When, late at night, the party reached Kingcombe, it was resolved that
the Harpers should remain there until morning. Agatha, worn out with
bodily fatigue and the great tension of her mind during so many hours,
laid her head down on her pillow, closed her aching eyes, and never
opened them till near upon broad noon. Then she found breakfast was long
over in the early house of the Dugdales, and that Nathanael had left her
and gone out some hours before.
“He would not let me come and wake you--he said you slept so heavily
and looked so tired. Certainly, he is the very kindest husband! Who ever
would have believed that stiff, cold disagreeable Nathanael, who came
home from America some months ago, puzzling us all, would have turned
out so well. It is your ladyship's doing, I suppose.”
So ran on Mrs. Dugdale, nor noticed how beneath her words her
sister-in-law writhed, as though they had been sharp swords. Harrie was
not a penetrating woman; Agatha had already discerned that, and thought,
with a bitter smile, that it was well they were coming to live at
Kingcombe, and that Mrs. Dugdale would be a very safe and amusing
companion.
“Now, what is to be done to-day?” said she, as she ate the breakfast
which Harrie brought her, and looked round the strange bed-room, which
made her feel more bewildered than ever. So many phases, so many lives
did she seem to have passed through since she was married.
“The first thing to be done, my dear, is to take you back to Kingcombe
Holm, to do respectful to your papa-in-law. Very punctilious is the
Squire. If Nathanael had not ridden over there at some unearthly hour
this morning, he never would have forgiven your not returning at
night--the last night too, for I see your husband is determined to be
settled at the cottage this evening.”
“Ah, that is well.” Agatha breathed more freely. She was so glad to hide
herself under any roof that was her own. And perhaps a vague thought
crept up, that some time--not for days yet, but when she could bend her
pride to soften him--when they were living quite alone together--all
might be gradually explained, nay, healed, between her and her husband.
She was on the whole not sorry to go “home.”
“I see you two are quite agreed,” laughed Harrie. “Marvellous union,
Mrs. Locke Harper. You'll be really a pattern couple soon, and throw
Duke and me cruelly in the shade. Now, dress like lightning, and I'll
drive you and the children over to grandpapa's. Most likely well meet Pa
and Nathanael somewhere about the town.”
But, with the general vagueness of the Dugdale habits, that meeting did
not arrive, nor was Mr. Harper anywhere to be seen.
“I dare say he is at the cottage, where I was bid not to take you upon
any account. Charming little mysteries, I suppose, attendant on bringing
home the bride. Very nice. Heigh-ho! I remember how happy I was when my
poor dear Duke brought me home for the first time!”
“Where was that?” They were dashing over the moors, Agatha sitting
rather silent, and Harrie's tongue galloping as fast as Dunce, her
steed. Little Brian was perched on his mother's knee, holding the
reins--a baby Phaeton, though with small danger of setting the world on
fire--at least just yet.
“Where was it, my dear? Why, to the same old house we live in, empty
and gloomy then, though it's full enough now. And I had been
married--(hold your tongues, Fred and Gus! you can't have the whip,
simpletons!)--married only three weeks, and it was queer coming back to
my native place; and my father was rather cross that I had married Duke
at all, and--I was foolish enough to cry.”
Here Harrie laughed, and gave Dunce a lash that quite discomposed his
pony faculties, and made Brian scream with delight.
“And what did your husband say?”
“Say? Nothing. He never speaks when he's vexed or hurt; only, a little
while afterwards he came beside me, and said something about my being
such a young girl, so gay-hearted and pretty--(bah!--though I was pretty
then)--too young, he said, to marry such an elderly man, etc. etc. etc.”
“And what did _you_ say?”
“Likewise nothing. I just jumped on his knee, and took him round the
neck, and--But that isn't of the slightest consequence to anybody. Tuts!
On with you, Dunce!” And Harrie leaned forward, her eyelashes glittering
wet in spite of her fun.
“I know I don't deserve him,” she continued. “I never did. Nobody could.
There are a lot of bad men in the world, but when a man is really good,
there's hardly a woman alive that is good enough for him. And I'm not
half good enough for Duke--but--I love him! That's all. Bless thee,
Brian! thee is Pa's own boy all over!”
And Harrie kissed the little fellow passionately, with something more
even than a mother's love.--Agatha could have lifted up her arms and
shrieked with misery.
