A night and a day had passed, and the household had grown somewhat
accustomed to the cloud that hung over it. It was but natural. How soon
do most families settle themselves after a great shock!--how easily-does
any grief become familiar and bearable! Likewise, saddest thought
of all--how seldom is any one really missed from among us, painfully
missed, for longer than a few days--a few hours!
By evening, when all Kingcombe was yet talking over the “shocking event”
at Kingcombe Holm, the “afflicted family” had subsided into its usual
ways--a little more grave perhaps, but still composed. Some voluble
fresh grief arose when Anne Valery came--Anne, ever foremost in entering
the house of mourning--and took her place among the daughters of the
family, ready to give sympathy, counsel, and comfort. It was all she was
strong enough to do now. The chief position in the household was still
left to Agatha.
Dr. Mason gave his directions and went away. There was nothing more to
be done or hoped for. The form which lay in the Squire's bedroom might
lie there for days, weeks, months--without change. The old coachman and
his wife watched their master alternately; but he took little notice
of them. In every conscious moment his whole attention was fixed upon
Agatha. His eyes followed her about the room; when she talked to him he
feebly smiled. She could not imagine why this should be, but she felt
glad. It was so sweet to know herself in any way a comfort to the father
of Nathanael.
She sat for hours by the old man's bedside, trying to think of nothing
but him. What were all these worldly things, loss of fortune or youth,
or even love itself, to the spirit that lay on the verge of a closed
life--passing swiftly into eternity?
So she sat and strove to forget all that had happened, or was happening
to herself; ay, though every now and then she would start, fancying
there was a voice in the hall, or a step at the door. And she would
hesitate whether to run away and hide herself from her husband's
presence or wait and let him find her in her right place--beside his
dying father.
And then--how would he meet her? how look--how speak? Yet these
conjectures were selfish. Most likely he would scarcely notice her--his
heart would be so full of other thoughts. What right had she, his erring
wife, to obtrude herself upon his feelings at such a time? She could
only look at him, and watch him, and silently help him in everything.
Alas, she might not even dare to comfort him!
Towards evening the suspense of expectation grew less, from the mere
fact of its having lasted so many hours. Agatha went down in the course
of dinner. The dining-table looked as usual, only fuller, from the
presence of the Dugdales and Miss Valery. Mary had of necessity taken
her father's place, but not his chair--it was put aside against the
wall, and nobody looked that way.
Agatha seated herself next to Miss Valery, quietly--they were all so
very quiet. Anne whispered, “How is he?” and the rest listened for the
answer--the usual answer, which all foreboded. Then Harriet made an
attempt to speak of other things--of how the rain pattered against the
window-panes, and what an ill night it was for Nathanael's journey. She
even began to doubt whether he would come.
“He is sure to come,” said Miss Valery.
And while she was yet speaking there swept round the house a wild burst
of storm, in the midst of which were faintly discerned the sound of a
horse's feet. They all cried out--“He is here!”
A minute more and he was in the room--drenched through--flushed with
riding against wind and rain. But it was himself, his own self, and his
wife saw him.
When those who are much thought of return from absence, for the first
minute they almost always seem unlike the image in our hearts.--It
was not thus that Agatha had remembered her husband. Not thus--abrupt,
agitated: anything but the calm and grave Nathanael.
He looked eagerly round the room--all rose: but Miss Valery was the
first to take his hand.
“Thanks, Anne, I knew you would be with them. Is he”--
“Just the same--no change.”
The young man breathed hard. “Are you all here?” He took his three
sisters and kissed them one after the other, silently, brotherly--Anne
likewise. There was one left out--his wife, who had hidden behind the
rest. But soon she heard her name.
“Is Agatha with you?”
She approached. Her husband took her hand--paused a moment--and then
touched her cheek with his lips, as he had done to his sisters. He did
not look at her or speak--it seemed as if he were not able.
They drew round Nathanael, nearly all weeping. There was, as is natural
at such times, an unusual outburst of family tenderness. And, as was
natural also, no one seemed to think of the young wife--the stranger in
the circle. Agatha slid away from the group and disappeared.
Shortly after, she had taken her usual place in the sickroom. It had
struck her that the old man ought to be prepared for his son's coming,
so she had at once proceeded to his bedside. But it was useless--he was
sleeping. She sat down noiselessly in her old seat, and watched, as she
had done for many an hour in this long day, the smiling portrait at the
foot of the bed--her husband's mother, whom he never saw.
While she sat, footsteps entered the room. Agatha turned quickly round
to motion the intruder to silence, and perceived that it was Nathanael.
