On the morning--her first morning at Kingcombe Holm--Mrs. Harper woke
refreshed to a bright day. All the terraced outline of the hills was
pencilled distinctly against the bluest of blue skies, which hung like
a tent over the shut-up valley. She stood at the window looking at it,
while Mary Harper made the breakfast and Eulalie curiously examined
Agatha's dress, supposed to be the latest bridal fashion from London.
Nathanael sat writing letters until breakfast was ready, and then took
his father's place at the foot of the table.
“Elizabeth bade me ask you,” said Mary, addressing him, “if you had any
letters this morning from Frederick? You know she likes to look at all
family letters--they amuse her. Shall I take this one?”
Nathanael put his hand upon a heap, among which was plainly
distinguishable Major Harper's writing. “No, Mary--not now. If
necessary, I will read part of it to Elizabeth myself.”
Agatha, who had before vainly asked the same question, was annoyed by
her husband's reserve. His silence in all his affairs, especially those
relating to his brother, was impenetrable.
But this was rousing in her, day by day, a strong spirit of opposition.
Had not the presence of his sisters restrained her, for her external
wifely pride grew as much as her inward antagonism--she would have again
boldly put forward her claim to read the letter. As it was, she had
self-control enough to sit silent, but her mouth assumed that peculiar
expression which at times revealed a few little mysteries of her
nature--showing that beneath the quietude and simplicity of the girl lay
the strong, desperate will of a resolute woman.
After breakfast, when Mr. Harper, with some slight apology, had gone to
his letters again, she rose, intending to stroll about and explore
the lawn. She had never been used to ask any one's permission for her
out-goings and in-comings, so was departing quite naturally, when Mary
stopped her.
“I hope you will not mind it, but we always stay in the house until my
father comes down-stairs. He likes to see us before he begins the day.”
Agatha submitted--with a good grace, of course; though she thought
the rule absolute was painfully prevalent in the Harper family. But as
half-an-hour went by, and the morning air, so fresh and cool, tempted
her sorely, she tried to set aside this formal domestic regulation.
Mary looked quite frightened at her overt rebellion.--“My dear Mrs.
Harper--indeed we never do it. Do we, Nathanael?” said she, appealingly.
He listened to the discussion a moment.--“My dear wife, since my father
would not like it, you will not go, I know.”
The tone was gentle, but Agatha would as soon have thought of
overleaping a stone wall as of opposing a desire thus expressed. She
sat quietly down again--or would have done so, but that she saw Eulalie
smile meaningly at her sister. Intercepting the young wife, the smile
changed into affected condolence.
“Nathanael will have his way, you see. If you only knew what he was as
a little boy,” and the Beauty shrugged her shoulders pathetically.
“Really, as Harrie says, most men would never get wives at all, did
their lady loves know them only half as well as their sisters do.”
“Nay,” said the good-natured Mary, “but Harrie also says that men, like
wine, improve with age, especially if they are kept cool and not
too much shaken up. She has no doubt that even her Duke was a very
disagreeable boy. So, Mrs. Harper, let me assure you----”--
“There is no need; I am quite satisfied,” said Mrs. Harper, with no
small dignity; and at this momentous crisis her father-in-law entered
the room.
He entered dressed for riding--looking somewhat younger than the night
before, more cheerful and pleasant too, but not a whit less stately. He
saluted Agatha first, and then his daughters, with a gracious solemnity,
patting their cheeks all round, something after the fashion of a
good-humoured Eastern bashaw. The old gentleman evidently took a secret
pride in his womenkind. Then he shook hands with “my son Nathanael,”
and threw abroad generally a few ordinary remarks, to which his two
daughters listened with great reverence. But in all he did or said was
the same benignant hauteur; he seemed frozen up within a conglomerate
of reserve and formal courtesy; he walked, talked, looked perpetually as
Nathanael Harper, Esquire, of Kingcombe Holm, who never allowed either
his mind or his body to appear _en déshabille_. Agatha wondered how he
could ever have been a baby squalling, a boy playing, or a young man
wooing; nay, more (the thought irresistibly presented itself as she
noticed the extreme feebleness which his dignity but half disguised),
how he would ever stoop to the last levelling of all humanity--the
grave-clothes and the tomb.
