It was late afternoon. The rain had ceased, and glowed into one of those
soft October days, so exquisitely sunny and fair. The light glimmered
through the closed Venetian blinds of “Anne's room,” and danced on the
carpet and about Agatha's feet as she sat, quiet at last, and tried to
remember how she had come and how long she had been there. She had seen
no one; nobody ever came into “Anne's room.”
The dressing-bell rang--the only sound she had heard in the house for
hours.
She started up, waking to the frightful certainty that all was
real--that the ways of the household were going on just as usual--that
she must rouse up, no matter staggering under what burden of misery, and
go through her daily part, as if nothing had happened, and nothing was
about to happen.
Nothing? when this day, perhaps this same hour, must decide one of two
things--whether she were a wretched wife, bound for life to a man
who married her solely for mercenary motives, or whether she were
a wife--perhaps in this even more wretched--who had so wronged and
insulted her husband that nothing ever could win his forgiveness or
restore his love. His love, which, as she now dimly began to see, and
shuddered in the seeing, was becoming to her the most precious thing in
existence.
Never, until she sat there, quite alone, and feeling what it was to be
left alone, after being so watched and cherished---never until now had
she understood what the world would be to her if doomed to question her
husband's honour or to outlive her husband's love.
“It must have been all a dream,” she said, moving her cold fingers to
and fro over her forehead. “He never could have wronged me so, or I him.
He must surely explain, and I will ask his pardon for what I said in my
passion--Unless, indeed, my accusation were true.”
But she could not think of that possibility now--it maddened her.
“I shall meet him soon. I wonder how he will meet me. That will decide
all.--Hark!”
She listened--with a vague expectation of footsteps at the door. But no
one came.
“I suppose he is in his room still--our room.” And all the solemn union
of married life--the perpetual presence, the never parting night nor
day, which makes estrangement in that tie worse than in any other human
bond--rushed upon her with unutterable terror.
“If he has deceived and wronged me, how shall I endure the sight of him?
If I have outraged him, and he will not forgive me--oh, what will become
of me?”
She heard various bells ringing throughout the house, and knew that she
had no time to lose. She rose up feebly, with that aching numbed feeling
which strong agitation leaves in the whole frame, and tottered to the
mirror.
“I must look at myself, to see that there is nothing strange about me,
in case I meet any one in the passages.--Oh, what a face!”
It was sallow, blanched, with dark shadows round the eyes, and dark
lines drawn everywhere. That first storm of wild passion--that agony of
remorse following, had left indelible marks. She seemed ten years older
since she had last beheld herself, which was when she pulled out her
long curls in the morning. She pulled them out mechanically now, trying
to make of them a screen to hide the poor face that she had used to
fancy they adorned. Then she flew like a frightened creature along the
passages, and without meeting any one, reached her chamber-door. It was
a little way open; she need not knock then--knock and wait trembling for
the answer. Perhaps Mr. Harper was not there, and so for a few minutes
she was safe from the dreaded meeting. She went in.
The room was empty, but her husband's handkerchief and riding-gloves
were lying about; he had apparently just gone down-stairs. Nevertheless,
though a relief, it was rather a shock to her to find the room deserted.
She felt a weight in its silence, forewarning her of she knew not what;
she looked round inquiringly, as if the walls could tell her what had
passed within them since she left. At last she took up her husband's
gloves and laid them by with a care foreign to her general habit, and
with a strange tenderness. When Mary's maid answered her summons,
she could not forbear asking, carelessly, but with an inward
heart-beat--“Where was Mr. Harper?”
“Mr. Locke Harper, ma'am, is sitting reading to master in the library.”
He then could sit and read quietly to his father. With him, too, all
household ways went on unaltered--with her only was the tempest--the
despair. Her remorse ebbed down--her pride and anger rose. Light--a
fierce flashing light--came to her eyes, and crimson roses to her
cheeks. She dressed herself with care, and went down--though not until
the last minute--to the drawing-room.
Mary met her at the door. “I was just coming to fetch you. Nathanael
said you had been sitting in Anne's room.”
How could he know? Had he watched her?
She answered flippantly, “'Tis very true. I have been enjoying my
own company. Very good company too. Have I detained you, though? Is
everybody here?”
Everybody was here. _He_ was here. Though she never glanced that way,
she saw him, and the look he wore. To others it might seem his ordinary
look, a little paler, a little more reserved, but she knew what it
meant. She knew likewise, now that her passion had subsided, how his
whole life--his stainless life--gave the lie to the accusation she had
cast upon him. She had outraged him in the keenest point where a proud
honourable man can be outraged by his wife; her own hand had cleft a
gulf between them which might never close.
