“Agatha, will you come out and walk with me?”
“Do you not see it is raining?”
He had not indeed, though he had stood at the window in meditation ever
since breakfast-time. As for Agatha, she had been so tired with her
excursion the previous day that she had done nothing but sleep, and
had scarcely opened her lips to her husband or to any one. Now, on this
rainy day, she felt the reaction of her high spirits--was dull, dreamy;
wished her husband would come and talk to her, and “make a baby” of
her. She could not think why he stood at that odious window, pondering,
counting rain-drops apparently, and then made the unaccountable
proposition of a walk.
“Raining, is it?” He looked up at the murky sky. “What a change from
last night.”
“I did not know you were so subject to elemental influences?”
“We all are, more or less; but I was just then thinking about other
things than what I spoke of. My dear wife, I want to talk to you very
much. Where shall we go, so as not to be interrupted?”
“Anywhere you like,” said she, resigning herself to her fate and to a
long argument, which she supposed was about the new house. She did
not remember about it clearly, but she had a floating suspicion that
Nathanael was determined to settle the matter soon, and that she
should have a hard struggle between the pretty house she liked, and Mr.
Wilson's cottage, which her husband so unaccountably preferred. This was
a matter in which she could not yield, come what might. Therefore
the “anywhere you like” was in rather an ungracious manner. He seemed
determined not to observe this.
“Suppose we go into the conservatory;--you have never seen it. But put
on something to keep you warm.”
He wrapped Mary's crimson garden-shawl over her head--clumsily enough,
for Mr. Harper was not a “ladies' man;” his whole character and habits
of life being in curious opposition to the extreme delicacy which Nature
had externally stamped upon his appearance. Pausing, he held his wife at
arm's length, gazing at her admiringly.
“Will that do? What a gipsy you look, with your red shawl and brown
face!”
“Pawnee-face, you know! Do you remember how you once called me so, and
how your brother”--
“Come, let us go,” he said abruptly, and hurried her through the
drawing-rooms. Agatha was rather hurt that his aspect should change so
cloudily, and that he should thus quench her little reminiscences of
courtship-days, so dear to every happy wife, and gradually becoming
dearer even to herself. As they entered the conservatory, she shivered
with an uncomfortable sense of gloom.
“What a large, bare place! Even the vines look cheerless--and where have
they put all the flowers? What a shame to send them away, and turn it
into a billiard-room.”
“It was done years ago, to please--my brother”--(Agatha was amazed at
the hard tone of that tender fraternal word--so can the sense of words
alter in the saying)--“and my father will not have it removed.”
“He must have been very fond of your brother,” said Agatha, as, with
a woman's natural leaning to the injured side, she thought of Major
Harper--his gaiety and his good-nature. She wondered why Nathanael was
so rigid and cold in his forced and rare mentioning of his brother's
name. As she pondered, her eyes took a serious shadow in their depths.
“What are you thinking about, Agatha?”
The suddenness of the question--the consciousness that she might vex
Nathanael did she answer it--made her hesitate, blushing vividly--nay,
painfully.
“No, don't tell me. I want to hear nothing, nothing, Agatha. I have
before told you so. Do not be afraid.”
“How strange you are! What should I be afraid of?”
“Nothing. Forget I said anything. You are my wife now--mine--mine!” and
for a moment he pressed her hand tightly. “In time”--he relinquished his
hold with a sad smile--“in time, Agatha, I hope we shall become used to
one another; perhaps even grow into a contented, sedate married couple.”
“Do you think so?” Alas! far more than this had been her thought--the
thought which had dawned when she paused, shuddering over the tale of
King Edward the Martyr and the woman that loved him--the dim hope, daily
rising, of an Eden not altogether lost, even though she had married so
rashly and blindly--a hope that this might have been only the burying of
her foolish girlish dream of love, which must needs die in order to be
raised up again in a different form and in a new existence.
Somewhat heavy-hearted, Agatha sat down on a raised bench that looked
down on the battered and decaying billiard-table, listening to the rain
that pattered on the glass roof above the vine-leaves--wondering how old
were the ragged-looking, flowerless, fruitless orange-trees that were
ranged on either side, the only other specimens of vegetation left.
Evidently nobody at Kingcombe Holm cared much for flowers.
“I think we will quit this dull place. You do not seem to like it,
Agatha?”
“Oh, yes, I like it well enough. I like the rain falling, falling, and
the vine-branches crushing themselves against the panes. They'll never
ripen, never--poor things! They are dying for sun, and it will not--will
not shine!”
