The same afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. Harper and Miss Valery drove to
Kingcombe, to see if in that quaint little town there was a house
suitable for the young couple. They had not said a word to either of
the Miss Harpers concerning this sudden arrangement, agreeing that the
father of the household ought to be shown the respect of receiving the
first information.
“And then,” said Nathanael, “I trust mainly to Anne Valery to overcome
his scruples. Anne can do anything she likes with my father. Don't you
remember,” he continued, leaning over to the front seat where the two
ladies were, and looking quite cheerful, as though a great load had
been taken off his mind--“don't you remember--I do, though I was such
a little boy--how there was one day a grand family tumult because
Frederick wanted his commission, and my father refused it--how you
walked up and down the garden, first with one and then with the other,
persuading everybody to be friends, while Uncle Brian and I”--
“There, that will do,” said Miss Valery. “Never mind old times, but let
us look forward to the future. Here we are at Kingcombe. Agatha, how do
you like the place?”
And Agatha, on this glowing autumn afternoon, eagerly examined her
future home.
It was a rather noteworthy country town; small, clean, with an air of
sober preservation, reminding one of a well-kept, dignified, healthy
old age. It wore its antiquity with a sort of pride, as if its quaint
streets, intersecting one another in cruciform shape, still kept
the impress of mediaeval feet, baron's or priest's, in the days when
Kingcombe had sixteen churches and a castle to boot--as if the Roman
walls which enclosed it lay solemnly conscious that, at night, ghosts
of old Latin warriors glided over the smooth turf of those great earthen
mounds where the town's-children played. Even the very river, which came
up to the town narrow and slow, with perhaps one sailing-barge on it
visible far across the flat country, and looking like a boat taking an
insane pedestrian excursion over the meadows--even the river seemed to
run silently, as if remembering the time when it had floated up Danish
ships with their fierce barbarian freight, and landed them just under
that red sand-cliff, where the lazy cows now stood, and the innocent
blackberry-bushes grew.
It was a curious place Kingcombe, or so Agatha thought.
“How strange it is,” Mr. Harper observed. “All these old spots seem to
me like places beheld in a dream. Uncle Brian often used to talk about
them. I think to this day he remembers everything and everybody about
Kingcombe.”
“Does he?”
“And that some day or other he will come back again I do most firmly
believe. Do not you, Anne?”
“Yes.” As she spoke, her hand involuntarily was pressed upon her side.
Agatha wondered she responded so coldly and with so melancholy a look,
to such a joyous prospect as Uncle Brian's return would surely be to all
the family.
But here they were in Kingcombe streets--very quiet, sleepy streets,
which seemed to have taken an undisturbed doze for a few centuries, to
atone for the terrible excitements there created successively by
Danish, Roman, Saxon, and baronial ruffians. The poor little town seemed
determined to spend its old age in peace and solitude, for you might
have planted a cannonade at the market-place, and swept down East
Street, West Street, North Street, and South Street, without laying
more than a dozen official murders on your soul. There was indeed great
reason for Mrs. Harper's innocent inquiry--“Where are all the people
gone to?”
“Except on market-days, we rarely see more street passengers than now in
Kingcombe,” Aline Valery answered, smiling. “You will get accustomed to
that and many other things when you are a country lady. Now, shall we
drive to the Dugdales, or look first at the two houses I told you of?”
Mr. Harper preferred the latter course, under fear, his wife merrily
declared, of being circumvented by Mrs. Dugdale. The brother and
sister, she had already discovered, seemed on as pleasant terms as fire
and water, since, as Harrie punningly averred, one invariably “put out”
the other. They did not squabble--Nathanael Harper never squabbled--but
they always met with a gentle hissing, like water sprinkled on coals.
Agatha, who was quite new to these harmless fraternalities, always
occurring in large families, was mightily amused thereat.
The first house the little party looked over was, as Emma Thornycroft
would have phrased it, “a love of a place!” Dining-room, drawing-rooms,
conservatory, gardens--quite a gentleman's mansion. Agatha set her heart
upon it at once, and it blotted out even her lingering regret over the
lost home in the Regent's Park. She ran over the rooms with the glee
of a child, and only came back to her husband to urge him to take it,
giving her this thing and that thing necessary to its beautification.
He patted her cheek with a pleased yet sad look.
“Dear, I will give you all I can; be quite sure of that. But”--
“Nay, no buts; I must have this house. Besides, Miss Valery says it is
the only house to let in Kingcombe.”