“Any letters, my dear children? Any news to tell me before I ride
to Kingcombe?” said he, looking round the circle with a patronising
interest, which Agatha would scarcely have believed real, but for the
kindly expression of the old man's eye.
“There were plenty of letters for Elizabeth, as usual; one for Eulalie
“--here Eulalie looked affectedly conscious--“no others, I think.”
“Except one to Nathanael from Frederick,” observed the Beauty.
At the name of his eldest son the Squire's mien became a little
graver--a little statelier. He said coldly, “Nathanael, I hope you have
pleasant news from your brother. Where is he now?”
“In the British Channel, on his way to the Continent.”
“My son going abroad, and I never heard of it! Some mistake, surely. He
is not really gone?”
“Yes, father, for a year, or perhaps more--but certainly a year.”
The old gentleman's fingers nervously clutched the handle of his
riding-whip. “If so, Frederick would certainly have shown his father the
respect of informing _him_ first. Excuse me if I doubt whether my son's
plans are quite decided.”
“They are indeed, sir,” said Nathanael gently. “And I was aware of,
indeed advised, this journey. He bids me explain to you that when this
letter arrives he will be already gone.”
The father started--and broke the whip he was playing with. He stood
a minute, the dull red mounting to his temples and lying there like
a cloud. Then he took the fragments of the riding-whip from his son's
ready hand--thanked him--bade good morning to the womenkind all round,
and left them.
“Shall I ride with you, father?” said Nathanael, following him to the
hall-door, with a concerned air.
“Not to-day--I thank you! Not to-day.”
Mary and Eulalie looked at one another. “This will be a sad blow to
papa,” said the former. “Frederick was always a great anxiety to him.”
Agatha inquired wherefore.
“Because papa abhors a gay 'vagabondising' life, and always wished
his eldest son to settle down in the county. I know--though he says
nothing--that this has been a sore point between them for nearly twenty
years.”
“And I know,” added Eulalie, mysteriously, “that papa was going to make
a last effort, and have Frederick proposed as member for Kingcombe. A
pretty fight there would have been--papa and Frederick against Marmaduke
and his pet candidate!”
“'Tis well that is prevented! Everything happens for the best,” said
Mary, sagely. “But here comes Nathanael. Don't tell him, Mrs. Harper, or
he would say we had been gossiping.”
Mrs. Harper was standing moralising on the ins and outs of family life,
from which her own experience had hitherto been so free. Her eyes were
wandering up the road, where her father-in-law had just disappeared,
riding slowly, but erect as a young man. While she looked, there came up
one of those delicious little country pony-carriages, which a lady can
drive, and make herself independent of everybody.
“It is Anne Valery!” was the general cry, as all ran to meet her at the
door--Agatha being the first.
“My dear--my dear!” murmured Anne Valery, leaning out of her little
carriage to pat the brown curls. “Are you quite well?--quite happy? And
your husband?” She glanced from one to the other, with a keen inquiry.
“Is all well, Nathanael?”
Nathanael, smiling at his wife, whose look of entire pleasure brought,
as usual, the reflection of the same to him also, answered, warmly,
“Yes, Anne, all is well!”
She seemed satisfied, and took his hand to dismount from her carriage.
Agatha noticed that she walked more feebly, in spite of the bright
colour which the wind had brought to her cheeks; and that soon after she
came into the house this tint gradually faded, leaving her scarcely even
so healthy-looking as she had appeared a month ago--the last time they
had seen her. But her talk was full of cheerfulness.
“I am come to stay the whole day with you, by your father's desire--and
my own. May I, Mary?”
“Oh, yes! We shall be so glad, especially Elizabeth, who was wondering
and longing after you.”
“I have not been well. London never suits me,” said Anne carelessly.
“But come, now I am about again, let me see what is to be done to-day.
In the first place, I must have a long talk with Elizabeth. Is she risen
yet, Eulalie?”
Eulalie did not know; but Mary added, that she feared this was one of
Elizabeth's “hard days,” when she could not talk much to any one till
evening.