At the thought her heart seemed dropping down--down in her bosom, like
a bird whose wing is broken, it knows not how. Sick, giddy, she clung to
Mary's arm for a moment.
“Nathanael, look here. What is the matter with your wife?”
“Nothing,” Agatha cried. “I have only stupified myself with--with
thinking. I will think no more--no more.”
She tossed her head back with a fierce laugh. Her husband, who had
half-risen at Mary's call, resumed his seat, making no remark.
He had never been used to show her much fondness or attention before
his family, so it did not appear strange that in the few minutes
before dinner he should talk to his sisters, and leave his wife to
the courtesies of his father. For it was now an acknowledged fact at
Kingcombe Holm that the Squire was growing very fond of Agatha.
Dinner came, the long, dreadful dinner, with the brilliant light
glimmering in her face, and showing every expression there; with old
Mr. Harper leaning forward to address her every time she relapsed
into silence; with the consciousness upon her that there was no medium
course, that she must talk and laugh, fast and recklessly, or else fall
into tears; with the knowledge, worst of all, that there was one
sitting at the bottom of the table whom she dared not look at, but whom
nevertheless she perpetually saw.
Her husband had taken his usual place, and sustained it in his usual
manner. There was the same brotherly chat with Mary and Eulalie,
the same answers to his father, and when once, in the dinner-table
courtesies, he addressed his wife, the tone was precisely as it had ever
been.
Agatha could have shrieked back her answer, betraying him to all the
household! This smooth outside of daily life--and with what below? It
was horrible.
Yet she felt herself powerless to burst through it. His perfect silence,
leaving his honour, the honour of both, in her hands, was like a chain
of iron wrapped round her; however she writhed and dashed herself
against it, there it was.
The Squire seemed to remain at table longer than ever to-day. He would
not let his woman-kind depart. He had many toasts to give, and various
old reminiscences to unfold to his daughter-in-law. She heard all in
a misty dream, and kept on vaguely smiling. At last the purgatory was
ended, and they rose.
Nathanael held the door open for his wife and sisters to retire--things
went on so formally even in the every-day life at Kingcombe Holm. In
passing, Agatha felt as if she must burst through that icy barrier he
had drawn; she _must_ meet her husband's look, and compel him to meet
hers. She gave him a look, proud, threatening, yet full of hidden
misery. He would surely answer that.
No! No response--not even anger. Some sorrow perhaps, but a sorrow that
was stern, hopeless, undemonstrative, as was his own nature. If any
wreck had been, it had already sank down into those deep waters, of
which the surface appeared perpetually calm.
Agatha threw him back another look. Scorn was there and hatred--she felt
as though she did really hate him at that moment. Her heart gave a
leap, like a smitten deer, and then a “laughing devil” seemed to enter
therein, and dash her on--anywhere--to anything.
“Come, Mary--come Eulalie, we must be very merry tonight, and my husband
must join, for all his solemnity. Shake it off quick, Mr. Harper, or
we'll call you a deciever--a smooth-faced, smiling cheat.”
Laughing out loud--she caught his hand, wrung it violently, and struck
it aside.
“How comical you are!” said the languid Eulalie.
“But,” whispered sensible Mary, “are you quite sure Nathanael liked the
joke.”
“Who cares?” Yet Agatha looked back.
He had merely drawn his hand in again to the other, and his colour
faintly rose. Otherwise the poor, mad, passionate girl might as well
have dashed herself against a rock. She grew still again, with a kind of
fear. Her very limbs tottered as she went towards the drawing-room, and
all the time that she lay there on the sofa, Mary bustling about her and
chattering all kinds of domestic nothings, Agatha saw, as in a vision,
her husband's face, so beautiful in its very sternness, so pure and
righteous-looking, whilst she felt herself so desperately, daringly
wicked. All the “black, ingrained spots,” which had become visible
in her soul, and she knew herself to be worse than any one knew
her--appeared gathering in one cloud, until she sickened at her own
likeness. For beside it rose another image--and such an one! Yet there
was a time when she had thought it a great sacrifice and condescension
that Nathanael should be allowed to love her. Now--
No, she dared not hear the cry of her heart. She dared not do anything
but hate him, as he must surely hate her. Had he stood before her that
minute, she would have flung away this softness, made her flashing eyes
burn up their tears, and appeared all indifference. He might if he chose
be as cold as ice, as proud as Lucifer;--she would be the same. She
would never once let him suspect that which this day's misery had shown
her was kindling in her heart. A something, before which the pleasant
little vanity of being adored, the content of an easy unexacting liking
in return, fell like straws in a flame. A something which she tried to
call wrath and hate, but which was truly the avenging angel, Love.