It was a strange long day at Kingcombe Holm; many things to be arranged,
many questions to be parried, many prying eyes to be avoided. But
the general conclusion seemed to be, that this sudden movement was a
mysterious whim of Nathanael--and Nathanael was supposed by one-half of
his family to be mightily prone to mysteries and whims.
At length, when the day was nigh spent, and Agatha had dressed for the
last of those formal dinners to which she had never been able quite to
reconcile herself, she took refuge in Elizabeth's room. Thither she
had of late absented herself; there was something so formidable in the
keenness of Elizabeth's silent eyes. Hesitating before the door, she
remembered when she had last quitted it. It required all her bravery to
cross the threshold once more.
“Come in. I hear your foot, Agatha.” There was no stepping back now.
The same atmosphere of peace and sanctity pervading the pretty room; the
same lights dancing through the painted window on the silk coverlet; the
same face, which had all the colourless reality of death, without any
of its ghastliness--a smiling repose, such as is seen only at the
beginning and end of life's tumult--in the cradle and in the coffin. Its
effect upon Agatha was instantaneous. Her trembling ceased; she stepped
lightly, as one does in entering a holy place.
“Elizabeth!” It seemed a beautiful name, a saint's name, and as such
came quite naturally, though she had rarely before been so familiar with
any one of her new sisters. She kneeled down and kissed Elizabeth.
“That is right. You are good to come. And where have you been, my little
sister?--I have not seen you for three days.”
“Is it so long?”
“Yes--though it may seem longer to me here. You remember you came and
told me a long story about a Cornish miner. How did the tale end? What,
no answer?”
None. She tried to hide herself--crush herself into the very floor where
she sat, out of reach of Elizabeth's eyes.
“Ah, well, dear! I shall not ask.”
“Perhaps my husband will tell you some day. Talk to me of something
else, Elizabeth. And oh! however I may look and speak, don't notice me.
Let me feel that I need not make pretences with you.”
“You need not. Nothing that happens here goes beyond these four walls.
Everybody tells me everything.”
Elizabeth might well say this. There was that about her which made
people fearless and free in their confidence; it did not seem like
talking to a mortal woman, mixed up continually in the affairs of life,
but to one removed to a different sphere, where there was no chance of
betrayal.
Her room was a safe confessional, and she was a sort of general
conscience in the house.
“Everybody tells you everything,” repeated Agatha. “Does my husband?”
“Not yet; at least not in words.”
“Then I will not. Only let me come here, and”--
She covered her face, and for a few moments wept fully and freely, as
one weep's before one's own heart and before God. Then she dried her
eyes, and the storm was over.
Elizabeth only said, “Poor child--poor child. Wait!” But the one word
struck like a sun-ray through darkness. No one ever “waited” but had
some hopeful ending to wait for.
“Now,” said Agatha, overcoming her weakness--“now let us talk. What have
you been doing all day?”
“Little else than read this, and think over it. You know Frederick's
hand, I see? He does not usually write such long letters, even to me.
All is not right with him, I fear.”
“Indeed!”--and Agatha met unsuspiciously the keen look of Elizabeth.
“Yet he is well and in the midst of gaieties; Mr. Trenchard said so
yesterday. They met in Paris.”
“Did they?” Elizabeth lay musing for a good while; then suddenly said,
observing her young sister, “Agatha, you are listening? There's some one
at the door?”
It was Nathanael. Any one might have known that by the quick flush
that swept over his wife's features. But when this passed she was again
composed--not at all like the young creature who had wept by Elizabeth's
couch. She merely acknowledged her husband's presence, and leaving her
place vacant for him, took up a book.
He said, “I did not know my wife was here. Were you and she talking?
Shall I leave you?”
Elizabeth smiled. “Then you must take your wife also, for I will not be
the sundering of married people. But nonsense! Sit down both of you. We
were speaking about Frederick. Has he written to you?”
“No.”
“In this letter”--Nathanael's eyes fell on it and froze there--“he
gives me no address. Agatha says he is living in Paris. Do you remember
where?”
“I do not.”,
“Perhaps your wife does.”
Agatha had a useful memory for such things. She repeated the address
given by Mr. Trenchard, exactly.
“Good child! When I write I shall tell Frederick how you remembered
him. But he has been equally mindful of you. He asks many questions, and
seems very anxious about you.”
“Does he? He is very kind,” said Agatha, somewhat moved. She felt all
kindness deeply now.
