The whole household was in terror and disorder. Eulalie had rushed
screaming from the room--Mary went about, trembling like a leaf, trying
to get restoratives--Agatha knelt on the floor, supporting the old
man's head in her lap, speaking to him sometimes, as by the motion
and apparent intelligence of his eyes she fancied he might possibly
understand her.
“Oh, he is dead, he is dead!” cried Mary, as she took up the senseless
hand, and let it fall again with a burst of tears.
“No, he is not dead--he hears you;--take care,” said Agatha, putting
the frightened daughter aside with a firmness which rose in her, as in
similar characters it does rise, equal to the necessity. She looked on
the trembling Mary--on the servants gathering round with silent horror,
and saw there were none who, so to speak, “had their wits about them,”
except herself. Scarcely knowing how she did it, she instinctively
assumed the rule. She, the young girl of nineteen, who had never till
then been placed in any position of trial.
“Send all these people away. Quick Mary! Bring some one who can carry
him to his room. And--stay, Eulalie, sit down there and be quiet. Don't
let any one go and alarm Elizabeth.”
She gave these orders and everybody listened and obeyed; people are so
ready to obey any guiding spirit at such a crisis. Then she bent down
again over the poor corpselike figure that rested against her knee,
kissed the old man's forehead, and tried to comfort him. She had heard
of cases, when though deprived of speech and motion, the sufferer was
still conscious of all passing around him. Therefore she wished as soon
as possible to remove her father-in-law out of the way of the terrified
household.
He was carried to his room through the hall where he had lately trod
so stately,--the poor old man now helpless as the dead. Leaving the
dining-room, Agatha thought she saw his eyes turn back, as if he knew
that he was crossing the doorway he would never cross more, and
wanted to take a last look at the familiar things. Otherwise he seemed
continually watching herself. She walked beside him till he was
laid upon his bed, and then tried again to speak to him. She did it
caressingly, as though the old dying man had been a sick child.
“Be content, now--quite content. I will take care of you, and see that
all is done right. I shall, not be away two minutes; I am only going to
send for help--your own doctor from Kingcombe. We must try to get you
well. Lie here quiet.”
Quiet! It was like enjoining stillness to a corpse! Agatha shuddered
when she had used the word. For a moment the dread of her position rose
upon her. In that lonely house, at night too, with no help nearer than
Kingcombe: and even then no husband, no friend--for she dared not send
to poor, sick Anne Valery! And she so young, so inexperienced.--But
no matter! She would try to meet everything--do everything. She felt
already calm and brave.
The first thing necessary was to send for medical aid. This she did;
having the forethought to write a few clear lines, lest the messenger
should fail. She despatched word likewise to the Dugdales. She felt
quite composed; everything right to be remembered came clearly into
her head. It was the grand touch-stone of her character; the crisis
of danger which shows whether a woman has that presence of mind which
exalts her into a domestic heroine, an angel of comfort; or the weakness
which sinks her into a helpless selfish fool.
The latter was hardly likely to become a true picture of Agatha Harper.
She went about with Mary, giving some orders to the servants, for
sickness always comes startingly upon an unprepared and unaccustomed
house; and tried to find a few soothing words for the terrified Eulalie,
who clung crying about them both, forgetting all her affectations. If
the Beauty had any love left in her, it was for her father. Lastly,
Agatha took a light, and went swiftly along the passages to the distant
wing of the house which Elizabeth occupied.
“Miss Harper,” her maid said, “had gone quietly to rest, and was then
fast sleeping.”
Poor Elizabeth! this seemed the hardest point of all.
“When did she see her father?”
“This morning. The master always comes up every morning after breakfast
to see Miss Harper.”
And they would never see one another again, this helpless father and
daughter--never, till they met bodiless, in the next world!
For the moment Agatha felt her courage fail She glided quickly from the
door, but came back again. Elizabeth had waked, and called her.
“What is the matter? I know something is the matter.”
“Do tell her,” whispered the maid, “She'll find it out anyhow--she finds
out everything. And she has been so ill all day.”
Agatha entered. There was no deceiving those eyes.
“Elizabeth, dear Elizabeth--your father--it is very hard, but--your
father”--She hesitated; it was so difficult to convey, even in gentlest
words, the cruel truth. Miss Harper regarded her keenly. The bearer
of ill-tidings is always soon betrayed, and Agatha's was not a face to
disguise anything. Elizabeth's head dropped back on the pillow.