“Except the one I showed you as we passed.”
“Oh, that mean little cottage--impossible. We could never think of
living there.”
“Nevertheless, let us look at it. You know we are but just beginning the
world, and 'small beginnings make great endings' as Uncle Brian would
sagely observe. Come along, my little wife.”
She tried to slip from his hand and appeal to Miss Valery, but Anne
had moved forward, and left them alone. There was no resource; and even
while Agatha's spirit was rather restive under the coercion, she could
not but acknowledge the pleasantness with which it was enforced.
“Well, I'll go with you, but I hereby declare rebellion. I will not have
that miserable nutshell of a house,” said she, laughing.
Yet it was a pretty nutshell--quite after the “love in a cottage”
fashion--though adorned and perfected by the late Mr. Wilson, an old
bachelor.
“Did he die here?” asked Agatha.
“No; in Cornwall,” Anne answered. “He had gone over to look at some
property I have lately bought there. The people on it, miners thrown
out of work, gave him more anxiety than he could bear, for he was not
strong. He said their misery broke his heart.”
Miss Valery spoke softly, but the words caught Nathanael's ear. He
looked greatly shocked--and said, in a low tone, “Anne, don't talk of
this. If I live, the wrong shall be atoned for.”
Agatha wondered for the moment what wrong there was which made her
husband look so pained and humbled. But she forbore to ask questions,
and again turned her attention to the house.
“It must have been a charming nest for an old bachelor, and I would have
liked it very much myself had I been an old maid. But it would never do
for _us_, you know.”
Nathanael smiled, so loth to contradict her, or thwart her pretty ways.
“Don't you see, Miss Valery;” Agatha continued, gathering apprehensions
from his silence, smiling though it was--“Don't you see how different
the cases are? This little house might do very well for Mr. Wilson,
but then if my husband takes his place as your steward, it is only for
amusement. We are rich people, you know.”
“My poor child!” began Anne Valery, looking regretfully, nay,
reproachfully at Mr. Harper. But he whispered as he passed:
“Not yet, Anne--for my father's sake--the whole family's--nay, her own.
Not just yet!”
Such was his earnestness, such his air of command, that, for the
second time, Anne, looking in his face and reading the old likeness
there--obeyed him.
Agatha, wondering, uncomfortable, recommenced what she jestingly called
“her little rebellion.” “I see, Mr. Harper, your heart is inclining to
this place, though why or wherefore I cannot tell. But do incline it
back again! We must have the other house--that delicious Honeywood.”
“My dear little wife! Nobody could live at Honeywood under a thousand a
year.”
“Well, and have we not that? I am sure I thought I had more money than
ever I could do with. How much have I?”
He hesitated--she fancied it was at the thoughtless “I,” and generously
changed the expression.
“How much have _we?_”
“Enough--I will make it enough--to keep you from wanting anything, and
give you all the luxuries to which you were born. But not enough to
warrant us in living at Honeywood. I cannot do it--not even for your
sake, Agatha.”
“I do not see the matter as you do.”
“You cannot, dear! I know that. But in this one thing--when, on various
accounts, I can judge better than she can--will not my wife trust me?”
And Anne Valery's glance seemed to echo, “Trust him.”
Agatha, tried to the utmost of her small stock of patience, grew more
bitter than she could have believed it possible to be with her husband
and Anne Valery.
“You expect too much,” she said, sharply. “I cannot trust, even though I
may be compelled to obey.”
Mr. Harper turned round anxiously. “Agatha, what must--what can I
do? No,” he muttered to himself, “I can do nothing.” He walked to the
window, and stood looking out mutely on the little garden--tiny, but so
pretty, with its green verandah, its semicircle of arbutus trees
serving as a frame to the hilly landscape beyond, its one wavy acacia,
woodbine-clasped, at the foot of which a robin-redbreast was hopping and
singing over the few fallen leaves.
While they all thus stood, there came a light foot and a flutter of
draperies to the door.
“My patience! what are you all doing here? So, Agatha--Anne! How d'ye
do, my worthy brother? Why didn't you all come to our house?”
“We were coming directly,” Agatha said. “But how did you find out we
were at Kingcombe?”
“You little London-lady! As if anybody, especially the much-beloved Anne
Valery (saving her presence) and the much-wondered-at Mr. and Mrs. Locke
Harper, could drive through Kingcombe without the fact being speedily
circulated throughout the whole town? Why, my dear, if you must know,
the grocer told Mrs. Edwards' nursemaid, and Mrs. Edwards' nursemaid
told it to Mrs. Jones at the Library, and Mrs. Jones told Miss
Trenchard, who was coming to call on me; so I asked Duke to give the
children their dinner, and off I started, tracking you as cleverly as
one of Nathanael's Red Indians. And here I am.”