“He is kind,” Miss Harper continued, thoughtfully. “When he was a
boy, there never was a softer heart. Poor Frederick!” And the name was
uttered with a fondness that Agatha had never noticed in any other of
Major Harper's family towards him. It led her to look sympathisingly
towards Elizabeth.
“Are you uneasy about him? Oh! I do hope nothing is wrong with poor
Major Harper.” And she almost forgot her own feelings in thinking
how unbrotherly it was of Nathanael to sit there like a stone, saying
nothing. Elizabeth also seemed hurt; the elder brother was clearly her
favourite--clung to as sisters cling, through good report and evil. She
looked gratefully at Agatha.
“Thank you. You are a warm-hearted girl. But you ought to keep a warm
heart for Frederick. You do not know how tenderly he always speaks of
you.”
Agatha coloured, she hardly knew why, except because she saw her husband
start and look at her--one of those keen, quick looks that only last a
moment. Under it she blushed still deeper--to very scarlet.
Mr. Harper stood up. “I think, Elizabeth, we must go now. Agatha shall
come to you again in a day or two--and you and she can then talk over
both your sisterly loves for Frederick.”
He spoke lightly, but Agatha heard a jarring tone--she was growing so
familiar with his every tone now. Why did he thus speak, thus look,
whenever she uttered or listened to his brother's name? Could it be
possible that Emma had told him--No, she threw that thought from her in
scorn--the scorn with which she had once met the insinuation that
she had been “in love” with Major Harper. Emma could not have been so
foolish, so wicked, or, if she had, any manly honour, any honest pride,
would have made Nathanael speak of it before their marriage. Since, she
felt certain that Mr. Harper had not interchanged a single word alone
with Mrs. Thornycroft.
In disgust and shame that her vanity--oh! not vanity, but a feeling
that, holy as it was, her proud heart still denied--had led her to
form the suspicion, Agatha cast it from her. She who had no secrets, no
jealousies, felt it to be impossible that Nathanael should bury within
his breast that foul thing--a secret jealousy of his brother.
Especially now, when it seemed as if his love itself were dying or
dead--when on quitting Elizabeth's room, he walked with her, silent, or
making smooth brief speeches, as he would to any other lady--any lady he
had met for the first time, and was handing courteously down to dinner.
Her heart boiled within her! Was she to pour it out before him in
complaint--repentance? Was she to accuse him of jealousy, and be met
with a calm contemptuous smile?--to betray the growing passion of her
heart, in order to light up the few stray embers that might yet be
lingering feebly in his? Never! She walked on haughtily, carelessly,
dumb.
The evening slid on, hardly noticed by her. Night came; when, after
many ceremonious family adieux, which she responded to without ever
hearing--after one frantic rush along the dim passages to Elizabeth's
door, where she drew back and left the tearful good-bye unspoken, for
_he_ was standing there--after all this the Squire put her into the
family coach, with Mrs. Dugdale at her side and Nathanael opposite.
Bidding her farewell, the old man gave, with less stateliness than
tenderness, his fatherly blessing upon her and her new home. They
reached it. Again she laid her head upon a strange pillow in a strange
room, and slept, as she always did when very wretched, the heavy,
stupifying sleep which lasts from night till morning--deadening all
care, but making the waking like that of one waking in a tomb.
Agatha woke with the sunshine full in her eyes, and the early
church-bells ringing.
“Oh, where am I? What day is this? Where is my husband?”
The new maid, Nathanael's foster-sister, was standing by, smiling all
respectful civilities, informing her in broad Dorset that it was Sunday,
time for “missus” to get up, and that “master” was walking in the
garden.
They “mistress” and “master,” head and guide of their own
household!--they, two young creatures, who so little time ago had been a
youth and a girl, each floating adrift on life, without duties or ties.
It had seemed very strange, very solemn, under any circumstances, but
now--
“God help me, poor helpless child that I am! Oh, what shall I do?”
Such was the inward sob of Agatha's heart. She almost wished that she
could have turned her face again on the pillow, and slept there safely
for eternity.
But the matin church-bells ceased--it was nine o'clock. She must rise,
and appear below for the first time as mistress in her own house. Also,
she remembered faintly something which Mrs. Dugdale had said about the
custom at Kingcombe--an irrefragable law of country etiquette---of a
bride's going to church for the first time, ceremoniously, in
bridal dress. And no sooner had she descended--wrapped in the first
morning-frock she could lay her hands upon, than Harrie entered.
“So--I am your first visitor you see. Many welcomes to your new home!
And may it prove as happy, as merry--and some day, as full--as ours.