Anne continued, after a pause--“I want to drive over to Kingcombe about
some business. I have had so much on my hands since poor Mr. Wilson's
death.”
“Anne's steward,” whispered the Beauty importantly to her sister-in-law.
“You know that half Kingcombe belongs to Anne Valery?” And Agatha
noticed, with some amusement, what an extreme deference was infused into
the usually nonchalant, contemptuous manner of the youngest Miss Harper.
“So poor Wilson is dead! And who have you to manage all your property?”
asked Mr. Harper suddenly.
“No one at present I am very particular in my choice. As I am only a
woman, my steward has necessarily considerable influence. I would
wish him always to be what Mr. Wilson was: if possible a friend, but
undoubtedly a gentleman.”
As Miss Valery spoke, Nathanael listened in deep thought; then, meeting
her eyes, he coloured slightly, but quickly recovering himself, said, in
a low tone, “Some time to-day, Anne, I would like to have a little talk
with you.”
She assented with an inquiring look. But she seemed to understand
Nathanael well enough to content herself with that look, asking no
further questions.
“And, for the third important business which should be done to-day,
and perhaps the sooner the better, I must certainly take Agatha up Holm
Hill, and show her the view of the Channel.”
Agatha drew back from the window. “Ah, not the sea!--I cannot bear the
sea.” Anne Valery watched her with peculiar earnestness.
“Were you ever on the sea, my dear?”
“Once, long ago.”
“Nay, I must teach you to admire our magnificent coast. On with your
bonnet, and come along that great hill-terrace--do you see it?--with
Nathanael and me.”
“But you will be tired,” Mrs. Harper said, reluctant still, yet loth to
resist Anne Valery.
“Tired? no! The salt breeze gives me strength--health. I hardly live
when I am not in sight of the Channel. Make haste, and let us go,
Agatha.”
She seemed so eager, that no further objection was possible. So they
soon started--they three only, for Mary had occupation in the house, and
the Beauty was mightily averse to exercise and sea-air.
They climbed the steep road, overhung with trees, at whose roots grew
clusters of large primrose leaves, showing what a lovely walk it must
be in spring; then higher, till all this vegetation ceased, leaving
only the short grass cropped by the sheep, the purple thistles, and the
furze-bushes, yellow and cheerful all the year round. They then drove
along a high ridge for a mile or two, till they got quite out of sight
of Kingcombe Holm. Miss Valery talked gaily the whole way; and, as
though the sea-breeze truly gave her life, was the very first to propose
leaving the carriage and walking on, so as to catch the earliest glimpse
of the Channel.
“There!” she said, breathlessly, and quitting Mr. Harper's arm, crossed
over to his wife. “There, Agatha!”
It was such a view as in her life the young girl had never beheld. They
stood on a high ridge, on one side of which lay a wide champaign of
moorland, on the other a valley, bounded by a second ridge, and between
the two sloping greenly down, till it terminated in a little bay.
Parallel to the valley ran this grand hill-terrace--until it likewise
reached the coast, ending abruptly in precipitous gigantic cliffs,
against which the tides of centuries might have beat themselves in vain.
Beyond all, motionless in the noonday dazzle, and curving itself away
in a mist of brightness where the eye failed, was the great, wide,
immeasurable sea.
The three stood gazing, but no one spoke. Agatha trembled, less with
her former fear than with that awestruck sense of the infinite which is
always given by the sight of the ocean--that ocean which One “holdeth
in the hollow of his hand.” Gradually this awe grew fainter, and she
was able to look round her, and count the white dots scattered here and
there on the dazzling sheet of waves.
“There go the ships,” said Nathanael. “See what numbers of
them--numbers, yet how few they seem!--are moving up and down on this
highway of all nations. Look, Agatha, at that one, a mere speck, dipping
in the horizon.
“Do you remember Tennyson's lines?--they reached Uncle Brian and me even
in the wild forests of America:
“'Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail
Which brings our friends up from the under world;
Sad as the last which reddens over one
That sinks, with all we love, below the verge.'”
“There! it is gone now,” cried Agatha, almost with a sense of loss. She
felt Anne Valery's fingers tighten convulsively over her arm, and saw
her with straining eyes and quivering lips watching the vanishing--nay,
vanished--ship, as if all her soul were flying with it to the “under
world.”
