“They are sure to be home to-morrow; nothing can prevent their being home to-morrow,” said Agatha, as she read over neither for the first time, nor the second, nor the third, her husband's letter, received from Havre.

It was night now, and they were sitting by the fire in Miss Valery's dressing-room. It had been one of Anne's best days; a wonderfully good day; she had walked about the house, and given several orders to her delighted servants, who, old as they were, would have obeyed the most onerous commands for the pleasure of seeing their mistress strong enough to give them. Some, however, wondered why she should be so particular about the order of a house that never was in disorder, and especially why various furniture arrangements which had gradually in the course of time been altered, should be pertinaciously restored, so that all things might look just as they did years and years ago. Also, though it was a few days in advance of the orthodox day, she would have the house adorned with “Christmas,” until it looked a perfect bower.

“It do seem, Mrs. Harper,” said the old housekeeper, confidentially—“it do seem just as on the last merry Christmas, afore the family was broke up, and Mr. Frederick turned soldier, and Mr. Locke Harper—that's his uncle—went away with little Master Nathanael, Mr. Locke Harper as is now.”

And Agatha had laughed very heartily at the idea of her husband being “little Master Nathanael;” but she had not told this conversation to Anne Valery.

All afternoon the house had been oppressively lively, thanks to a visit from the Dugdale children; which little elves were sent out of the way while their mother performed the not unnecessary duty of putting her establishment in order. For Harrie was determined that her house, and none other, should have the honour of receiving Uncle Brian. As Nathanael had taken for granted the same thing, and as Mary Harper had likewise communicated her opinion, that it was against all etiquette for her poor father's only brother to be welcomed anywhere but at Kingcombe Holm, there seemed likely to be a tolerable family fight over the possession of the said Uncle Brian.

The little Dugdales had talked of him incessantly all day, communicating their expectations concerning him in such a funny fashion that Agatha was ready to die with laughing, and even Anne, who had insisted on having the children about her, was heard to laugh sometimes. She let little Brian climb about her sofa, and answered all sorts of eccentric questions from the others, never seeming weary. At last, when the sound of merry, young voices had died out of the house, and its large, lofty rooms grew solemn with the wailing of the wind, Anne had retreated to her dressing-room, where she sat watching the fire-light, or answering in fragments to Agatha's conversation.

This conversation was wandering enough; catching up various topics, and then letting them drop like broken threads, but all winding themselves into one and the same subject “They will be home to-morrow.”

“I hope, nay, I am sure of it, God willing!” said Anne, softly. “He often puts hindrances in our way, but in the end He always works things round, and we see them clearly afterwards. Still we ought hardly to say even of the strongest love or dearest wish we have, 'It must be!' without also saying 'God willing.'”

Agatha replied not. This was a new doctrine for her. How rarely in her young, passionless, sorrowless life, she had thought of the few words, oft used in cant, and Agatha hated all cant—“the will of God.” She pondered over them much.

“What sort of a night is it” said Anne, at length.

“Very dreary and rainy, and the wind is high.”

“No matter, it will not reach them. The Ardente will be safe in Southampton-water by this time.”

Agatha recurred to the perpetual letter; “Yes, so my husband tells me here.”

“And therefore,” Miss Valery continued, laying her hand over the paper, “his good little wife shall fold up this, and not weary herself any more with anxiety about him. Those who love ought above all others to trust in the love of God.”

After this they sat patient and content—nay, oftentimes quite merry, for Agatha strove hard to amuse her companion. And the wind sang its song without—not threateningly, but rather in mirth; and the fire burnt brightly, within. And no one thought of them but as friends and servants—the terrible Wind, the devouring Fire.

It was growing late, and Agatha began to use the petty tyranny with which Miss Valery had invested her, insisting on her friend's going to bed.

“I will presently; only give me time—a little time. I am not so young as you, my child, and have not so many hours to waste in sleeping. There now, I'll be good. Wait—you see I am already pulling down my hair.”

