“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.