeal, so direct—so unexpected—could not be gainsaid.

Yet, when Nathanael addressed her, Agatha's agitation was so visible that it attracted observation—especially Mrs. Dugdale's.

"Poor child!" said Harrie, compassionately, "how pale she looks!"

"No wonder," Mary added. "She is more worn out than any of us. She sat up all last night."

Nathanael's eyes were on his wife again, full of ineffable gentleness. "Agatha, come over and rest in this armchair. I want to talk to you about my father."

She obeyed. He spoke in a low voice:

"I feel deeply your having been so kind to him."

"It was right. I was glad to do it."

"What do you think caused his illness?"

"Doctor Mason said it was probably some severe mental shock."

Nathanael looked alarmed. "Indeed! and did the rest of the family know anything?—guess anything?"

"Nothing."

Her husband fixed on her a penetrating gaze; she returned it steadily.

"Agatha," he hurriedly said, "you are a sensible girl—more so than any of my sisters. I want to consult with you alone. Come and walk up and down the room with me where they cannot overhear us."

She did so. How strange it was!

"Do you think my father had any sudden ill news? Did he see any person yesterday?"

"A stranger came to him. Your brother's lawyer, Mr. Grimes."

"Grimes? Oh, my poor father!"

He sat down abruptly. Agatha wondered at his mingling the two names. What should Grimes have to do with his father?

"Did any one else see Grimes?"

"I did."

"What did he say to you? Was it"—he dropped his head, and spoke half inaudibly—"Was it anything about my brother?"

Agatha marvelled, even with a sort of pain. Father, brother, every one before her! "He never named Major Harper, that I can remember. But he said"—

"What?"

Agatha drew back. How could she speak of such petty things as money and fortune then! She answered softly, and with a full heart:

"Never mind. It was a mere trifle, not worth telling, or even thinking of now. Another time."

Nathanael regarded his wife doubtfully, but she bore the look. She was speaking the simple truth. Loss of fortune did seem "a mere trifle" now, when he was safe back again, and she sat in his presence, he talking to her as gently as in the olden time. Her simplicity in worldly things was so extreme that even Nathanael passed it over as impossible. He only said:

"Well, all must come out ere long. We cannot think of it now. Tell me more about my poor father."

"There is little more to tell. His manner was rather strange, I thought, all dinner-time. He drank healths as usual—especially yours. His mind was wandering then, for he called you his only son. Then Mr. Grimes gave another toast—Major Harper. At that moment your father fell from his chair."

Nathanael started up—"I knew it would be so. He could not bear such shame—my poor old father!"

"Nathanael," cried Harrie, from the fireside group, "come and give us your opinion. I say that he ought to be sent for at once."

"Who?"

"Frederick"

Nathanael cried out violently, as if self-control were no longer possible.

"Never! Here have I used every effort, smothered every feeling, made every sacrifice, to save my poor father from knowing all this—and in vain! You may talk as you like, but I say Frederick shall never enter these doors. He is as good as his father's murderer."

"Hush!" cried Anne Valery, going to him while the others stood aghast. She only knew what fearful storms can be roused in these quiet natures.

"I will not hush. I have been silent too long over his wrong-doing."

"But some"—breathed Anne scarce audibly—"some whom he wronged have been silent for a lifetime."

Nathanael paused; Anne's reasoning was from facts unknown to him; but he saw the agony in her face. She continued in a whisper:

"Be slow to judge him, if only for his sisters' sakes—his dead mother's—the honour of the family."

"I have thought only too much of all these things."

"Then, for his father's sake—his father, who is going away to the other world leaving a son unforgiven. Beware how you not only take your brother's birthright, but seal your brother's curse."

"God forbid. Oh, Anne—Anne!"

He pressed his hand over his eyes, and leaned back a moment—leaning, though he did not know it, against his wife, who had stolen behind his chair. No one else came near; they all shrank from their brother as if he were suddenly gone mad. Looking up, he saw only Miss Valery.

"Forgive me, Anne; I cannot control myself as I used to do: I have been very ill lately, but don't tell my wife."

Anne took no notice; perhaps she wished the wife should learn the husband's real heart as she—his old friend—knew it.

"Don't think I would harm Frederick. Not for worlds. Do you know," and his voice lowered, "I dare not trust myself even to be just over his misdeeds, lest I should be slaying my enemy."

"Your enemy? It is too hard a word."

"No! it is true." He glanced round, perceiving no one near but Miss Valery. "Anne," he whispered, "do you remember the parable of Nathan? Why did he do it—the cruel rich man who had enjoyed so much all his life? Why did he steal my one little ewe-lamb?"

"Stay!" cried Anne, with a sudden suspicion waking in her. "I don't clearly understand. Tell me again."