Bless you, my dear little sister!”
She pressed Agatha in her arms with more feeling than Harrie usually
showed. But, for Agatha's salvation, or she would have burst into sobs,
it was only momentary.
“Come, no sentiment! Call in Nathanael, and eat your breakfast quickly,
you atrociously lazy folks! Don't you know you have only half-an-hour
and you must go to church, or all Kingcombe would be talking.”
“I meant to go--I shall be ready in two minutes.”
“My patience! ready--in such a gown! Come here Nathanael. Are you aware
it's indispensable for your wife to appear at church in wedding costume,
just as she did on that blissful day, when”--
“Hush! I'll do anything you like, only hush!” whispered Agatha. Harrie
laughed, and said something about “sparing her blushes.” There were none
to spare--she was as pale as death. What, appear before her husband,
dressed as on the morning when if not altogether a happy bride, she at
least had the hope of making her bridegroom happy, and the comfort of
believing that he loved her and would love her always! The mere thought
of this sent a coldness through all her frame.
Nathanael said, “You told me this before, Harriet. It is an idle custom;
but neither my wife nor myself would wish to go against the world, or
the ways of our own people. Arrange it, as Agatha says, according as you
like.”
He had then heard her whisper--he had seen her paleness. How had he
interpreted both?
The church-bells began to ring again, and Harrie prepared to vanish,
though not until she had dressed Agatha, scanned her from top to toe,
vowed the bonnet did not become her a bit, and that she looked as
white as if she were again about to go through the formidable
marriage-service.
“A sad pity!--because to-day you'll be looked at a great deal more than
the clergyman. We are a terribly inquisitive town; and weddings are
scarce at Kingcombe.--Take your wife, Nathanael. There you go--a very
handsome, interesting young couple. Nay, don't cheat the townsfolk by
taking the garden way.”
“Do, pray?” entreated Agatha of her husband. “Don't let the people see
us.”
“You foolish child!” cried Harrie, as she made herself invisible through
the front-door, throwing back her last words as an unconscious parting
sting. “Folks will think you are ashamed of your husband.”
Agatha took no notice, nor did Nathanael. Silently they walked to
church, the garden way, which led them out opposite the eastern door.
Entering with his wife on his arm, his bare head erect, though the eyes
were lowered, his whole face still and steadfast, but looking much
older since his marriage.--Mr. Harper was a man of whom no one need
be ashamed. His wife glanced at him, and, in spite of all her sorrow,
walked proudly up the aisle--prouder far than on her wedding-day. She
never thought of herself or of the people looking at her. And--Heaven
forgive her, poor child!--for the moment she never thought of Whose
temple she was entering, until the clergyman's serious voice arose,
proclaiming those “sacrifices” which are “a broken spirit.” Then her
spirit sank down broken within her, and under her thick white veil, and
upon her white velvet bridal Prayer-book, fell tears, many and bitter.
The poorest charity-girl that stared at her from the gallery would not
that day have envied the bride.
Service over, out of the church they went as they had come, arm-in-arm;
the congregation holding back; all watching, but from some mysterious
etiquette which must be left to the Kingcombeites to elucidate, no one
venturing to speak to Mr. and Mrs. Locke Harper. The Squire's household
did not attend this church, nor the Dugdales either; so that the young
people walked home without speaking to a soul, and scarcely to each
other. They were both very grave. A word, perhaps, from either would
have unlocked a heart flood; but the word was not spoken. They met at
the gate of the cottage Mrs. Dugdale and her boys. Soon all the solemn
influences of the temple passed away. They were in the world once
more--the hard, bitter, erring world.
“We are come in to see Auntie Agatha and Uncle Nathanael,” said Harrie,
as the children stood rather awe-struck by Mrs. Harper's dazzling
appearance. “And we are going to take both back with us for dinner, as
you promised. Early country dinner, my dear, which can't by any means be
eaten in those fine clothes.”
“I will take them off.” And her foot was on the stairs.
“Stay; don't you see your husband looking at you. Let me look too--we
are never likely to see you dressed as a bride again.”
Agatha paused, but Mr. Harper had already turned away. His gaze--would
she had seen it! but she did not--was ended.
She ran up-stairs, she looked in the glass once more at the vision
which, from the age of childhood, almost every girl beholds herself in
fancy--the dazzling white silk, orange-flowers, and lace, trappings
of a day, never to be again worn. Then she tore them off,
wildly--desperately; wishing one minute that she could bury them in the
earth out of her sight, and again wrapping them up tenderly, as we wrap
up clothes that are now nothing but empty garments, from which the form
that-filled them has vanished evermore.