“I perceive. He is an old man. He has gone home before me. My dear
father!”
The perfect composure with which she said this astonished Agatha. She
did not understand how near Elizabeth always lived to the unknown world,
and how welcome and beautiful it was in her familiar sight.
“No; he is alive still. But, if he should not come in to see you
to-morrow-morning”--
“I shall go unto him; he shall not return unto me,” murmured Elizabeth,
as her eyelids fell, and a few tears dropped through the lashes. “Tell
me the rest, will you?”
“He has been seized with paralysis, I think; he cannot speak or move,
but seems still conscious. I do not know how it will end.”
“One way--only one way; I feared this long. My grandfather died so.
Agatha”--calling after her, for she was stealing away, she could not
bear it--“Agatha, you will take care of him?”
“I will as his own daughter.”
“And, if possible”--here Elizabeth's voice faltered a little--“give my
love to my dear father.”
Agatha fled away. She hid herself in the recess close by “Anne's
window,” as it was called, and for a minute or two cried violently.
It did her good. With those tears all the selfishness, anger, and pain
flowed out of her heart, leaving it purer and more peaceful than it had
been for a long time. It was not a foolish, miserable girl, but a brave,
tenderhearted, sensible woman, who entered the door of the sick-chamber
where the poor old man lay.
No one was there but the coachman who had carried his master up-stairs.
Many servants hovered about the door, but none dared enter. Either
they were afraid of the Squire--afraid even now, or else the motionless
figure that lay within the bed-curtains was too like death. Old John sat
beside it, with tears running down his cheeks.
“Oh, Mrs. Harper, look at th' Master. He be all alive in's mind. He do
want bad to speak to we. Look at 'un, Missus!”
“Give me your place, John. I will try to understand him. Father!”--She
faltered a little over the word, but felt it was the right word,
now. The old man moved his head towards her with a feeble smile. The
expression of his face was clearer and more natural, only for that
terribly painful inarticulate murmur, which no one could comprehend.
“I have done all I could think of,” Agatha continued, speaking softly
and cheerfully. “The doctor will be here soon; Mary and Eulalie are
down-stairs. I have myself told Elizabeth that you are ill;--she is
composed, and sends her love to her dear father. Was all this right?”
Mr. Harper appeared to assent.
“I will sit beside you till the doctor comes, and then I will write to
my husband. You would like him to come home?”
He seemed slow of comprehension, troubled, or excited. Agatha vainly
tried to analyse the dumb expression of the features. With all her
quickness she could not make out what he wanted. At last, a thought
struck her. His eldest son, his favourite--
“Would you like me to send for Major Harper?”
No words could tell the change which convulsed the old man.
Abhorrence--anger--fear--all were written in his countenance. He rolled
his head on the pillow, he struggled to gasp out something--what, his
daughter-in-law could not guess. She was inexpressibly shocked. One
thing only seemed clear, that for some cause or other the mere mention
of Frederick's name worked up the father into frenzy.
“Hush! do not try to speak. I will send for no one but Nathanael. Will
that content you?”
He made a motion of satisfaction, and became quiet. His features
gradually composed themselves, and, he sank into torpor.
Agatha still sat by the bed, holding his wrist, for she knew not moment
by moment how soon the pulse might stop. The old man's own daughters
were too terrified to approach him. They came on tiptoe to the door,
looked in, shuddered, and went back. No one stayed in the room but the
old coachman, who had been Mr. Harper's servant since they were both
boys; and he sat in a corner crying like a child, though silently.
Agatha might as well have sat there quite alone, the atmosphere around
her was so still and solemn.
She had never before been in her father-in-law's room---the state
bedroom, in which for centuries the Harper family had been born and
died. The great mahogany bed itself was almost like a bier, with its
dark velvet hangings, and dusty plumes. Everything around was dusty,
gloomy, and worn out; the Squire would have nothing changed from the
time when the last Mrs. Harper died there. In a little curtained alcove
the lace hung yellow and dusty over her toilet-table, just as she had
left it when she laid herself down to the pains of motherhood and
death. Her portraits--one girlish, another matronly, but still merry
and fair--hung opposite the bed. Between them was a longitudinal
family-group, in the very lowest style of art--a string of children,
from the big boy to the tottering baby, in all varieties of
impossible attitudes. Their names were written under (not
unnecessarily)--Frederick, Emily, Harriet, Mary, Eulalie. The only names
missed were Nathanael and “poor Elizabeth.”