She did so, rather feebly. It fell on her shoulders longer and thicker than any one would have believed—it was really beautiful, except for those broad white streaks.

“What soft fine hair,” cried Agatha, admiringly. “Ah, you shall go without caps in the spring—I declare you shall.”

“Not at my age.”

“That cannot be so very ancient. I shouldn't mind asking you the direct question, for I am sure you are not one of those foolish women who are ashamed to tell their age, as if any number of years matters while we keep a young warm heart.”

“I am thirty-nine or forty, I forget which,” said Anne, as she drew her fingers through the long locks, gazing down on them with some pensiveness. “I myself never liked hair of this colour, neither brown nor black; but mine was always soft and smooth, and some people used to think it pretty once.”

“It is pretty now. You will always be beautiful, dear, dear Anne! I will call you Anne, for you are scarcely older than I, except in a few contemptible years not worth mentioning,” continued the girl, sturdily. “And I will have you as happy, too, as I.”

Anne sat silent a minute or two, the hair dropping over her face. Then she raised it and looked into the fire with a calm sweet look that Agatha thought perfectly divine.

“I have been happy,” she said. “That is I have not been unhappy—God knows I have not. I have had a great deal to do always, and in all my labour was there profit. It comforted me, and helped to comfort others; it made me feel that my life was not wholly thrown away, as many an unmarried woman's is, but as no one's ever need be.”

“But some are. Think of Jane Ianson, of whom Emma wrote me word yesterday. If ever any woman spent a mournful, useless life, and died of a broken heart, it was poor Jane Ianson.”

“Her story was pitiful, but she somewhat erred,” Anne answered, thoughtfully. “No human being ought to die of a 'broken heart' (as the phrase is) while God is in His heaven, and has work to be done upon His earth. There are but two things that can really throw a lasting shadow over woman's existence—an unworthy love, and a lost love. The first ought to be rooted out at all risks; for the other—let it stay! There are more things in life than mere marrying and being happy. And for love—a high, pure, holy love, held ever faithful to one object,”—and as she spoke, Anne's whole face lightened and grew young—“no fortune or misfortune—no time or distance—no power either in earth or heaven can alter that.”

There was a pause, during which the two women sat silent and grave. And the wind howled round the house, and the fire crackled harmlessly in the chimney, but they noticed neither—the fierce Wind—the awful Fire.

“It is a wild night,” said Agatha at last. “But they are landed at Southampton long ago. Last night was lovely—such a moon! and they were sure to sail, because the Ardente only plies once a week, and there is no other boat this winter-time. Oh, yes! they are quite safe in Southampton. I shouldn't wonder if they were both here to breakfast to-morrow.”

And Agatha, with her little heart beating quick, merrily, and fast, never thought to look at her companion. Anne's eyes were dilated, her lips quivering—all her serenity was gone.

“To-morrow—to-morrow,” she murmured, and as with a sudden pain, put her hand to her chest, breathing hard and rapidly. “Agatha, hold me fast—don't let me go—just for a little while.—I cannot go!”

She clung to the young girl with a pallid, frightened aspect, like one who looks down into a place of darkness, and shudders on its verge. Never before had that expression been seen in Anne Valery. Slowly it passed away, leaving the calmness that was habitual to her. Agatha hung round her neck, and kissed her into smiles.

“Now,” she said, rising, “let us both go to bed. You look tired, my child, and we must have your very best looks when you make breakfast for them in the morning. That is, if they both come here.”

“They will come—my husband says so. He knows, and is determined that Uncle Brian shall know—everything.”

Anne sat still—so still, that her young companion was afraid she had vexed her.

“No, dear—not vexed. But no human being can know everything! It lies between him and me—and God.”

So saying, she rose, fastened up the long hair in which the last lingering beauty of her youth lay—put on her little close cap, and was again the composed gentle lady of middle age.

She rung for the housekeeper, and gave various orders for the morning, desiring a few trivial additions to the breakfast, which would have made Agatha smile, but that she noted a slight hesitation in the voice that ordered them.