“Agatha, what do you mean?”
“I don't clearly know what I mean. Never mind. Talk to me
about--whatever it was that you brought me to unfold. Be quick--I have
not a large stock of patience, you know of old.”
“Do not laugh, for I am serious. I wanted to talk to you about our new
house.”
“Our new house! Where and what like is it to be, I wonder!”
“Do you not recollect?”
“No; the two we looked at would not do,” said Agatha, determinedly. She
guessed what was coming--that the discussion about Wilson's cottage,
which Nathanael seemed so to have set his heart upon, was about to be
renewed. But she would never consent to that--never! “The house I liked
you did not approve of,” she continued, observing her husband's silence.
“The other I could not think of for a moment.”
“But supposing there was no alternative, since we must settle at once?”
“This is the first time you have condescended to inform me of that
necessity.”
“If,” he went on, taking no notice of her sharp speech, but speaking
with the extreme gentleness of one who himself feels tenfold the pain he
is compelled to inflict--“if, as I told you yesterday, we ought to form
our plans immediately; and since, Kingcombe being such a small place,
there is at present no choice left us but those two houses”--
“Build one! We are rich enough.”
“Not quite.” His eyes dropped, almost like those of guilt. After a
pause, he cried out violently:
“Agatha, a secret at one's heart is ten times worse to the keeper of it
than it can be to any one else. Have pity for me, have patience with me,
just for a little while.”
“What are you talking about? What have you done?”
“Nothing,” said he. “Nothing to harm your peace, my little wife. Believe
me, I have committed no greater crime, than”--
“Well!”
“Than having taken Wilson's cottage.”
He tried by smiling to teach her to make light of it--perhaps because it
was a thing so light to him. But Agatha was enraged beyond endurance.
“You have absolutely taken it--that mean, wretched hovel that I told you
I hated;--taken it secretly, without my knowledge or consent!”
“You mistake there. I told you we were obliged to decide yesterday; you
were unwilling to consult with me, and at last--do you remember? you
left the decision in my hands. I merely believed your own words, and
knowing the necessity of acting upon them, did so. I cannot think I was
wrong.”
“Oh, no! Not at all!” cried Agatha, laughing wildly. “It was only like
you--under-handed in stealing my few pleasures--very frank and open when
you can rule. Never honest or candid with me, except to my punishment. A
kind, generous husband, truly!”
These and a torrent more of bitter words she poured out. She never knew
till now the passion, the galling sarcasm, there was in her nature. She
felt a longing to hate--a wish to wound. Every time she looked at her
husband, there seemed a demon rising up within her--that demon which
lurks strangely enough in the heart's closest and tenderest depths.
“Cannot you speak!” she cried, going up to him. “Anything is better than
that wicked silence. Speak!”
“Agatha!”
“No--I'll not hear you. See what you have done--how you have made me
disgrace myself” and she almost sobbed.--“Never in my life was I in a
passion before.”
“Is it my fault then?” said he, mournfully.
“Yes, yours. It is you who stir up all these bad feelings in me.. I was
a good girl, a happy girl, before you married me.”
“Was it so? Then you shall be held blameless. Poor child--poor child!”
His unutterable regret, his entire prostration, stung her to the heart,
and silenced her for the moment; but speedily she burst out again:
“You call me a child--so perhaps I am, in years; but you should have
thought of that before. You married me, and made me a woman. You took
away my gay childish heart, and yet in all humiliating things you still
treat me like a child.”
“Do I?” He answered mechanically, out of thoughts that lay deep down,
far below the surface of his wife's bitter words. These last awoke
in him not one ray of anger--not even when at last, in a fit of
uncontrollable petulance, she tore his hand from before his eyes,
bidding him look at her--if he dared.
“Yes, I dare.” And the look she courted, arose steady, sorrowful, like
that of a man who turns his eyes upward, hopeless yet faithful, out of a
wrecked ship. “Whatever has been, or may come, God knows that, from the
first, I did love you, Agatha.”
Wherefore had he used the word “did!” Why could she not smother down
the unwonted pang, the new craving? Or rather, why could she not throw
herself in his arms and cry out, “Do you love me--do you love me now?”
Pride--pride only--the restless wild nature upon which his reserve fell
like water upon fire, without the blending spirit of conscious love
which often makes two opposite temperaments result in closest union.