Afterwards she dressed herself in ordinary matronly garb, and came down
with matronly aspect to Harry and the little boys.
A mid-day country dinner, eaten in peace and quietness, where people
keep Sunday in Christian fashion--at least externally--where no visitors
come in, and no gay evening reunions put an unholy close to the holy
day; when the father of the family gathers his children round him in
the long, sleepy afternoons, or takes a walk with them in the
summer-twilight while all the neighbours are safe in church; after
which, as a great treat, the elder ones sit up to supper, and the little
ones are put to bed by mamma's own hands; then pleasant weariness,
perhaps some brief evening prayer, sincere without cant--the household
separates--the house darkens--and the day of rest ends.
This was the way they kept Sunday at the Dugdales'. It was something new
to Agatha, and she liked it much. She threw herself into the domestic
ways as if she had been used to them all her life, and specially made
herself popular with the father and the little ones. Marmaduke looked
benevolently upon his sister-in-law, seemed quite to forget she was “a
young lady,” and even was heard to call her “my child” four times,--at
which she was very pleased and proud. Over and over again, with youth's
wild thirst to be happy, she tried to forget the weight on her life,
and plunge into a temporary gaiety. Sometimes she even caught herself
laughing outright, as she played with the children; for no one can be
miserable always, especially at nineteen. But whenever she looked up,
or was silent, or paused to think, the image of her husband came like a
cloud between her and her mirth. No--she never could be really happy.
Nathanael was all day very quiet and abstracted. He did not romp with
his little nephews, and only smiled when Harrie teased him for this
unusual omission of avuncular privilege. Once, Agatha saw him sitting
with the youngest little girl fast asleep against his shoulder, he
looking over her baby-curls with a pensive, troubled eye, an eye which
seemed gazing into the future to find there--nothing! A strange thrill
quivered through Agatha's heart to see him so sitting with that child.
After tea Mrs. Dugdale proposed turning out of doors all the masculine
half of the family, except the infant Brian, before whom loomed the
terrific prospect of bed. So off they started. Gus being seen to snatch
frantically at Pa's hand, and Fred, sublime in his first jacket, walking
alongside with an air and grace worthy of the uncle whose name he bore.
“There they go,” cried Mrs. Dugdale, looking fondly after them. “Not
bad-looking lads either, considering that Pa isn't exactly a beauty. But
pshaw! what does that signify? I think my Duke's the very nicest face I
know. Don't you, Agatha?”
Agatha warmly acquiesced. She had entirely got over the first impression
of Duke's plainness. And moreover she was learning day by day that
mysterious secret which individualises one face out of all the world,
and makes its very deficiencies more lovely than any other features'
charm. She could fully sympathise with Harrie's harmless weakness, and
agreed--looking at Brian, who in fact strongly resembled his father,
angelicised into childhood, keeping the same beautiful expression, which
needed no change--that if Mr. Dugdale's sons grew up like him in all
points, the world would be none the worse, but a great deal the better.
Thus talking--which little Brian seemed actually to understand, for he
stood at her knee gazing up with miraculously merry eyes--Agatha watched
her sister-in-law's Sunday duty, religiously performed, of putting the
younger two to bed, while the nurses went to church, or took walks with
their sweethearts. For, as Harrie sagely observed, “'the maidens' as
we call them in Dorsetshire, 'the maidens' will fall in love as well as
we.”
So chattering merrily--while she dashed water over Miss Baby's white,
round limbs, and let Brian caper wildly about the nursery, clad in all
sorts of half-costumes, or no costume at all--Mrs. Dugdale
initiated Agatha into various arcana belonging to motherhood and
mistress-of-a-family-hood. The other listened eagerly, so eagerly that
she could have laughed at herself, remembering what she was six months
before. To think that to-morrow she must begin her house-keeping--she,
who knew no more of such things than a child! She snatched at all sorts
of knowledge, talked over butchers, and bakers, and house expenses, and
Kingcombe ways of marketing, taking an interest in the most commonplace
things. For pervading everything was the consciousness, “It is _his_
home I have to make comfortable.” That thought sanctified and beautified
all.