She fancied--nay, was sure--that he started when he saw her. Still, he
came forward. She rose, and would have given him her seat, but he put
his hand on her shoulder, and gently pressed her down again. The old
servant who watched near her went respectfully to the further end of the
room.
It was a solemn scene; the dim light--the total silence, broken only by
the feeble breathing of the old man, who lay passive as death, without
death's sanctity of calm. Over all, that gay youthful portrait which
the lamp-light, excluded from the bed, kindled into wonderfully vivid
life--far more like life than the sleeper below.
The young man stood mournfully watching his father, until startled by
a flash of fire-light on the canvas, his eyes wandered to the painted
smile of his unknown mother, and then turned back again to the
pillows--the same pillows where she died.. His fingers began to twitch
nervously, though his features remained still. Slowly, Agatha saw large
tears rise and roll down his cheeks. Her heart yearned over her
husband, but she dared not speak. She could but weep--not outwardly, but
inwardly, with exceeding bitter pangs.
At length the old man stirred. Agatha remembered her duty as nurse, and
hastily whispered her husband:
“I think you should move aside for a minute. Don't let him see you
suddenly--it will startle him.”
“That is thoughtful of you. But who will tell him?”
“I will--he is used to me. Are you awake, father?”
Nathanael caught the word, and looked surprised.
“Dear father,” she continued, soothingly, “will you not try to wake now?
Here is some one come to see you--some one you will be glad to see.”
The Squire's eyes grew wild; he uttered a thick, painful murmur.
“Some one who was sure to come when he knew you were ill--your son.”
She paused, shocked at the frenzied expression of the old man's face.
“Nay--your younger son--Nathanael--may he come?”
She perceived some faint assent, beckoned to her husband, saw him take
her place at the bedside, and then stole away, leaving the son alone
with his father.
Agatha rejoined the rest of the family. They were all sitting talking
together as Nathanael had left them. After her leaving, they said, he
had hardly spoken at all, but had gone up directly after her.
In about half-an-hour he re-appeared--greatly agitated. His sisters all
turned to him as he entered, but he avoided their eyes. Agatha never
lifted hers; she sat in a dim corner behind Miss Valery.
“What do you think of him, Nathanael?” asked Mary, in a low voice.
“I cannot yet tell; I want to hear how he was seized. Which of you saw
most of him yesterday?”
“No one, unless it was Agatha. He was shut up in his study until she
came.”
“And who has been most with him since?”
“Agatha.”
A soft expression dawned in the young man's eyes as they sought the dim
corner.
“Will Agatha tell me what _she_ thinks of my father's state?”
This appeal, so direct--so unexpected--could not be gainsaid.
Yet, when Nathanael addressed her, Agatha's agitation was so visible
that it attracted observation--especially Mrs. Dugdale's.
“Poor child!” said Harrie, compassionately, “how pale she looks!”
“No wonder,” Mary added. “She is more worn out than any of us. She sat
up all last night.”
Nathanael's eyes were on his wife again, full of ineffable gentleness.
“Agatha, come over and rest in this armchair. I want to talk to you
about my father.”
She obeyed. He spoke in a low voice:
“I feel deeply your having been so kind to him.”
“It was right. I was glad to do it.”
“What do you think caused his illness?”
“Doctor Mason said it was probably some severe mental shock.”
Nathanael looked alarmed. “Indeed! and did the rest of the family know
anything?--guess anything?”
“Nothing.”
Her husband fixed on her a penetrating gaze; she returned it steadily.
“Agatha,” he hurriedly said, “you are a sensible girl--more so than any
of my sisters. I want to consult with you alone. Come and walk up and
down the room with me where they cannot overhear us.”
She did so. How strange it was!
“Do you think my father had any sudden ill news? Did he see any person
yesterday?”
“A stranger came to him. Your brother's lawyer, Mr. Grimes.”
“Grimes? Oh, my poor father!”
He sat down abruptly. Agatha wondered at his mingling the two names.
What should Grimes have to do with his father?
“Did any one else see Grimes?”
“I did.”
“What did he say to you? Was it”--he dropped his head, and spoke half
inaudibly--“Was it anything about my brother?”
Agatha marvelled, even with a sort of pain. Father, brother, every one
before her! “He never named Major Harper, that I can remember. But he
said”--
“What?”
Agatha drew back. How could she speak of such petty things as money and
fortune then! She answered softly, and with a full heart:
“Never mind. It was a mere trifle, not worth telling, or even thinking
of now. Another time.”