Nevertheless, she was somewhat soothed, and began to compress the mass
of imaginary wrongs into the one little wrong which had originated it
all.
“What made you take a liking to that miserable house? I hate small
rooms--I cannot breathe in them--I have never been used to a little
house. Why must I now? I am not going to be extravagant--nobody could be
if they tried, in a poor place like Kingcombe. Since you _will_
insist on our living there, and _will_ carry out your cruel pride of
independence”--
“Cruel--oh, Agatha!” He absolutely groaned.
“Wishing no extravagance, I do wish for comfort--perhaps some little
elegance--as I have had all my life.”
“You shall have it still, Agatha,” her husband muttered. “I will coin my
heart's blood into gold but you shall have it.”
“Now you are talking barbarously! Or else--how very very wrong am I!
What can be the reason that we torture each other so?”
“Fate!” he cried, pacing wildly up and down. “Fate! that has netted
us both to our own misery--nay, worse--to make us the misery of one
another. Yet how could I know? You seemed a young simple girl, free to
love--I felt sure I could make you love me. Poor dupe that I was! Oh,
why did I ever see you, Agatha Bowen?”
He snatched his wife on his knee, and kissed her repeatedly--madly--just
as he had done on the morning of their wedding-day; never since! Then he
let her go--almost with coldness.
“There--I will not vex you. I must not be foolish any more.”
Foolish! He thought it foolish to show that he loved her! Without
replying, Agatha sat down on the bench where her husband placed her. He
might say what he liked: she was very patient now.
He began to explain his reasons for taking the house; that he had
naturally more acquaintance with worldly matters than she had; that
whatever their income, it was advisable for young people to begin
housekeeping prudently, since it was easy to increase small beginnings,
while of all outward domestic horrors there was nothing greater than the
horror of running into debt. When he talked thus, at once with wisdom
and gentleness, Agatha began to forgive him.
“After all,” said she, brightening, “your prudence--which I might
call by a harder word, but I'll be good now--your prudence is only
restraining me in my little pleasures, and I don't much mind. But if you
ever tried to restrain me in a matter of kindness, as you did yesterday,
only I guessed the motive”--
“Did you?”
“There--don't look so startled and displeased. I saw you did not like
the _éclat_ of political charities. But another time, if I want to do
good--like Anne Valery, only in a very, very much smaller way--Hark!
what is that noise?”
It was a decent-looking working-man, standing out in the pouring rain,
watching them through the panes, and rattling angrily at the locked
conservatory-door.
“What a fierce eye! It looks quite wolfish. What can he want with us?”
“I will go and see. Some labourer wanting work, probably; but the fellow
has no business to come beckoning and interrupting. Stay here, Agatha.”
“No--I will come with you.” And she tripped after her husband, the
momentary content of her heart creating a longing to do good--a sort of
tithe of happiness thankfully paid to Heaven.
Nathanael unfastened the glass-door, not without annoyance; for, unlike
his wife, _his_ joy-tithe was not yet due.
“What do you want, my good fellow?”
“Some o' th' Harpers.”
“Indeed! Are you after work? You don't look like one of the
clay-cutters. Where do you come from?”
“I be Darset, I be; but I comed fra Carnwall.”
“From where?” asked Agatha, puzzled by the provincialism, and attracted
at once by the man's intelligent face, and by a keen, misery-stricken,
hungry look, which she had truly called “wolfish.”
“I be comed fra the miners in Carnwall,” reiterated the man, raising
his voice threateningly. “They sent I back to Darset to see some o' th'
Harpers.”
“You must go in, Agatha; it is cold. I cannot have you standing here.
Go--quick.” And Agatha was astonished to see how pallid and eager her
husband looked, and how anxious he seemed to get her out of the way.
“No, thank you. I am not cold at all. I want to hear this man. Perhaps
he is one of the poor miners Miss Valery spoke of at Wheal--what was
it?”
“I be comed fra Wheal Caroline, Missus, and I do want one o' th'
Harpers. There be the old 'un at the window! Thick's the man for we.”
And he was hurrying off to the bow-window of the Squire's room, which
was alongside of the conservatory. But Nathanael called him back
imperatively.
“Stay, friend. My father has nothing to do with the mines--it is I. I'll
speak to you presently.--Some business of Anne's,” he explained hastily
to his wife. “Leave us, dear.”
“Why do you make me go in? I want to hear about the poor miners; I want
to help them, as well as Anne Valery.”