“You are quite right, my dear,” said Harrie, pausing in her walk up and
down, patting and singing to Baby, who stared with open eyes over her
shoulder, and obstinately declined going to sleep. “You will turn out a
notable woman, I see. It's a curious and melancholy fact, which we don't
ever learn till we are married, that all the love in the world is thrown
away upon a man unless you make him comfortable at home. A neat house
and a creditable dinner every day go more to his heart than all the
sentimental devotion you can give. It's all very well for a man in love
to live upon roses and posies, and kisses and blisses, but after he is
married he dearly likes to be comfortable.”
Agatha was silent for a moment, hardly venturing to believe, and yet
afraid she must. “I heard Miss Valery once say that no man's love after
marriage is exactly as it was before it; that the thing attained soon
loses its preciousness, and that the wife has to assume a new character,
and win another kind of love. I wonder if this is true. I wonder”--and
suddenly she changed her seriousness for the tone of raillery she always
used with Harrie Dugdaie--“I wonder whether our husbands adore us first,
and afterwards expect us to adore them.”
“So they do; I assure you they do! And a pretty amount of adoring
and waiting upon your husband will require. I wouldn't for the whole
universe have my Duke such an awfully exacting, particular, provoking,
disagreeably good, or inexplicably naughty animal as my brother
Nathanael.”
“Mrs. Dugdaie!” Agatha hardly knew whether to laugh or to be indignant.
She only knew that she felt ready to spring up like a chained tigress
when anybody said a word against Mr. Harper.
“There now, don't waken the baby. Keep yourself quiet, do. See, there's
its husband coming down the street to comfort it. He is looking up here,
too. Run down, do'ee now; and if she'll be a good girl she shall
have the neatest household and the best husband in Kingcombe--always
excepting mine.”
Agatha did not run down; but she leant over the landing, and heard the
footsteps and voices in the hall--steps and voices which always seem to
put new life into a house where its ruler is dear to the hearts of wife
and children. Troubled as she was--laden with even a new weight since
the talk with Mrs. Dugdale--Agatha listened, and felt that in spite of
all, the house seemed brighter for the entrance of _her_ husband. She
tried to catch what he was saying, but only heard the voice of Mr.
Dugdaie.
“Of course, as you say, it's necessary. But really tomorrow--so
soon--and for such a long time too! Couldn't both go together?”
Nathanael made some inaudible reply.
“To be sure, you know best. But--poor young thing!--I wonder what my
Harrie would have said to me. Poor, pretty little thing!”
The words, the manner, startled Agatha; She could not make them out. She
descended, looking alarmed, uneasy--a look which did not wear off all
the rest of the evening.
In leaving she wondered why Mr. Dugdale woke from his dreaminess to bid
her good-night with a fatherly air, addressing her more than once by his
superlative of kindness, “My child.” When she took her husband's arm
to go out of the lighted hall-into the night, Agatha trembled, as if
something were going to happen--she knew not what.
The street was very dark, for Kingcombe people were economisers in gas;
and besides kept such primitive hours, that at ten o'clock you might
walk from one end of the town to the other and not see a light in any
house. There was not a soul abroad except these two, and their feet
echoed loudly along the pavement. At first Agatha, blinded by coming out
of light into darkness, saw nothing, but stumbled on, clinging tightly
to her husband. At length she perceived whereabouts they were--the
black, quaintly-gabled houses, the market-cross, and, far above the
sleepy town and its deserted streets, the bright wonderfully bright
stars.
Agatha took comfort when she saw the stars.
“Have we far to go? I am rather tired,” she said to her husband, chiefly
for the sake of saying something.
“Tired, are you? Then you must have a quiet day tomorrow. It will be
very quiet, I doubt not;” and he sighed.
“Why so? What is to be done to-morrow? Shall you have to ride over to
Thornhurst?”
“No; I saw Anne Valery yesterday. I shall not see her again for a good
while.”
“Indeed!”
“There is business requiring me in Cornwall. To-morrow I am going away.”
“Going away!” The words were little more than a sigh. She felt all cold
and numb for the moment. Then a sudden flood of the old impetuous pride
came over her. Going away! Leaving his young wife! Leaving her alone in
her new home--alone the second day, to be wondered at, and pointed
at, and pitied! Perhaps he did it to humble and punish her. It was
cruel--cruel! And again the demon or angel--which took such various
forms that she hardly knew the true one--rose up rampant within her.
“Mr. Harper, this is sudden--will look strange. You ought to have told
me before.”
“I did not know it myself until last night. That my going to Cornwall is
necessary, on business grounds, I have already made clear to Marmaduke.