Mechanically Agatha observed all these things during the first half-hour
of her vigil; involuntarily her mind floated away to musings concerning
them, until she forcibly impelled it back to consider the present. It
was in vain. Innumerable conjectures flitted through her brain, but not
one which she could catch hold of as a truth. Of one thing only she felt
sure, that something very serious must have happened--some great mental
shock, too powerful for the Squire's feeble old age. And this shock was
certainly in some way or other connected with Major Harper.
An hour later, when she was beginning to count every beat of the old
man's pulse, and look forward with dread to a midnight vigil beside that
breathing corpse, the doctor came.
Agatha waited for his dictum--it needed very little skill to decide
that. A few questions--a shake of the head--a solemn condolatory sigh;
and all knew that the old Squire's days were numbered.
“How long?” whispered Mrs. Harper, half closing the door as they came
out.
“I cannot say. Some hours--days--possibly a week. We never know in these
cases. But, I fear, certainly within a week.”
_What_ would be “within a week?” Why is it that every one dreads to say
the simple word “_die_?”
Agatha paused. She had never yet stood face to face in a house
with death. The sensation was very awful. She glanced within at the
heavy-curtained bed, and then at the fair, girlish portrait which
peered through the folds at its foot--the painted eyes, eternally young,
seeming to keep watch smilingly. The old man and his long-parted wife,
to be together again--“within a week.” It was strange--strange.
“His sons should be sent for,” hinted the doctor. “Mr. Locke Harper is
in Cornwall, I believe; but the other--Major Harper----”
“Frederick--Yes, we must send for Frederick,” sobbed Mary. “My father
cares more for him than for any of us. Oh, poor Frederick!”
“But,” Eulalie said--they were all whispering together at the door--“I
don't think any one of us, not even Elizabeth, knows Frederick's address
just now. A week ago he was passing through London, but he does make
such a mystery of his comings and goings. Oh, if he were only here!”
“Ask my father,” cried Mary--“ask him if he would like to see
Frederick.”
As she said this rather too loudly, there was a strange smothered sound
from the bed. Agatha ran. The old Squire was gasping, choking, with the
frightful effort to speak. His face was purple--his eyes wild--yet the
poor bound tongue refused to obey his will.
“Hush! be composed,” said his daughter-in-law, soothingly. “You shall
see no one. No one shall be sent for. Will that do?”
He grew calmer, but restless still.
“Shall my husband come? He will do you good--he does everybody good.
Would you like to see Nathanael?”
A faint assent--scarcely intelligible--and then the Squire dropped
off again into sleep. Agatha left him and went to his daughters, who
lingered outside.
“I think Major Harper has somehow vexed him. He will only see my
husband. A messenger must be sent to Cornwall. Who will write?”
“Who but yourself,” said Eulalie, hardly able even then to repress a
look, beneath which Agatha's cheek glowed fiery red; “who so fit as
yourself to tell this to your husband?”
“You are right;” and she smothered down her swelling heart into a grave
dignity. “Get the messenger ready--I will write here--in this room.”
She turned-within--closed the door--looked once more at the old man,
trying by that mournful sight to still the earthly anger that was again
rising in her heart,--and sat down to write.
It was a hard task. She scribbled the date, and paused. This, strangely
enough, was the first letter she had ever written to him. She did not
know how to begin it. Her heart beat--her fingers trembled. To tell such
news to the dearest friend and husband that ever woman had, would be a
difficult and painful thing, and for her to tell it to him, as they were
now! For the first letter he ever had from her to be this! And how could
she write it?--she who till to-day would almost have cut off her right
hand rather than have humbled herself to write to him at all. Yet now
all the wrath was melting out of her, and tenderness swelling up afresh.
We always feel so tender over those that are in trouble.
“Yes, I will do it,” muttered Agatha. And she wrote firmly the
words--“_My dear husband_” They seemed at the same time to imprint
themselves on her heart as a truth--invisible sometimes, yet when
brought near to the fire of strong emotion or suffering, found
ineffaceably written there.