The sight was so startling, so moving--especially in a woman of Miss
Valery's mature age and composed demeanour--that Nathanael's wife
instinctively turned her eyes away and kept silence. In a minute or two
Anne had returned to Mr. Harper's arm, and the three were walking on as
before; until, ere long, they nestled themselves in a sheltered nook,
where the sea-wind could not reach them, and the sun came in, warm as
summer.
Nathanael began to show his wife the different points of
scenery--especially the rocky island of Portland, beyond which the line
of coast sweeps on ruggedly westward to the Land's End.
“But I believe,” he said, “that there is nowhere a grander coast than we
have here--not even in Cornwall.”
“Speaking of Cornwall,” Miss Valery said, closely observing Nathanael,
“I lately heard a sad story about some mines there.”
Mr. Harper seemed restless. “The speculation had failed, having been
ill-managed, or, as I greatly fear, a cheat from the beginning. As I had
property near in the county--what, did you not know that, Nathanael--I
was asked to do something for the poor starving miners of Wheal
Caroline. Have you heard the name, Agatha?”
“No,” said Agatha, innocently, not paying much attention, except to the
lovely view.
“Not heard? That is strange. But you, Nathanael”--
“I know all,” he said hastily. “It is a sad history--too sad to be
talked of here. Another time”--
His eye met hers--and both turned upon Agatha, who sat a little apart,
enjoying the novel scene, and rejoicing above all that the sea--vague
object of nameless terror--could ever appear so beautiful.
“Poor child!” murmured Miss Valery.
“Hush, Anne!” Nathanael whispered, so imploringly--nay, commandingly,
that Anne was startled.
“How like you are to”--
“What were you saying?” asked Agatha, turning at last.
“I was saying,” Miss Valery replied hastily--“I was saying how like
Nathanael looked just then to his Uncle Brian.”
“Did he indeed? Was that all you were speaking of?”
“Not quite all; but I find your husband knows the story; he will tell
you, _as he ought_,” added Anne pointedly.
“Surely I will, one day,” said Nathanael. “But in this case, as in many
others, where there has been misfortune or wrong, I consider the best,
wisest, most charitable course is not to spread it abroad until the
wrong has had a chance of being remedied. Do you not think so, Anne?”
“Yes,” she answered, her eyes fixed upon the resolute young face
that seemed compelling her to silence almost against her will. It was
marvellous to see the influence Nathanael had, even over Anne Valery.
“And now,” continued Mr. Harper, “while I am alone with you and my
wife”--here he drew Agatha within the circle of talk, and made her lean
against his knee, his arm shielding her from the wind--“I wanted to
talk with you, Anne, about some plans I have.”
“Say on.”
“I have given up--as Agatha wrote you word--all idea of our settling at
Montreal. It is necessary that I should at once find some employment in
England.”
“Not yet--not just yet,” said his wife.
“I must, dear. It is right--it is necessary. Anne herself would say so.”
Miss Valery assented, much to Agatha's surprise.
“The only question then is--what can I do? Nothing in the
professions--for I have acquired none; nothing in literature--for I
am not a genius; but anything in the clear, straightforward,
man-of-business line--Uncle Brian used to accuse me of being so very
practical.--Anne,” he added, smiling, “I wish, instead of having to puff
off myself thus, Uncle Brian were here to advertise my qualifications.”
“Qualifications for what?” inquired Agatha, Miss Valery being silent
“For obtaining from my friend here what I would at once have applied for
to any stranger; poor Wilson's vacant post as her overseer, land-agent,
steward, or whatever the name may be.”
“Steward!” cried Mrs. Harper. “Surely you would never dream of being a
steward?”
“Why not? Because I am unworthy of the situation, or--as I fear my proud
little wife thinks--because the situation is not worthy of me? Nay, a
man never loses honour by earning his bread in honourable fashion;
and Miss Valery herself said that for this office she required both a
gentleman and a friend. Will she accept me?”
And he extended, proudly as his father might--yet with a frank
independence nobler than the pride of all the Harpers--his honest right
hand. Anne Valery took it, the tears rising in her eyes.