“Is there anything your husband would like especially? I don't quite understand his ways.”

Agatha blushed as she answered—“Nor I.”

“You will not answer so in a few months hence,” said Anne, when they were alone. “It is a very unromantic doctrine, but few young wives know how much the happiness of a home depends on little things—that is, if anything can be little which is done for his comfort, and is pleasant to him. There's a lecture for you, Mistress Agatha. Now go to bed, and rise in the morning to begin a new era, as the happiest and best wife in all England.”

“I will,” cried Agatha, laughing, though with a tear or two in her eyes. To think how much Anne had guessed of the wretched past, yet, with true delicacy, how entirely she had concealed that knowledge!

They embraced silently, and then Miss Valery went into her own room, where, year after year, when all the duties and cheerfulness of the day were done, the solitary woman had shut herself in—alone with her own heart and with God. The young wife stood and looked with thoughtful reverence at the closed door of that room.

It was eleven o'clock, yet somehow Mrs. Harper did not feel inclined to go to bed. She had too many things to think of, too many plans to make and resolutions to form. Her life must settle itself calmly now. Its trouble, tumult, and uncertainty were over. She felt quite sure of her husband's goodness—of his deep and tender love for herself—nay, also of her own for him—only that was a different sort of feeling. She thought less on this than on the other side of the subject—how sweet it was to be so dear to him. She would try and deserve him more—be to him a faithful wife and a good house-wife, and make herself happy in his devotion.

She smiled as she passed through the hall where he had stood and said, “Do you love me?” She wished she had frankly answered “Yes,” as was indeed the truth; only his strong love had lately made her own seem so poor and weak.

Lingering on the spot which his feet had last pressed, she tried to fancy him beside her, and acted the scene over again, “making believe,” childish fashion, that she stood on tiptoe attempting to reach up to his mouth—a very long way!—and there breathing out the “Yes” in a perfectly justifiable and unquestionable fashion. And then she laughed at her own conceit—the foolish little wife!—and tripped off into the drawing-room, lest the old butler, who always went round the house at midnight to see that all was safe, might catch her at her antics. Still, were they not quite natural? Was she not a very happy and fondly-worshipped wife? and was not her husband coming home the next morning?

Entering the drawing-room, her high spirits were somewhat sobered down; its atmosphere felt so gloomy and cold. The fire had nearly died out—the ill-natured fire, that did not know there was a cheerful little woman coming to sit beside it and dream of all sorts of pleasant things.

“I wish fires would never go out,” said Agatha, rather crossly; and she stirred it, and blew it, and cherished it, as if it were the only pleasant companion in this dreary room.

“How I do love fire,” she said at last, as she sat down on the hearth-rug and warmed her little feet and hands by the blaze, and would not look in the dark corners of the room, but kept her face turned from them, as during her life she had kept it turned away from all gloomy subjects. Passionate anguish of her own making, she had known; but that stern, irremediable sorrow which comes direct from the unseen Mover of all things and lays its heavy hand on the sufferer's head, saying, “Be still, and know that I am God”—this teaching, which must come to every human soul that is worth its destiny, had never yet come to Agatha Harper.

Was it this unknown something even now tracking her, that made her long for the familiar daylight, and feel afraid of night, with its silence, its solitude, and its dark?

“I will go to bed and try to sleep,” she said. “It is but a few hours. My husband is certain to be here in the morning.”

She rose, laughed at herself for starting on some slight noise in the quiet house—old Andrews locking up the front door, probably—snuffed her candle to make it as bright as possible, and prepared to go up-stairs.

A light knock at the door.

“Come in, Andrews. The fire is all safe, and I shall vanish now.”

She said this without looking round. When she did look she was somewhat surprised to see, not the butler, but Marmaduke Dugdale. It was odd, certainly, but then Duke had such very odd ways, and was always turning up at impossible hours and in eccentric fashion. He looked eccentric enough now, being thoroughly drenched with rain, with a queer, scared expression on his face.