“Do'ee help we, Missus!” implored the man, softened by a woman's kind
looks. “Do'ee give we some'at to keep 'un fra starving!”
“Starving!” cried Agatha in horror. And even her husband's anxiety
was for the moment quelled in the deep pity which overspread his
countenance.
“It be nigh that, I tell'ee. Us be no cheats--there be other folk as has
cheated we. Fine grand folk as knew nowt o' the mines, but shut 'un up,
and paid no money.”
“How wicked!”
“But I be come to find 'un out,” cried the man fiercely, as his eye lit
on Nathanael. “For I do know thick fine folk. And I tell'ee”--
“Silence! you forget you are speaking before a lady. Wait for me, and I
will talk with you.”
“Will'ee, Mister? Don't'ee cheat, now!” said the miner, with a rude
attempt at a sneer.
The young man's cheek flushed, but he said very quietly--
“I promise you, I will speak with you here in half-an-hour. I am
Nathanael Harper--Mr. Harper's youngest son.”
After a minute's keen observation, the miner pulled off his cap
respectfully. “Thank'ee, sir! You bean't _he_, I see. But you be th' old
Squire's son, and--I be Darset, I be!”
Another bow--the involuntary respect to the ancient county family from
honest labour born upon its ancestral sod, and the man leaned exhausted
against the ragged stem of one of the old vines.
“Missus,” he said, looking up hungrily--at the lady this time--
“Missus, do'ee gie 'un a bit o' bread!”
Agatha, full of compassion, was eager to send the servants or take him
into the kitchen, or even fetch him his dinner with her own hands. Mr.
Harper interfered.
“I will bring him some food myself. Stay here, my man; don't stir hence.
Remember, you have nothing to do with my father.”
There was a warning severity in the tone which annoyed Agatha. Why did
her husband speak harshly to the poor miner?
Still she obeyed Mr. Harper's evident wish that she should go away; and
spent the time in Elizabeth's room, telling her of this little incident.
Miss Harper listened with all the quick intelligence of her bright eyes.
The only remark she made was:
“What could have led this miner to come back to Dorsetshire after our
family?”
Agatha had never thought of this, indeed she did not want to think. Her
heart was brimming with charity. She longed to empty it out in a torrent
of benefactions, to which even Anne Valery's constant stream of good
deeds appeared measured and slow. Elizabeth watched her with a strange
piercing expression--Elizabeth, who from her silent nest seemed to
behold all things clearer, like a spirit sitting halfway in upper air,
to whose passionless wide vision distant mazes take form and proportion.
Often, there was something almost supernatural in Elizabeth and her
attentive eyes.
“My dear,” she said at last, when Agatha paused for a response to her
own enthusiasm, “Man proposes--God disposes! Go and talk over these
things with your husband first.” Agatha went.
She met Nathanael on the staircase, going up to their own room.
“Ah; is it you? I am so glad. Come and tell me what has been done about
the poor miner.”
“He is gone. I have sent him back to Cornwall.”
“What, so soon? Not to starve at that Wheal--Wheal something or other--I
always forget the name?”
“Do forget it. Don't let the matter trouble my little wife. Let her run
down-stairs and think of something else.”
He patted her head with assumed carelessness, and was passing her by;
but she stopped him.
“Ah! there it is--I am always to be a child! I am to run down-stairs
and think of something else, while you go and shut yourself up to
ponder over this affair. But I will not be shut out; I will go with
you;--come!”
In playful force she drew him to their room, and closed the door.
“Now, sit down, and tell me the whole story. Why, how grave and pale
it has made you look! But never mind; we'll find out a plan to help the
poor people.”
He gave some inarticulate assent, which checked her by its coldness,
sank on the chair she placed, and folded his fingers tightly in one
another, so that Agatha could not even strengthen herself in the bold
projects she was about to communicate, by stealing her own into her
husband's hand. However, she placed herself on the floor at his feet, in
the attitude of a Circassian beauty; or--she accidentally thought--not
unlike a Circassian slave.
“Begin, please! I must hear about these mines.”
“I doubt if you could understand,--at least with the few explanations I
am able to give you at present.”
“Nevertheless, I'll try. Why are the poor men starving in this way?”
“You heard but now. Because the mines were first opened on a
speculation, worked carelessly--dishonestly I fear--till the
speculator's money failed, and the vein stopped. Then the miners being
thrown out of employ were reduced to great distress, as this man tells
me.”