She stopped, breathless, her flounces, veil, and shawl flying abroad in
all directions. But she looked so hearty, natural, and good-humoured,
that her entrance was quite a relief to Agatha--more especially as, for
a great wonder, she asked no questions.
“So, I hear you have been showing Honeywood to Mrs. Harper. Pretty
place, isn't it! A pity it's not on your property, Anne, or you would
not let it go to ruin unlet. And here is poor Mr. Wilson's old house,
with all the furniture just as it was. How melancholy!”
She said “How melancholy!” just in the tone that she would have
said “How entertaining!” From circumstances, or from natural
peculiarity--that light easy temper which dances like a feather over the
troubled waters of life--she had evidently never learnt the meaning of
the word sorrow.
“But now,” Harriet continued, “what I come for, is to carry you all off
to lunch--the children's dinner. My dear, you must see my boys, your
nephews.”
Agatha stood aghast at the idea of having nephews!
“And such boys!” Miss Valery added, interposing. “'The Missus' has
good right to be proud of them. If there is one thing in which Harrie
succeeds better than another, it is in the management of her children.”
“Bah! they manage themselves; I just leave them to nature,” cried Mrs.
Dugdale; but her eye--the mother's eye--twinkled with pleasure all the
time, which greatly improved its expression, Agatha thought. She walked
off gaily with her sister-in-law, Nathanael following. Anne stayed
behind, conversing with the old woman who showed the house. She and Mr.
Harper had pointedly avoided any private speech with one another.
“I declare there is Duke!” cried Mrs. Dugdale suddenly. “Just look at
him, meandering up and down the town.” (Agatha laughed at the word;
“meandering” seemed so perfectly expressive of Duke Dugdale.) “But
my husband always turns up everywhere, except where he's wanted. Does
yours? I beg your pardon--since you are watching him as if you thought
he were running away. Nonsense, Agatha--(I always call everybody by
their Christian names)--Nonsense! He's only shaking hands with his
brother-in-law, both looking as pleased as ever they can look.”
The next moment Harrie and Agatha came up with the two gentlemen at
the door of Mr. Dugdale's house. They were talking politically and
earnestly, as men will do--Nathanael having apparently forgotten the
bitter cloud of a few minutes since, which yet lay heavy on his wife's
heart. At least it seemed so, and his indifference made her angry.
Neither spoke to their wives--being busy laying their heads together
over a newspaper--until Harrie very unceremoniously began to pull at her
husband's coat, which he bore for a time in perfect obliviousness. At
last he turned and patted her with his great hand, just as some sage,
mild Newfoundland dog would coax into peace the attacks of a wild young
kitten.
“Nay, now, Missus--don't'ee, love; I'm busy.--And you see, Nathanael,
as your brother is sure not to canvass or try for the town, and as Mr.
Trenchard is such a fine fellow, your father's friend too, don't you
think we could coax him round? By conviction, of course: Trenchard
wouldn't take any man's votes except upon conviction.”
“Wouldn't he?” said Nathanael, smiling at the simple-minded politician,
who believed that everybody's politics were as honest as his own. At
which unpropitious moment a number of half-drunken men, with “Vote
for Trenchard!” stuck round their broken hats, came round the corner
shouting:
“Hurrah for Free-trade! Duke Dugdale for ever! Bravo!--and give us a
shilling! Amen!”
“You see now what comes of your politics,” cried his wife, trying to
pull him into the hall. But the good man still stood, bareheaded, a
perplexed expression troubling his face.
“It's very odd, now: I made Trenchard promise not to give them a penny
for drink. Poor fellows! if they only knew better! But I'll tell'ee what
it is, Nathanael,” and he used the slight Dorset accent, which always
broadened when he was very earnest, “those lads drink because they are
starving--drink drowns care. If they had Free-trade they wouldn't be
starving: if they were not starving they wouldn't drink. Therefore,
hurrah for Free-trade, and, my poor fellows, here's your shilling!
Only don't'ee let it go for more drink'; and, hark'ee, remember it's no
bribery money o' Mr. Trenchard's, its _mine_.
“Thank'ee, zir, thank'ee; hurrah for Duke Dugdale and Free-trade!”
shouted the men as they staggered off.