It seemed an age before Mr. Harper came up-stairs. When he did, his
father was leaning on his arm. The old gentleman looked tired, as
if they had been talking much, yet seemed to regard with a lingering
tenderness his son, once so little of a favourite. Why did he? Why did
Nathanael soon or late win every one's attachment? And how could he show
that reverent attention to his father, that cheerful kindness to his
sisters, while _she_ sat there, jealous of every look and word? Each
time he addressed any of these three, Agatha felt as if some unseen
power were lashing her into fury.
It is a strange and terrible thing, but nevertheless true, that a good
man, a kind man, a generous man, may sometimes quite unconsciously drive
a woman nearly mad; make her feel as though a legion of fiends were
struggling for possession of her soul, goad her weakness into acts which
torture alone causes, and the after-blackness of which, presented to
her real self, creates a humiliation which only drives her madder still.
Men, that is, good men, who are stronger and better able to do and
to bear--ought to be very gentle, very wise, in the manner they deal
towards women. No short-coming or wrong, however great, from the weaker
to the stronger, can merit an equal return; and according to the law
that the more delicate the mental and physical organisation, the
keener is the power of suffering; so no man, be he ever so wise or
tender-hearted, can rightly estimate the depth of a woman's agony.
Agatha rose, and went away by herself into a smaller room that led
out of the other, not unlike her own pet sitting-room in her maiden
days--the room where she had once stood by the firelight, and Nathanael
had come in and given her the first trembling, thrilling love-kiss. She
stood in the same attitude now. Did she remember it? Was she, in that
shadowy corner, with glimpses of light and fragments of talk pouring
in from the other room, dreaming over that old time--old, though it
happened scarcely three months ago--dreaming it over, with oh! what
different emotions!
And when she heard a step--her ears were very quick now. Did she turn,
and think to see her lover of old--so little loved? Alas! without
lifting her eyes, she felt the presence was no longer that of her timid
young lover, but of her husband.
Mr. Harper came in, and for the first time since that fearful minute
when she quitted him, the husband and wife were alone. Not quite so, for
he had left the door wide open--purposely, she thought. There was a full
vision of Mary playing chess with her father, and of Eulalie lounging on
the sofa, gazing now and then with idle curiosity into the little room.
It was insulting! Why, if he came to speak healing words, did he let his
whole family peer into the mysteries which ought to be strictly sacred
between the two whom marriage had made one? If only he had shut the
door! If only she could do it, and then turn and cling round his neck,
or even weep at his knees--for that frantic desire did strike her for a
moment--anything, to win from him pardon and peace!
“Agatha, are you quite at leisure?”
To dream of answering such a tone with a flood of tears! or of clinging
round a neck that lifted itself up in such a marble pride! It was
impossible.
“I am quite at leisure, Mr. Harper.”
At such a crisis, and between two such characters, the fate of a
lifetime may depend upon the first word. The first word had been spoken,
and answered.
Agatha turned to the fire again, and her husband to the shadow. Either
it was fancy, or the effect of natural contact, but the one face seemed
to flame, the other to darken--suddenly, hopelessly--as when the last
glimmer of light fades out upon a wall.
“Can you speak with me for a few moments?”
“Certainly. Shall it be here?”
“I think so.”
Agatha sat down; smoothed her dress, and held her folded hands tight
upon her knees, lest he should see how they were trembling.
Mr. Harper resumed. His tone was gentle, though with a certain
strangeness in it, a want of that music which runs through all
deep-toned low voices, and which in his was very peculiar.
“It appears to me--though nothing shall be done against your
decision--that, considering all things, it would be better that our stay
in my father's house were made as short as possible.”
“Yes--yes.” Two long pausing words, said beneath her breath.
“Accordingly I rode to Kingcombe this afternoon, and find that we can
enter the cottage on Saturday. To-day is Thursday----”
“Is it?--Oh yes. I beg your pardon. Proceed.”
“If it would be agreeable and convenient to you, I think we had better
arrange matters so. I have already told my father it was probable we
should leave on Saturday. Are you willing?”
“Quite willing.”
“It is settled then. On Saturday evening we go home.”
Go home! To their first home! To that new bridal nest, which, be it the
poorest dwelling on earth, seems--or should seem--holy, happy, and fair!
What a coming home it was! Better, she thought, that he had cast her
adrift, or torn himself from her and placed the wide world between them.
Rather any open separation than the mockery of such a union.
“Home!” she cried. “I will not go--I cannot. Oh, not home!”