Agatha was amused by it. “Why, what a late visitor! The children are gone home hours ago, though they waited ever so long for 'Pa.' Have you been all this while at Mr. Trenchard's?”

“I haven't been there at all.”

Agatha smiled.

“Don't'ee laugh—now don't'ee, Mrs. Harper.” And Duke sat down, pushing the dripping hair from his forehead, pulling his face into all sorts of contortions, until at last it sunk between his hands, and those clear, honest, always beautiful eyes, alone confronted her. There was that in their expression which startled Agatha.

“What did you come for so late, Mr. Dugdale?”

“What did I come for?” he vaguely repeated. “Now don't'ee tremble so. We must hope for the best, my child.”

Agatha felt a sudden stoppage at the heart which took away her. breath. “Tell me—quick; I shall not be frightened;—he is coming home to-morrow.”

“My dear child!” muttered Duke again, as he held out his hands to her, and she saw that tears were dropping over his cheeks.

Agatha clutched at the hands threateningly—she felt herself going wild. “Tell me, I say. If you don't—I'll”———

“Hush—I'll tell you—only hush!—think of poor Anne! And there's hope yet. Only they have not come into Southampton-roads—and last night there was a fire seen far out at sea—and it might have been a ship, you know.”

Thus disconnectedly Marmaduke broke his terrible news. Agatha received them with a wild stare.

“It's impossible—totally impossible,” she cried, uttering sounds that were half shrieking, half laughter. “Absolutely, ridiculously impossible. I'll not believe it—not a word. It's impossible— impossible!”

And gasping out that one word, over and over again, fiercely and fast, she walked up and down the room like one distraught. She was indeed quite mad. She had not any sense of anything. She never once thought of weeping, or fainting, or doing anything but shriek out to earth and Heaven that one denunciation—that such a thing was and must be—“impossible!”

Marmaduke caught her—she flung him aside.

“Don't touch me—don't speak to me! I say it's impossible!”

“Child!” And his look became more grave and commanding than any one would have believed of the Dugdale. “Dare not to say impossible! It is sinning against God.”

Agatha stopped in her frenzied walk. Of a sudden came the horrible thought that it might be—that the hand might have been lifted—have fallen, striking the whole world from her at one blow.

“Oh God!—oh merciful God!”

In that cry, scarcely louder than a moan, yet strong and wild enough to pierce the heavens, Agatha knew how she loved her husband. Not calmly, not meekly, but with that terrible love which is to the heart as life itself.

Of the next few minutes that passed over her no one could write—no one would dare. It was utter insanity, yet with a perfect knowledge of its state. Madness, stone-blind, stone-deaf—that uttered no cry, and poured out no tears. She walked swiftly up and down the room, her hands clenched, her features rigid as iron. Mr. Dugdale and old Andrews could only watch pitifully, saying at times—which may all good Christians say likewise!—“God have mercy upon her.”

No one else came near—the servants were all asleep, and Miss Valery's room was in another part of the house. Possibly she slept too—poor Anne!

“Now,” said Agatha, in a cold, hard voice, clutching Marmaduke's arm, “I want to know all about it. I don't believe it, mind you!—not one word—but I would like to hear. Just tell me. How did you get the news?”

“From Southampton, to-night. It happened last night A steamer saw the burning ship, and went, but the fire had already reached to the water's edge. There was not a soul in or near the wreck when it went down.”

Agatha shuddered, and then said, in the same hard voice: “It was some other ship—not the Ardente.”

Marmaduke shook his head, drearily. “They found a spar with 'Ardente' upon it. But they saw no boats, and some people think, as there were but few passengers, they all got safe off, and may reach the shore.”

“Of course they will!—I was sure of that;” returned Agatha, in the same wild, determined tone. “Let me see! it was a quiet night. I stood a long time looking at the moon—Ah!”