The letter was a mere brief explanation and summons; but it bore the
words, duty-words certainly--yet which no duty would have forced Agatha
to write had they been untrue--“_My dear husband_”--“_Your affectionate
wife._”
She despatched it, and re-entered the sick-room. All was quiet
there--the very hopelessness of the case produced quiet. There was
nothing to be done, watched, or waited for. Doctor Mason sat by his
patient, as he had declared his intention of doing through the night.
He sat mournfully, for he was a kind, good man--the family doctor for
thirty years.
“Let all go to bed,” he said to Agatha, seeming to understand at once
that she was the moving spirit in the family. “Make the house perfectly
quiet, and then”--
“I will come and sit up with you.”
Doctor Mason looked compassionately at the slight girlish figure, and
the face already wan with the re-action after excitement. “My dear Mrs.
Harper, would not a servant do as well?”
“No, I am his son's wife. What should I say to my husband if--if
anything happened, and he not there, nor I?”
“Good. Then stay,” said the doctor, kindly grasping her hand. He was a
man of few words.
It took some time and patience to quiet the house, and persuade Mary and
Eulalie to retire. When all was done, and Agatha passed swiftly, lamp in
hand, through the dark, solitary rooms, she felt frightened. The house
seemed so silent--already so full of death.
There was one thing more to be done--to write a line ready for Anne
Valery's waking, otherwise she would expect her home, as she had
promised, in the early morning. How would she tell all these horrors,
even in the gentlest way, to the feeble Anne, for whom, however
unknown to others, and disguised by the invalid herself, Agatha felt an
ever-present dread that she in vain tried to believe was only born of
strong attachment. We never deeply love anything for which we do not
likewise continually fear. Agatha almost recoiled from the idea of
mentioning danger or death to Anne Valery.
She went into the dining-room to write. Everything there appeared
just as when this great shock struck the household into confusion; the
dessert was not removed--the wine in which he had drunk Nathanael's
health, remained yet in Mr. Harper's glass. Agatha shrank back. She half
expected to see some shadowy form--not himself but Death, rise and sit
in the arm-chair whence the old man had fallen.
Brave she was, but she was still a girl, and a girl of strong
imagination. Her heart beat audibly; she put the lamp down in the middle
of the room, where it might cast more light, and render less ghastly the
last flicker of one wax-candle, the fellows of which had been left to
burn out in their sockets. Then she sat down, covered her eyes, and
tried to think connectedly of all that had happened this night.
Something touched her. She leaped up--would have screamed, but that
she remembered the room overhead--the room. She crouched down--again
covering her eyes.
Another touch, and a stirring in the window-curtain near which she
sat. There was something--every one knows that horrible
sensation--_something_ else in the room besides herself.
“Who is it?” she said, still not looking up, frightened at her own
voice.
“It's me, ma'am--only me.”
Everybody in the house had forgotten Mr. Grimes.
Half-intoxicated at the time of Mr. Harper's seizure, he had stayed
behind in the dining-room, drunk himself stupid, and slept himself
sober--or partly so. They say drink is a great unfolder of truth; if
so, the old lawyer's sharp face betrayed that, in spite of all his past
civility, he had not the kindest feeling in the world towards the Harper
family.
“So, young lady, I frightened you? You did not expect to find me here.”
“I did not, indeed; I had quite forgotten your very existence,” said
Mrs. Harper, point-blank. She had conceived a great dislike to Mr.
Grimes, and Agatha was a girl who never took much trouble to disguise
her aversions.
“Thank you, ma'am. You are polite, like the rest of the Harpers. But
words, fair or foul, won't pay anything. Where's the Squire? He and I
have not yet settled the little business I came about.”
“Mr. Grimes, perhaps you are not aware that my father-in-law is
dangerously ill--can enter upon no business, and see no person.”
“In-deed?” His thorough insolence of manner brought Agatha's dignity
back. She remembered that she was a lady belonging to the house, and
that this fellow, whose behaviour made his grey hairs so little worthy
of respect, was her father-in-law's invited guest.
“Sir,” she said, drawing up her little figure, and trying to look as
much Mrs. Locke Harper as possible, “you must be aware that in the
present state of the house a stranger's presence is undesirable. It is
not too late to order the carriage. Will you favour me by going to sleep
at Kingcombe?”