“I could never have offered you this, Nathanael; but since you are so
steadfast, so wise----Yes! it is indeed, considering all things, the
wisest course you can pursue. Only, I will agree to nothing unless your
wife consents.”
“I will not consent,” said Agatha, determinedly.
There was an uncomfortable pause.
“I see in your plan no reason--no right,” continued she, forgetting
in her annoyance even the outward deference with which her sense of
conjugal dignity led her invariably to treat her husband. “Why was I
never told this before?”
“Because I never thought of it myself until this morning.”
The exceeding gentleness of his tone surprised her, and restrained many
more words, not over-sweet, which were issuing from her angry lips.
“The fact is, Agatha--I may speak before Anne Valery whom we both
love”--
“And who loves you both as if you had been her own kindred.”
These words, so tremulously said, swept away a little bitterness that
was rising up in Agatha's heart against Miss Valery.
“It is necessary,” Mr. Harper went on--“imperatively so, for my
comfort--that I should at once do something. And in choosing
one's work, it always seemed to me there was great wisdom in the
rule--'Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might.' Many
things I could not do; this I can, well and faithfully, as Anne will
find. Nor need I feel ashamed of being steward to Miss Valery.”
Agatha felt her spirit of opposition quaking on its throne. “But your
father--your sisters. What will they all say at Kingcombe Holm?”
“Nothing that I cannot combat. My father will be glad of our settling
near him in Dorsetshire.”
“In Dorsetshire!” echoed Mrs. Harper dolefully; and thereupon fled her
last visions of a gay London home. Yet she already liked her husband's
county and people well enough to bear the sacrifice with tolerable
equanimity.
“And whatever he says, whatever any one else says, I have no fear, if
my wife will only stand by me, and trust that I do everything for the
best.”
His wife listened, not without agitation, for she remembered their first
dispute, only a few days ago. Here was rising another storm. Yet either
she felt weaker to contend, or something in Nathanael's manner lured
her to believe him in the right. She listened--only half-convinced, yet
still she listened.
Anne Valery did the same, though she took no part in the argument Only
continually her eyes wandered to Nathanael, less with smiling heart-warm
affection than with the pensive tenderness with which one watches a dead
likeness revived in a living face.
At last, when he had expressed all he could--everything except entreaty
or complaint--Mr. Harper paused. “Now, Agatha, speak.”
She felt that she must yield, yet tried to struggle a little longer. She
had been so unused to control.
“You should have consulted with me--have explained more of your reasons,
which as yet I do not comprehend. Why should you be so wondrously
anxious to begin work? It is unreasonable, unkind.”
“Am I unkind to you, my poor Agatha?” His accent was that of unutterable
pain.
“No! no! that you never are! Only--I suppose because I am young and
lately married--I do not half understand you. What must I do, Miss
Valery?”
Anne looked from one to the other--Nathanael, who, as was his habit
in all moments of great trial, assumed an aspect unnaturally hard--and
Agatha whose young fierce spirit was just bursting out, wrathful, yet
half repentant all the while. “What must you do? You must try to learn
the lesson that every woman has to learn from and for the man she
loves--to have faith in him.”
“We women,” she continued softly, “the very best and wisest of us,
cannot enter thoroughly into the nature of the man we love. We can only
love him. That is, when we once believe him worthy of affection. Firmly
knowing that, we must bear with all the rest; and where we do not quite
understand, we must, as I said, _have faith in him_. I have heard of
some women whose faith has lasted all their life.”
Anne's serious smile, and the beautiful steadfastness of her eyes, which
vaguely turned seaward--though apparently looking at nothing--made a
deep impression on the young wife.
She answered, thoughtfully, “I believe in my husband too, otherwise
I would not have married him. Therefore, since our two wills seem to
clash, and he is the older and the wiser--let him decide as he thinks
best--I will try to 'have faith in him.'”
Nathanael grasped her hand, but did not speak--it seemed impossible to
him. Soon after, they all rose and turned homeward, leaving the breezy
terrace and the bright sunshiny sea. None turned to look back at either,
excepting only--for one lingering, parting glance--Anne Valery.