"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 G.o.d. 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 pa.s.sed 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. Th.o.r.n.ycroft.

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 pa.s.sion 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 pa.s.sages 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 circ.u.mstances, but now--

"G.o.d 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.