Mr. Grimes looked disposed to object; but she had her hand on the bell,
and her manner, though perfectly civil, was resolute--so resolute, that
he became humble.
“Well, Mrs. Harper, I'm willing to oblige a former client, but I should
like to put to you a few questions before leaving.”
“Put them.”
“First--what's wrong with the old gentleman?”
“He has had a paralytic stroke--probably caused, the doctor says, by
some great shock, which was too much for him, being an old man.”
The other old man looked uneasy, as though some touch of nature smote
him for the moment.
“You don't think”--here he crept backward, shambling and cowardly--“you
don't think I had any hand in causing this--this very melancholy
occurrence.”
“You?” There was undisguised scorn in Agatha's lip. As if any Mr. Grimes
could do harm to a Harper! “Nothing of the kind--pray do not disquiet
your conscience unnecessarily.”
“But I did bring him unpleasant news, for which I'm rather sorry now.
I had much better have told his son. When shall I be likely to see my
friend Nathanael?”
His friend Nathanael! Agatha could have crushed him and stamped upon
him, had he been worth it.
“Mr. Locke Harper,” she said, trying hard to keep her temper--“Mr. Locke
Harper will be at home to-morrow night. You can then make to him any
communications you please. At the present, the greatest benefit you can
confer on this sad house is to absent yourself from it.”
“'Pon my life, Mrs. Harper, you might waste a little more breath on me,
lest I might think it worth while to spend a little too much breath on
you and yours. Do you know what claim I have upon your family?”
“That of being Major Harper's lawyer, I believe, and possibly mine
before my marriage. It is not likely that my husband has continued to
use your services afterwards.”
Agatha said this sharply, for she was annoyed to feel herself in such
total darkness regarding her husband's affairs. For a moment she felt
half alarmed at the expression, “My friend Nathanael.” Could they be
allied, he and this disagreeable man? Could Grimes have acquired any
power over him, that he was smiling in such a sinister, mysterious way?
“My services? Really, Mrs. Harper, this is very amusing. You surely must
be aware that your husband has not the slightest occasion for anybody's
services in the management of his affairs. One can't make something out
of nothing, and when there is not a halfpenny left”--
“Explain yourself.”
“My dear young lady, is it possible you don't know the unfortunate
circumstance, at least one of the unfortunate circumstances which
brought me here? Why, Mr. Locke Harper knew it months ago. He and I had
several conferences together on the subject. But we husbands are
obliged to be uncommunicative, as my wife would tell you, if you had the
pleasure of knowing Mrs. Grimes”--
“Will you keep to the point, sir?” said Agatha, sternly. She felt
very stern--very bitter. The old wound was reopening sorer than ever.
Nathanael had “held conferences” with this fellow--confided to him
secrets which he had not told to her--his own wife! Here was a new
pang--a new indignity. In its sharpness she forgot everything else; even
the silent room overhead. She had just self-possession and pride enough
not to question; she would have been more than human had she not paused
to hear.
“Well, Mr. Grimes!” she said, confronting him, her hand still on the
door, where she had placed it as a mute signal which he refused to
understand.
“I own, Mrs. Harper, it is a hard case. At the time I really felt as
sorry for you as if you had been my own daughter. All to happen so soon
after your marriage, too! Some persons might blame me for consenting to
keep back the facts, but I assure you Major Harper compelled me to draw
up the settlement exactly according to his orders.”
“Sir--will you hasten--my time is occupied.”
“So is mine, madam; fully occupied. I shall waste no more of it in
giving advice to young women who are as proud as peacocks, and as poor
as church-mice. If it wasn't for that highly respectable young man, your
husband, I should say it served you right.”
“What?” said Agatha, beneath her breath.
“Mr. Locke Harper found out, a month after his marriage, that somebody
had made ducks and drakes of all his wife's property. So, as I hear,
the poor young man has had to turn land-steward just to keep his kitchen
fire burning. That's all. Very odd you don't know it.”
“I do now.”
“Well, you take it quietly enough. You seem quite satisfied.”
“I am so.”
Mr. Grimes regarded her in perfect bewilderment. She showed no token of
dismay or grief, but stood calmly by the open door.