The ghastly thought of her standing there looking up at the moon, and the pitiless moon looking down on the sea and on him! Agatha's senses reeled—she burst into the most awful laughter.

Marmaduke held her fast—the whimsical absent Marmaduke—now roused into his true character, kind, as any woman, and wiser than most men.

“Agatha, you must be quiet. It is wicked ever to despair. There is a chance—more than a chance, that your husband has been saved. He has infinite presence of mind, and he is a young, strong, likely lad. But Brian—poor Brian! my dear old friend!”

Duke Dugdale's bravery gave way—he was of such a gentle, tender heart. The sight of his emotion stilled Agatha's frenzy, and made it more like a natural grief, though it was hard yet—hard as stone.

“Come,” she said, taking his hand, and smiling piteously—“come—don't cry. I can't!—not for the world. Let us talk. What are you going to do?”

“I am going right off to Southampton—whence they have sent steamers out in all directions to pick up the boats, if they are drifting anywhere about the Channel. Fancy—to be out in the open sea, this winter-time, with possibly no clothes or food!”

“Hush!”—shuddered Agatha's low voice—“hush! or I shall go quite mad, and I would rather not just yet—afterwards, I shall not mind.”

“Poor child!”

“Don't now,” and she shrank from him. “Never think of me—that does not signify. Only something must be done. No weeping—no talking—do something!”

“I told you I should. I am going”—

“Go then!” Her quick speech—the wild stamp of her foot—poor child, how mad she was still!

Mr. Dugdale took no notice except by a compassionate look—perhaps he, too, felt there was no time to lose. He went towards the door—she following.

“I am off now—I shall catch the train in two hours,” said he, springing on his horse in the dark wet night. “Harrie will be with you directly—only she thought I had better come first. Go in—go in—my poor child.”

Agatha obeyed mechanically, for the moment She walked about the house, in at one room and out at another, meeting no person—for Andrews had gone to call up some of the servants. The heavy quiet around stifled her. Faster and faster she walked—clutching her hands on her throat for breath—sometimes uttering, with a sort of laughing shriek, the one word in which seemed her only salvation—“Impossible!—utterly and entirely impossible!”

She sat down for a moment, trying to think over more clearly the chances of the case—but to keep still was beyond her power. She resumed that rapid walk as if she were flying through an atmosphere of invisible fiends. It felt like it.

Once, by a superhuman effort, she drove her mind to contemplate the possible—the winds, the flames, the waves, and him struggling among them. She saw the face which she had last seen so life-like—as a dead face, with its pale, pure features and fair hair. And even that face never to be again seen by her through any possible chance! For him to be blotted out altogether from the world, and she left therein! “Oh, God—oh, God!” The despairing, accusing shriek that she sent up to His mercy!—May His mercy have received and forgiven it!

She began to count up the hours that must pass before she could receive any tidings, good or ill. To stay quietly in the house and wait for them!—you might as well have told a poor wretch to sit still and wait for the bursting of a mine. No rest—no rest. The very walls of the house seemed to press upon her and hem her in. She saw a bonnet and shawl hanging up in the hall, caught both, and ran out at the front door.

Out—out under the stars. She walked with her face lifted right up to them, her eyes flashing out an insane defiance to their merciless calm. The rain fell down thick, and it was very cold, but she never thought of putting on the bonnet or the shawl; or, if she thought at all, it was with a sort of longing that the rain might come and cool her through and through, or the sharp wind pierce to her breast and kill her. Once she had a thought of running a mile or two across the hills, and leaping from some cliffs into the sea; so that, whichever way this suspense ended, she might be safely dead beforehand—dead, too, in the same ocean, washed by the same wave. All the foolish Romeo-and-Juliet-like traditions of people killing themselves on some beloved's tomb, seemed to her now perfectly real, possible, and natural. Nothing was unnatural or impossible—save living.