“But why should he have come here after your father?”
“And,” continued Nathanael, in a quick and rather inexplicable
correlative, “the mines were lately sold as waste land. Anne Valery
bought them.”
“Why did she do that?”
“Out of charity; that she might begin some employment--flax-growing, I
think--to find food for the poor people. There the tale's ended, my Lady
Inquisitive. Will you go down to my sisters?”
“Not yet. I want to talk to you a little--a very little longer. May I?”
And she drooped her head, blushing as the young will blush over the same
charitable feeling which the old and hardened ostentatiously parade.
Mr. Harper gazed hopelessly around, as if longing any means of escape
and solitude. His wife saw him and was pained.
“What--are you tired of me?”
“No, no, dear, Only I am so busy--and have so many things to think about
just now.”
“Tell me some of them.”
“What--tell you all my business mysteries,” he returned, playfully.
“Didn't you say to me once, before we were married, that you hated
secrets, and never could keep one in your life?”
“It is true--quite true. I do hate them,” cried Agatha.
“And for all your smiling, I know you are keeping back something from me
now.”
“Foolish little wife!”
“Foolish--but still a wife. Look at me and tell the truth. Is there
anything in your heart which I do not know?”
“Yes, Agatha, several things.”
The sudden change from jest to deep earnest startled the wife so much
that she was struck dumb.
“Circumstances may happen,” he continued, “which a husband cannot always
tell to his wife, especially a man of my queer temper and lonely ways.
I always knew that the woman I married would have much to bear from me.
Did I not tell her so, poor little Agatha?” And he tried to take her
hand.
“You are talking in this way to soothe me, but I know well what you
mean. No husband ever really thinks himself in fault, but his wife. Emma
always said so.”
Mr. Harper dropped the unwilling hand; but the next moment, by a strong
effort, reclaimed it firmly.
“Agatha, are we beginning again to be angry with one another? Is there
never to be peace between us?”
“Peace” only? Nothing closer, dearer? Yet what was it that, as Agatha
looked at her husband, made her think even his “peace” better than any
other's love?
“Yes,” she murmured, after watching him long in silence--“yes, there
shall be peace. Whatever I am, I know how good you are. And,” she added,
gaily, “now let me unfold a plan of mine for proving how good we both
are.”
“What is it?”
“I want some money--a good deal.”
Mr. Harper turned away. “Wherefore?”
“Cannot you guess? I thought you would at once--nay, that you would be
the first to propose it. I am glad I am first. Now, do guess.”
“I had rather not, if it is a serious matter. If otherwise, I am hardly
quite merry enough for jests to-day. Tell me.”
“It is a very simple thing, though it has cost me half-an-hour's
puzzling. I never thought so much about business in all my life.
Well,”--she hesitated.
“Go on, Agatha.”
“I want--it must come out--I want you to take half or all of my--_our_
money which is in the Funds (as I believe Major Harper said, though I
have not the least idea what Funds are)--and with it to buy a new mine,
and set the poor miners all working again; they'll like it a great deal
better than flax-growing. And perhaps we could afterwards build schools
and cottages, and do oceans of good. Oh! how glad I am I was born an
heiress!”
She rose, her eyes brightening; her little figure dilated; she had never
looked so lovely--so loveable. And yet the husband sat as it were stone
blind and dumb.
“You cannot have any objection to this, I know,” Agatha went on. “It is
not like giving money openly away--making a show of charity. Nobody need
know but that we do it on our own account--just to increase our riches;”
and she laughed merrily at the idea. “Think now--how much money would it
take?”
“I cannot tell.”
“A great deal, probably, since you look so serious over it,” said the
wife, a little vexed. “Perhaps my plan is foolish in some things; but I
think it is right, and I am very firm--firmer than you imagine--when
I feel I am in the right. Surely, living so cheaply in that tiny
house--and we will live cheaper still if you choose--we shall have
plenty to spare. We must do this. Say that we shall.”
Her husband was silent.
Gradually the blush of enthusiasm deepened into that of annoyance--real
anger. “Mr. Harper, I wait until you answer me.”
As she turned away, Nathanael looked after her. Such a flood of
tenderness, reverence, sorrow, passion, rarely swept over a human face.
Then he rose, paced up the room in his usual fashion, and down again;
pausing once at the window (a strange thing for him to notice just then)
to let out a brown bee that, having come in for shelter from the rain,
wanted to go out again with the sunshine. At last he came to Agatha's
side.