Mr. Dugdale stood looking after them with that mild benevolent smile
which made his ugly face quite beautiful--at least Agatha thought
so;--which was very generous in her, seeing he had not taken the least
notice of her all this while; when he did, it was in the most passing
way.
“Eh--what, Missus? did you say Mrs. Harper was here?” He shook hands
with her, looking in another direction;--then again turned to Nathanael.
“Utterly useless!” cried Harrie, laughing. “He's more misty than usual
to-day. Let us leave the men alone, stupid bears as they are! and come
up-stairs to the children.”
All this time no one asked or looked for Miss Valery, who had lingered
behind, bidding them go forward. It seemed the habit of the family that
she should be left to go about in her own fashion, interfered with by
nobody, and attended by nobody, save when she came among them to do them
good. It was not wonderful; since, having passed that time of youth when
a pleasant woman is everybody's petted darling, she had lived to feel
herself alone in the world--wife, sister, and child to no one. It always
takes a certain amount of moral courage to meet that destiny.
Aided by the beneficial influence of dinner, which in the Dugdales'
house seemed to have the mysterious property of extending over an
indefinite time, Agatha had succeeded in making friends with her
“nephews” to say nothing of a lovely little niece, who would persist in
putting chubby arms round “Pa's” neck, and dividing his attention sorely
between Free-trade and rice-pudding. Mr. Harper had taken another child
on his knee, and was cutting oranges and doing “Uncle Nathanael” to
perfection. His wife stole beside him with affection. Why would he not
be always as now? Why was he so good, so gentle to others, yet so hard
to be understood by her? Was it her own fault? She almost believed so.
On this group, all happy, all united together by those lovely links in
the chain of happiness--little children--Anne Valery entered. She passed
round the table, having a word, or smile, or kiss for all. Then she
went to an arm-chair, looking tired, though joining all the while in the
conversation, particularly with Mr. Dugdale, who seemed to have a great
regard for her.
“Ah, Miss Valery, I wish you were a man, and could vote for us!” said
he, peering from underneath the baby-hands which made a pointed Norman
arch over “Pa's” eyes. “You'd be sure to vote on the right side. Didn't
we make a convert of you, Brian and I, years before people talked of
Free-trade; long before he went out, and I got married to mamma there?
Eh, Brian, my lad”--and he patted his youngest boy, throned on
Mr. Harper's knee--“if you only grow up such a wise man as your
grand-uncle!”
Agatha was amused to see how the idea and recollection of Uncle Brian
had permeated through every branch of the Harper family. Almost every
family has some such personage, mythical, sublime, exciting the wonder
and hero-worship of all the young people. Little Brian opened wide his
large grey eyes at the mention of his honoured namesake.
But while he gazed, his papa's pudding-laden spoon stopped half-way on
its journey to the baby-mouth that was waiting for it--Duke Dugdale was
in a reverie. He did not even hear the little clamourer on his knee.
“Really, now, that's very odd, very odd indeed.” And he felt anxiously
in his pocket. “No, I had another coat on that day--mamma, where's my
grey overcoat?”
“Duke--what on earth are you talking about? Now, Agatha, confess--isn't
my husband the very vaguest, mistiest man you ever knew? Oh, you dear
old visionary, what do you want with grey overcoats at dinner-time?”
He smiled patiently--perhaps he did not even hear--put down his little
girl, and walked out of the room, his wife anxiously jumping up and
following with some pathetic exclamation about “Duke's being so cross!”
Which seemed to Agatha the most amusing exaggeration possible.
In a minute or two this most opposite couple--opposite, but fitting like
a dovetailed joint--came in merrily together, Harrie holding a letter.
“Would you believe, he got it last week, has been carrying it about ever
since, and never thought of it! There, Nathanael, it's yours! Devour
it!”
“From Uncle Brian!” cried the young man. At which name there ran a great
sensation throughout the family, in all but Miss Valery, who still kept
her chair.
“News! news!” cried Harrie, Agatha and the boys gathering round. Mr.
Dugdale walked up and down the room--his hands behind him--smiling in
benevolent content at everybody and at nobody. Brian and his tiny sister
consoled themselves for the little attention they got by slily climbing
on the table and embedding their fingers in the rice-pudding.
Nathanael read the letter aloud, as seemed to be the family custom with
Uncle Brian's correspondence.