“To a house, then--call it by what name you please. To your own
house, which we will merely _say_ is mine. Your comfort”--he stopped a
little--“must always be the first consideration of your husband.”
“My husband!” she repeated, almost in a shriek--and the old fit of
fierce laughter was coming back.
At this moment Eulalie's curious eyes were seen turning towards the
little room. Nathanael moved so as to shield his wife from them. “Hush!”
he said, sorrowfully, even with a sort of pity--“hush, Agatha. We are
married. Between us two there must be, under all circumstances, honour
and silence.”
His manner was so solemn, free from bitterness or anger, that Agatha's
passion was quelled. She was awed as by the sight of some dead face,
wronged grievously in life, but which now only revenges itself by the
hopelessness of its mute perpetual smile. She remained staring blankly
into the fire, plaiting and unplaiting the sash of her dress with
heedless fingers. Eulalie might peer safely.
“There was another thing,” resumed Nathanael, “which, before telling
the rest of the household, I wished to say to you. I had business in
Weymouth to-morrow; and--if”--
“Well? I listen.”
“If--I were to ride there to-night”--
“Go.” A soft, quick word--a mere motion of the lips--and yet it was the
one word of doom.
After that, without saying more, Mr. Harper walked back slowly into the
drawing-room, and Agatha sat by the fireside alone.
She heard the rest talking--complaining--reasoning--heard one or two
persuasive calls for “Agatha”--but she never moved. Then came the
bell hastily pulled, and the old Squire's testy summons for “Mr. Locke
Harper's horse,” and “was it a fine night, and the moon risen?” Then the
drawing-room door opened and closed. No--he was not gone--not without
saying adieu. He would surely pay his wife that deference. Outside the
wall she heard his foot ascending the staircase, slowly, with heavy
pauses between each step. She crept close to the farther door--behind
the curtain, and listened.
“Agatha--where is she gone to?” said Mary, peeping carelessly into the
dark room.
“Oh, she has followed her husband up-stairs, of course. Think of all the
charges and farewells--the kissing and the crying. 'Tis a wonder she
did not insist on riding with him across the country, and coming back at
midnight, as I suppose Nathanael will do. La? what's to become of these
very devoted husbands and wives.”
Agatha crushed her hands against the wall She felt as if she could
almost have torn Eulalie's heart out--if she had a heart. While in her
own bosom, leaping up in all its strength, ready at once for heroism,
love, and fury--for any nobleness or any crime--was that fountain of
all her sex's actions, that mainspring of all her life--the fatal
woman-heart.
She waited until she heard Nathanael descend the stairs, and then, as
he passed into the drawing-room to his sisters, she, by the little
curtained door, passed out into the hall. There she remained until the
rest came; the sisters trooping after Nathanael, and the old Squire
following likewise, to see that his son had the best and steadiest horse
for a night-ride, which ride, he took care to observe, pointedly, was a
most uncourteous proceeding, and warranted by nothing, save the fact of
its being performed on the especial service of Anne Valery.
“Agatha--where is Agatha hiding herself?” said Mary. “She ought not to
keep her husband waiting a minute.''
“Oh, no?” And the little figure, all in white, glided out from some
queer corner of the hall, and stood like a ghost in the moonlight.
“Good night--good night.” She threw out her hand with those of the
others--threw it--not gave it.
Nathanael took the hand, but did not say good night--indeed he never
spoke at all.
“Well, are you not going to embrace one another, stage-fashion? Don't
let Mary and me interrupt you, pray.” And the two Miss Harpers drew back
a little from the young couple.
Mr. Harper bent coldly over his wife's brow, hid under the shadow of her
heavy hair.
“No, no; not that,” Agatha whispered, recoiling from his touch. “Never
that again.”
He opened the hall-door--saying adieu to neither father nor
sisters--leaped on his horse, and was gone.
“Agatha, Agatha; where are you running? He is far down the road by this
time. Come in, do! Are you so very reluctant to be left for a few hours
alone?”
“Oh, no! Oh, no!” And Agatha went back to the drawing-room with her
sisters-in-law.
Alone! The word she had repudiated rose up like a spirit, everywhere,
all over the house. Not a room but what seemed empty, strange. Fast and
busily the Miss Harpers talked--yet all around was, oh! such silence.
The silence that we feel in a house when some voice and step has gone
out of it, which no one misses except we, and which we miss as we should
miss the daylight or the sun.
When all grew quiet, and Agatha sat in her own room--expecting nothing,
for she knew he would not come--but still sitting, with her hair falling
damp about her, and her eyes fixed on the mirror for company, yet
half growing frightened as if it were a strange object on which she
gazed--then, indeed, there was silence--then, indeed, she was _alone_.