“My dear wife, it grieves me to pain you by a refusal--grieves me more
than you can tell; but the plan you propose is utterly impracticable.”
“Indeed!” Her colour flashed, darkened of a stormy red, and paled. She
was exercising very great self-restraint.
“I will ask less,” she resumed, bitterly. “I had forgotten the extreme
prudence of your character. Give me just what _you_ think is sufficient
for charity.” And her lip tried not to curl--her heart tried not to
despise her husband.
Nathanael gave no answer.
“Mr. Harper, three--four times lately you have denied me what I asked.
Thrice it was merely my own pleasure--which I relinquished. This time it
is a matter of principle, and I will not yield. Will you--since I have
made you master of my fortune--will you allow me enough out of it for
my own slight gratification? That at least is but justice.”
“Justice!” echoed Nathanael, his features sinking gradually into the
rigidity they sometimes wore--a warning of how much the gentleness of
his nature could bear.
“Hear me for one minute, Agatha. I know this is hard, very hard for you.
I have prevented your living in London; I have taken a smaller house
than you like; I have restricted you in acts of charity. But for all
these things I have reasons.”
“Will you tell me those reasons?” It was a tone, not of entreaty, but
of threatening--such as a man rarely hears from a woman without all the
pride within him recoiling into obstinacy.
Mr. Harper grew yet paler, though still his answer was soft--“Agatha, do
not ask me. I cannot tell you.”
“You dare not! You are ashamed!”
He walked away from her. When he returned, it was less the lover that
spoke than the man. “I am not ashamed of anything I do, and I have clear
motives for all. I only desire my wife to have patience for awhile, and
trust her husband.”
“I trust my husband!” she cried, in violent passion--“When he acts
outrageously, unjustly, insultingly--binds me hand and foot like a
child, and then smiles and tells me 'to be patient!' When he has secrets
from me--when, for all I know, his whole conduct may have been one long
deceit towards me.”
“Take care, Agatha.” The words were said between his teeth, and then the
lips closed in that strong straight line which made his face look all
iron.
“I say it may have been--I have heard of such things”--and she laughed
fearfully at the horrible thought a tempting devil was putting into her
mind--“I have heard of young girls--poor desolate creatures, cursed
with riches, and having no one to guard them--of some stranger coming
and marrying them hastily, but not for love--oh, not for love!” And her
laughter grew absolutely frightful in its mockery. “How do I know but
that you thus married me?”
Her wild eyes fixed themselves on her husband. She saw his face change
to very ghastliness, and guilt itself could not have trembled more than
the shudder which ran through his frame.
“I was right,” she gasped, her passion subdued into cold horror--“you
did marry me for my money!”
No answer--not a breath--only an incredulous stare. Once more Agatha's
passion rose, a sea of wrath, misery, despair, that dashed her blindly
on, she recked not where.
“I see it all now--all your wickedness. You never loved me, you only
loved my riches. You have them now, and so you can stand there and gaze
at me, as hard, as dumb as a stone. But I will make you hear--I will
shriek it into your silence again--again--You married me for my money!”
Still no word. The silence she spoke of was awful. Nathanael stood
upright, his hands knotted together, the lids dropping over his eyes.
He neither looked at her nor at anything. There was not the slightest
expression in his face--it might have been carved in granite. When at
last almost to see if he were living man, Agatha clutched his arm, it
also felt hard, immoveable, like a granite rock.
“Mr. Harper!” she cried, terror mingling with the outburst of her rage.
He merely lifted his eyes and looked at the door.--Not once--oh! never
once at her!
“Ay, I will go,” she answered--“most gladly, most thankfully! I will run
anywhere to escape your presence.”
She crossed the room and tried to unfasten the door, which she had
herself bolted a little while before, out of play; but her trembling
fingers were useless. She was obliged to call her husband's help, and he
came.
Perfectly silent, without a single glance towards her, he undid the
fastening, and set the door open for her to pass. A pang of fear, nay
remorse, came over Agatha.
“Speak,” she cried--“if only one word, speak!”
His lips moved, as though framing an inarticulate “No,” and then closed
again in that iron line. He still stood holding the door.
Hardly knowing what she did, Agatha sprang past the threshold and
tottered a few steps on. Then turning, she saw the door shut behind her,
slowly, noiselessly, but _it was shut_. She felt as if the door of hope
had been shut upon her heart.
She turned again, and fled away.