Nathanael regarded his wife doubtfully, but she bore the look. She was
speaking the simple truth. Loss of fortune did seem “a mere trifle” now,
when he was safe back again, and she sat in his presence, he talking to
her as gently as in the olden time. Her simplicity in worldly things
was so extreme that even Nathanael passed it over as impossible. He only
said:
“Well, all must come out ere long. We cannot think of it now. Tell me
more about my poor father.”
“There is little more to tell. His manner was rather strange, I thought,
all dinner-time. He drank healths as usual--especially yours. His mind
was wandering then, for he called you his _only_ son. Then Mr. Grimes
gave another toast--Major Harper. At that moment your father fell from
his chair.”
Nathanael started up--“I knew it would be so. He could not bear such
shame--my poor old father!”
“Nathanael,” cried Harrie, from the fireside group, “come and give us
your opinion. I say that he ought to be sent for at once.”
“Who?”
“Frederick”
Nathanael cried out violently, as if self-control were no longer
possible.
“Never! Here have I used every effort, smothered every feeling, made
every sacrifice, to save my poor father from knowing all this--and in
vain! You may talk as you like, but I say Frederick shall never enter
these doors. He is as good as his father's murderer.”
“Hush!” cried Anne Valery, going to him while the others stood aghast.
She only knew what fearful storms can be roused in these quiet natures.
“I will not hush. I have been silent too long over his wrong-doing.”
“But some”--breathed Anne scarce audibly--“some whom he wronged have
been silent for a lifetime.”
Nathanael paused; Anne's reasoning was from facts unknown to him; but he
saw the agony in her face. She continued in a whisper:
“Be slow to judge him, if only for his sisters' sakes--his dead
mother's--the honour of the family.”
“I have thought only too much of all these things.”
“Then, for his father's sake--his father, who is going away to the
other world leaving a son unforgiven. Beware how you not only take your
brother's birthright, but seal your brother's curse.”
“God forbid. Oh, Anne--Anne!”
He pressed his hand over his eyes, and leaned back a moment--leaning,
though he did not know it, against his wife, who had stolen behind his
chair. No one else came near; they all shrank from their brother as if
he were suddenly gone mad. Looking up, he saw only Miss Valery.
“Forgive me, Anne; I cannot control myself as I used to do: I have been
very ill lately, but don't tell my wife.”
Anne took no notice; perhaps she wished the wife should learn the
husband's real heart as she--his old friend--knew it.
“Don't think I would harm Frederick. Not for worlds. Do you know,” and
his voice lowered, “I dare not trust myself even to be just over his
misdeeds, lest I should be slaying my enemy.”
“Your enemy? It is too hard a word.”
“No! it is true.” He glanced round, perceiving no one near but Miss
Valery. “Anne,” he whispered, “do you remember the parable of Nathan?
Why did he do it--the cruel rich man who had enjoyed so much all his
life? Why did he steal my one little ewe-lamb?”
“Stay!” cried Anne, with a sudden suspicion waking in her. “I don't
clearly understand. Tell me again.”
“No, no,” he said recovering himself. “I have nothing to tell--But we
are wasting time. Anne, it shall be as you say.” And he drew a long hard
breath. “Which of us had best write to my brother?”
Rising, he found out who had been behind him. He looked horrified.
“Agatha!--did you overhear me?”
The suspicion wounded her to the core. Her pride and sense of justice
were alike roused.
“Have no fear, Mr. Harper,” said she; “I shall not betray your secrets.
I do not even comprehend them; except that I think it very wicked for
brothers to be such enemies.”
He made no answer.
“And,” continued Agatha, growing bolder, as she was prone to do on the
side of the mysteriously wronged, “I would have sent for Major Harper
myself, had not your father seemed unwilling. But the eldest son ought
to be here.”
“He shall be--your husband will write,” interposed Miss Valery.
The husband moved away. He had thoroughly frozen up again into the
Nathanael of old, whose coldness jarred against every ardent impulse of
Agatha's temperament--rousing, irritating her into opposition.
“There is no need for him to trouble himself. What was right to be done
has luckily not waited for _his_ doing it. Elizabeth herself informed
her brother.”
“When?”
“This afternoon. I sent the letter myself to Mr. Trenchard's, where I
found out he had been staying.”
As Mrs. Harper said this, her husband's eyes literally glared.
“You knew where he was staying?--Agatha--Agatha?”
But Agatha's look was fixed on the door, to which her sisters-in-law had
gathered hastily. There was a talking outside--a welcome as it seemed.
She forgot everything except her sense of right and justice to one
unwarrantably and unaccountably blamed.
“It is surely he,” she cried, and ran eagerly forward.
“Nathanael!”
“Frederick!”
The two brothers, elder and younger, stood confronting each other.