How to live, even for a day, an hour, in this horrible, deathly stagnation, she did not know. At last, walking on blindly through the night, she came to the termination of the Thornhurst estate. Was she to go back and lull herself into the stupor of patience?—to be kissed and wept over, and preached resignation to?—left to sit mutely in that quiet house, while he was dashed about, fighting with the sea for life?—or watching the clock's travelling round hour after hour, not knowing but that every peaceful minute might be the terrible one in which he died?

“No,” she said to herself, while the awful but delirious joy which has struck many in a similar position, struck her suddenly, “he is not dead. If he had died, he would have told me—me whom he so loved He could not die anywhere, or at any time, but in some way or other I should certainly have known it.”

And as she stood in the dark road—quite alone with the hills and stars, calmed down into a supernatural awe, Agatha almost expected to see her husband stand before her in the old familiar likeness. She would not have been afraid.

But no apparition came. All nature, visible and invisible, was silent to her misery. If she went back to the house, all there would be silent too.

She took her resolution—though it could hardly be called a resolution, being merely the blind impulse of despair. She climbed over the gate—she had not wit enough to unfasten it—and ran, swift and silent as some wild animal, along the road to Kingcombe.

The rain ceased, and her dripping clothes dried of themselves, so as not to encumber her movements. By some happy chance her feet were well shod, and now, gathering her wits as she went, she put on the shawl—not the bonnet, her head burned so, and felt so wild Just then, far into the darkness, she heard wheels rolling and rolling. It was Mrs. Dugdale driving along rapidly towards Thornhurst—but without one slash of the whip or one word of conversation with Dunce. When she stopped to open a gate the glare of the chaise-lamps showed the little black figure by the roadside. Harrie screamed—she thought it was a ghost.

“Any news? any news?”

“Gracious! is it you, child? No news—none! Get up, quick, and come home.”

But Agatha fled on and on, noticing nothing, except once, when with a start she saw the great black outline of Corfe Castle looming against the night-sky.

When she reached Kingcombe, it was still dark. She could not even have found her way, save for the faint sky brightness lent by the overcast moon; and the distance she had traversed was all but miraculous. It seemed as if she had not walked by natural feet, but some unseen influence had drawn and lifted her the whole way. When she stood in Kingcombe streets she hardly believed her senses—save that nothing was hard of belief just then, except the one horror—incredible, unutterable.

Mr. Dugdale was walking up and down Kingcombe railway station, waiting for the early train. One or two sleepy porters were eyeing him with a sort of pitying curiosity, for ill news spreads fast in a country neighbourhood. There was no one else about. Nobody perceived a little figure creeping up the road and coming on the platform. Even Marmaduke did not lift his eyes or relax his melancholy walk until something touched him on the arm. He stood astonished.

“It is I, you see. You are not gone yet.”

“How did you come—you poor child?”

“From Thornhurst—I walked. But how soon shall you start?”

“Walked from Thornhurst!—at this time of night!” said one of the railway-men, who knew the family—as indeed did every one in the neighbourhood. “Lord help us—it's that poor Mrs. Harper!”

Mr. Dugdale tried to remove Agatha from the platform, but she resisted.

“I am come to go with you to Southampton.”

“What need of that? Go back to my house, poor child. If anything is to be done I can do it. If nothing—why”—

“I will go.”

The determination was so calm, the grasp of the little hand so strong, that her brother-in-law urged no more. He went in his quiet way to take her ticket, the railway folk moving respectfully aside, and whispering among themselves something about “poor Mrs. Harper, that was going to Southampton to see after her husband.”

Coming back, Duke attempted not to talk to her, but stood by her side—she would stand—sometimes feeling at her damp shawl, or wrapping her up in the tender careful fashion that he used to his own little ones. At last the great fiery eye, accompanied by the iron beast's snorting gasps, appeared far in the dark. Agatha drew a long breath, like a sob.

Mr. Dugdale lifted her in the carriage, almost without a word. One of the railway-men brought from somewhere—nobody ever learned where—a rug for her feet, and a pillow for her head to lean on. A minute more, and they were whirled away.