He will tell his wife, and Harriet will tell all the world. I have so
arranged that you will have no difficulty of any kind. This house will
go on as usual, or you can visit at Thornhurst and at my father's. There
will be no loss to you of anything or anybody--except one, whose absence
must be welcome.” “Welcome!” she repeated in an accent of bitter scorn.
“You said so yourself. Hush! do not say it again. When we part, let it
be in peace!”
He spoke in a smothered, exhausted voice, and holding the gate open
for her to pass, leaned upon it as if he could hardly stand. But Agatha
perceived nothing--she was dizzy and blind.
“Peace?” she repeated, driven mad by the mockery of the word. She
saw the door half-open, the warm light glimmering within the hall--so
soft--so home-like. The torture was too strong--her senses began to give
way.
Without knowing what she did, without any settled purpose except to
escape from the misery of that sight, Agatha pushed her husband from
her, turned and fled--fled anywhere, no matter where, so that it was
into night and darkness, away from her home and from him.
She did not know the way; she only knew that she ran up one street and
down another like the wind. Her state of mind was bordering on insanity.
At length she paused from sheer exhaustion, and leaned against a
doorway--like any poor outraged homeless wretch.
The good man of the house came softly out to look up into the quiet
night before he bolted his door. He stood musing, contemplating the
stars. It was a minute or more before he noticed the bowed human form
beside him. When he did, there was no mistaking the compassionate voice.
“Eh, poor soul! What's wrong wi'ee?”
Agatha sprang up with a cry. There were two standing by her, from whose
presence she would gladly have run to the world's end--Mr. Dugdale and
her husband. The one remained petrified with astonishment--the other
said but three words, in a dull mechanical voice, as if every feeling
had been struck out of the man by some thunderbolt of doom.
“Agatha, come home.”
Again she tried to burst from him and fly, but her arm was caught, and
Marmaduke Dugdale's grave look--the look he fixed upon his own
children when they erred, constraining them always into repentance and
goodness--was reading her inmost soul.
“Go home, poor child! I'll not tell of you or him. Go home with your
husband.”
She felt her hand laid, or grasped--she knew not which--in that of
Nathanael; who held it with invincible firmness. There was no resisting
that clasp. She rose up and followed him, as if led by an invisible
chain. Her madness had passed, and left only a dull indifference to
everything. The die was cast; she had laid open the miseries of their
home, had disgraced him and herself before the world. It signified
little where she went or what she did; they were utterly separated now.
Without again speaking, or taking notice of Mr. Dugdale, she suffered
Nathanael to lead her away, passing swiftly down the silent streets.
Neither husband nor wife uttered a single word.
The moment she entered the house she walked up-stairs, slowly, that he
might not see her tottering; went into her own room, and locked her
door with a loud, fierce turning of the key, that seemed to shriek as it
turned.
There, for almost an hour, she sat motionless. The maid, half asleep,
came to the door with a light, but Agatha bade her set it down, and sat
in the dark. Dark--altogether dark, within and without; with no hope
or repentance, or even the heroism of suffering; wrathful, sullen,
miserable; wronged--yet conscious that she had sinned as much as she
was sinned against; seeing her husband and herself stand as it were
on either edge of a black gulf, hourly widening, yet neither having
strength to plunge it to the other's side.
Here she sat, upright and still, body and soul wrapped in a leaden,
shroud-like darkness, until gradually a stupor possessed her brain.
“I am so tired,” she murmured, “I must go to sleep. He will not leave
till to-morrow. But it does not signify. Nothing signifies. I must go to
sleep.”
She unlocked the door and drew in the candle, flaring in its socket.
She had to press her fingers on her eyeballs before they could bear the
light, all was so very dark. She Sotted her hair up anyhow, took off her
clothes, and crept to bed, almost as if she were creeping to her tomb.
The fragment of candle went out, sinking instantaneously, like a soul
quenched out of existence, and all was total darkness. In that darkness
a heavy hand seemed to lay itself on Agatha's brain, and press down her
eyelids. Scarcely two minutes after, she was asleep.
Hour after hour of the night went by, and there was not a sound, not
a breath in the room. The late moon rose, and gave a little glimmer of
light through the curtains. Now and then there was a faint noise of some
one moving in the house, but Agatha never stirred. She slept heavily as
some people invariably sleep under the pressure of great pain.
Towards morning, when moonlight and dawn were melted together, and the
room was growing light enough to discern faces, there was a step at the
door, and a ray flashing through the opening, for Agatha had left it
ajar.