“I'm not satisfied though,” cried he, at last growing heated--“I'm
not going to have shareholders coming down upon me, and be hunted from
London and from my profession, just because Major Harper”--
“I would rather not hear of Major Harper, or any one else, to-night.
Once more--will you oblige me by leaving?”
Her thorough self-possession, her air of command--controlled the man in
spite of himself. He moved away, bidding her a civil good-night.
“Good-night, Mr. Grimes; I will light you to the door.”
“Ugh!” He gave a grunt--seemed inclined to hesitate--looked up at Mrs.
Harper, and--obeyed.
Agatha came slowly back through the hall, feeling all stunned and
stupified. She sat down, smoothed her hair back with her hands, heaved
one or two weary sighs, and tried to think what had happened to her.
“So, I am no heiress. I have lost all my money, and am quite poor. He
knows it--knew it a long time ago, and did not tell me. Why did he not
tell me, I wonder?”
Here was a pause. For a moment she felt inclined to doubt the fact
itself; truthful people have little suspicion of chicanery or falsehood,
and when she came to think, innumerable circumstances confirmed Grime's
statement. Yes, it must be true. This, then, was Nathanael's secret. Why
had he kept it from her.
“As if he thought I cared for money! As if”--and a choking filled her
throat--“as if I would have minded being ever so poor did he only love
me!”
The thought burst out naturally, like water forcing its way through
muddy reeds--showing how, deep down, there lay the living spring.
“Now, let me consider. He must have had some strong reason for keeping
this secret. It cost him much; he said so. But I never heeded that.
How I wearied him about not taking the house; how angry I was at his
acceptance of the stewardship. And it was for me he wished to toil--for
me, and for our daily bread! Yet he would not tell me. And all the while
he must have had numberless cares and anxieties without, and his
own wife blindly tormenting him at home. Last of all I called him
_mercenary_. And what did he answer? Nothing! Not one reproach--not one
word of anger. Yet still--he kept his secret Why?”
Here she paused again. All was mystery.
“It might have been through tenderness--to save me pain. Yet no--for he
could not but see how his silence stung me. Then since he kept not this
secret for love of me--and I am hardly worth such loving--it must have
been from some motive, perhaps higher than love--some bond of honour
which he could not break. Did he not say something to that effect once?
Let me think.”
Again she sat down, and so far as her excited feelings would allow,
tried to recall the story of their acquaintance, courtship, marriage--a
six-month's tale--how brief, yet how full. Amidst its confusion,
amidst all the variations of her own feelings, stood out one steadfast
image--her husband.
His character was peculiar--very peculiar. Its strength, reticence,
power of silentness and self-control were beyond her comprehension;
but its uprightness, truth, and rigid immaculate honour--she could
understand those. It must have been his sense of honour and moral
right that in some way impelled this concealment, even at the hazard of
wounding the wife he loved--if he ever had loved her.
For a minute or so Agatha's mind almost lost its balance, rocking on
this one point of torture--then it settled. “_God knows I did love
you, Agatha_.” He had said so--he who never uttered a falsehood. It was
enough.
“Yet he '_did_' love me; that means he does not now. I have wearied
him out with my folly, my coldness, and at length with that one last
insulting wrong. I--to tell him he 'married me for my money'--when all
the while I was a beggar on his hands! Yet he never betrayed a word. Oh,
no wonder he despises me. No wonder he has ceased loving me. He never
can love me any more.”
She burst into a passion of tears, and so remained for long. At last a
sudden thought seemed to dart through her sorrow. She leaped upright,
clasping her hands above her head in the rapturous attitude of a child.
“There is a better thing than love--goodness. And whether he loves me or
not, he is all good in himself. I know that now. It is I only that have
been wicked, and have lost him. No matter. Anne was right. My noble
husband! I would not give my faith in him even for his love for me!”
She said this in a delirium of joy--a woman's pure joy, when she can set
aside the selfish craving for love, and live only in the worthiness of
the object beloved. It was beautiful to see Agatha as she stood, her
features and form all radiant. One person, creeping in, did see her.
Old John the coachman, stood in the doorway with his mournful face.
Agatha awoke to realities. Death all but present in the
house--misfortune following--and she had given way to that burst of joy!
She drew her hand across her forehead--sat down at the table--wrote the
three lines she had intended to Anne Valery, and then went her way, to
watch all night long beside her husband's father.