“My dear Boy,” I find the Western solitudes are no nearer heaven than
civilisation. My two red friends having escaped and got back, which they
did on purpose to tomahawk me--I gave the tribe the slip, and am here in
New York. There I accidentally received your letter.
“You are a foolish boy. When I was young, I think I would rather have
died than have married a rich woman, even if she loved me, which no
woman ever did. Nevertheless, I hope you will fare better than you
deserve.
“Shall you ever come back to America? Not on my account, I pray, though
I miss you, and am getting old and lonely. Perhaps it is as well that
you left me, and have married and settled. That seems to me now the
happier, worthier life for a man to lead. I should like to come and see
you, if I could come not quite the beggar I am now. Therefore, I often
think I shall go to California.”
There was a light movement among the listening group, as Miss Valery was
found quietly to have joined them, and to be leaning over Nathanael's
shoulder. He pointed his finger to the letter that she might read it
with him. She moved her head in thanks, and he continued:
“If in this or any other form of the mad gold-fever I can heap up a
little of that cursed--I mean blessed dust, you may possibly see me in
England. Till then--or till death--which seems equally likely, I remain,
“Your affectionate Uncle,
“Brian Locke Harper.
“P.S.--I send this through Marmaduke Dugdale's late agent in New York.
Tell my old friend Duke that I congratulate him on having given up
merchandising, so that my brother at Kingcombe Holm can no longer
reproach him with being the only one of the Harper connection who
_earns_ a livelihood.”
This letter, which was trying to read, being sharp and stinging on many
points to more than one person present, Nathanael went steadily through,
though several times his colour changed. No one made any comment
except Agatha, who observed “that Uncle Brian must be rather bitter and
sarcastic at heart.”
“No--not bitter,” Anne Valery said,--“only sorrowful. It is often so,
when after a hard life men feel themselves growing old. What shall you
do, Nathanael?”
“About what? His going to California? Nay, I cannot prevent that. What
use in my writing when he gives me such lectures about my marriage?”
“He would not if he knew Agatha. Besides, in this doctrine he is a
little wrong. It is of small moment on which side lies the wealth;--love
makes all things even.”
Mr. Harper turned away with one of those uneasy looks which Agatha had
already begun to notice and speculate over. She made up her mind that
at the first possible opportunity she would muster up courage, and claim
her right as a wife to know her husband's whole heart.
The epistle produced a considerable change on the family group. The boys
were clamorous to know all about California, and whether Uncle Brian
would not come home in a gold ship with silver sails; on which subject
Nathanael was too full of his own thoughts to give much satisfactory
information. Mr. Dugdale had walked out of the window into the garden
behind, where Miss Valery followed him, and they two were seen strolling
up and down in close conversation. As they passed the window, Agatha
noticed that. Anne Valery's cheeks were slightly flushed, and that Mr.
Dugdale's “mistiness” of manner had assumed an unusual clearness. He was
shaking his companion warmly by the hand.
“Anne, what a wise woman you are! Such a plan would have been years in
coming into _my_ head. And it's just the very thing. It will give him
occupation and independence without hurting his pride. Moreover”--and a
sudden thought dilated his whole countenance with pleasure--“I shouldn't
wonder if it brought him home.”
“Hush!”
“Oh yes, I'll remember, we must be very particular. By-the-by,
Anne”--here a bright idea seemed to strike the worthy man--“what a help
he would be to us against the Protectionists! Wouldn't _he_ see the
blessing of Free-trade?”
Anne smiled, with her finger on her lip to stop the conversation; and
they stepped in at the window;--Mrs. Harper taking care to glide away,
lest they should suspect what she had so unintentionally heard. It was
doubtless one of Miss Valery's numerous anonymous charities, which fell
as abundant and unnoticed as rain.
“Now”--and Anne startled her godchild Brian by turning up his little
rosy chin and kissing him--“now, who will come back with us to that
grand family-dinner which the Squire has set his heart upon, and Aunt
Mary is so busy-about to-day at Kingcombe Holm?”
All soon started; Agatha being kidnapped, not much against her will,
by her gay sister-in-law, and driven across the moors at such a
helter-skelter pace that Nathanael, who had insisted upon following them
on horseback, received his wife at the door with an evident thanksgiving
that she had reached home alive.
Miss Valery's little equipage came leisurely on behind. Nobody asked
what she and Duke Dugdale had conversed about; but Harrie shrewdly
suspected he had been talking poor dear Anne to death about the votes
of her Kingcombe tenantry, and the probable chances of Mr. Trenchard and
Free-trade.