Nathanael set down the candle outside and came in softly. He was dressed
for a journey--evidently just ready to start. He looked very ill,
sleepless, and worn.
Standing a minute at the door, he listened to his wife's breathing, low
and regular as that of a child. Nature and repose had soothed her; she
slept now as quietly and healthfully as if she had never known trouble.
Her husband crept across the room very carefully, and remained watching
her. Oh! the contrast between the one who _watched_ and the one who
slept!
At first he stood perfectly upright, rigid, and motionless.
Then his hands twisted themselves together, and his eyes grew hot,
bursting. His lips moved as in speaking, though with never a sound. It
was the dumbness--the choking dumbness of that emotion which made it
so terrible. Such silence could not last--he seemed to feel it could
not--and so moved backward out of hearing. There he stood for a little
while, leaning against the wall, his hand bound tightly over his
forehead, and sighing, so bitterly sighing!--that gasp which bursts from
men who have no tears.
At length he became calmer, but still stood without the door. He even
moved the candle further off, as though afraid its glare, might disturb
the sleeper--forgetful that the room was now growing all bright with
daybreak. At this moment the clock striking in the hall below made him
start.
Hastily he took out a paper that he had hid somewhere about him. It
was in his own handwriting, all sealed and endorsed. “Not to be opened
except in case of my death.” Nevertheless he tore it open--tore likewise
an under-cover addressed to his wife, and began to read:
“I know you never loved me. From something I overheard on our
marriage-day--from other words afterwards let fall in anger by my
brother, I also know that you loved”--
He crushed the paper, his eyes seeming literally to flame. Then all the
fury died out of them, and left nothing but tenderness. He listened for
the soft breathing within--soft and pure.
“No!” he murmured. “I will not leave her honour to the chance of written
words. No other human being must ever know what I knew. If I live, it
is not worse than it was before; and should any harm come to me, let her
think I died in ignorance. Better so.”
He tore the paper into small strips, and deliberately burnt them one
by one in the candle, making a little pile of the ashes, but afterwards
scattering them about the fireplace. Then putting out the light--for
the house was now filled with the soft grey dawn--Nathanael stepped once
more into his wife's room.
And still she was sleeping--sleeping at the very crisis of her fate. Her
face was composed and sweet, though her hands were still clenched, and
one of them almost buried in her loose hair.
Her husband stood and looked at her, trying long to keep himself firm
and self-restrained, as though she were aware of his presence. But at
last the holy helplessness of sleep subdued him. From standing upright
he sank gradually down--down--till he was crouching on his knees.
Shudder over shudder came over him--sigh after sigh rose up, and was
smothered again in his breast. At last even the strong man's strength
gave way, and there fell a heavy, silent, burning rain.
And all the while the wife slept, and never knew how he loved her!
After a while this ceased. Nathanael opened his eyes and tried to look
once more calmly on his wife. She stirred a little in sleep, and began
to smile--a very soft, meek, innocent smile, that softened her lips into
infantine sweetness. She was again Agatha, the merry Agatha, as she had
been when he first saw her, before he wooed her, and shook her roughly
from her girlish calm into all the struggles of life. He could have
cursed himself--and yet--yet he loved her!
Kneeling, he put his arm softly over her. Another moment and he would
have yielded to the frantic impulse, and snatched her to his heart for
one--just one embrace--heedless of her waking. But how would she wake?
only to hate and reproach him. He had better leave her thus, and carry
away in his remembrance that picture of peace, which blotted out all
her bitter words, all her cruel want of love--made him forget everything
except that she had been the wife of his bosom and his first love.
He drew back his arm, gradually and noiselessly. He did not attempt to
kiss her, not even her hand, lest he should disturb her; but kneeling,
laid his hand on the pillow by hers, and pressed his lips to her hair.
“I am glad she sleeps--yes, very glad! She is quite content now, she
will be quite happy when I am gone, God love thee and take care of
thee--my darling--my Agatha.”
[Illustration: A husband's farewell p280]
Kissing her hair once again, he rose up and went away.
As he departed, the first sunbeam came in and danced upon the bed,
showing Agatha fast asleep, sleeping still. She never woke until it had
been broad day for a long time, and the sun creeping over her pillow
struck her eyes.
Then she started up with a loud cry--she had been dreaming. Tears were
wet upon her cheek. She called wildly for her husband. It was too late.
He had been gone at least three hours.