"T' Squire do want'ee very bad, Missus. Here!" And the old coachman, almost as old as his master, gave to Mrs. Harper a note, which was only the second she had ever received from her husband's father. It was a crabbed, ancient hand, blotted and blurred, then steadied resolutely into the preciseness of a school-boy--one of those pathetic fragments of writing that irresistibly remind one of the trembling failing hand--the hand that once wrote brave love-letters.

"You are highly favoured; my father rarely writes to any one. What does he say?" cried Harrie, rather jealous.

Agatha read aloud:

"My dear Daughter-in-law,

"Will you honour me by dining here to-day, without fail?

"I remain, always your affectionate Father,

"Nathanael Harper."

"'Your affectionate Father,'" repeated Mrs. Dugdale. "He hardly ever signed that to me in his life, though I am his very own daughter, and his eldest too. He never signed so to anybody but Fred. Bah! what a big blot He is almost past writing, poor dear man! Come, Agatha, you cannot refuse; you must go."

"She must indeed," echoed Anne Valery.

"Even though the Squire has been so rude as never to ask me or Duke, though Duke saw him this very morning, when he rode over to Kingcombe Holm to tell the news about Uncle Brian.--Bless us, Anne, don't look so. Is there anything astonishing in my father's letter? How very queer everybody seems to-day!"

Agatha felt Miss Valery draw her aside.

"You will surely go, my dear, since he wishes it."

"But if I don't wish it--if I had far rather stay with you! Why are you so anxious for my leaving you?"

"Are you angry with me again, my child?"--Agatha clung to her fondly.

"Then go. Behave specially well to your husband's father. And stay--say I am coming to see him to-morrow."

"But you cannot--you are not strong."

"Oh yes, very strong," Anne returned hastily. "Only go. I will stay contentedly with Dorcas."

Agatha went, very much against her will She had shut herself up entirely for so long. It was a torment to see any one, above all her husband's family, who of course were constantly talking and inquiring about him.

The stateliness of Kingcombe Holm chafed her beyond endurance; Mary's good-natured regrets, and Eulalie's malicious prying condolings; worst of all the penetration of Elizabeth. She fancied that they and all Kingcombe were pointing the finger at "poor Mrs. Locke Harper."

Pondering over all these things during the solitary drive, her good resolutions faded out from her, and her heart began to burn anew. It was so hard!

She crossed the hall--the same hall where she had alighted when Nathanael first brought her home. It looked dusky and dim, as then.

She almost expected to see him appear from some corner, with his light, quick step and his long fair hair.

It was hard indeed--too hard! She hurried through, and never looked behind.

Eulalie and Mary were sitting solemnly in the drawing-room.

"So you are come, Mrs. Harper. We never thought you would come again. We thought you would sit for ever pining in your cage till your mate came back again. What a naughty wandering bird he is!"

"Don't, Eulalie. No teasing. I am sure we were all very sorry for your loneliness, dear Agatha."

"Thank you for giving yourselves that trouble."

"Oh, no trouble at all," said the well-meaning and simple Mary. "And we would have come to see you or fetched you here, but I had to go so much to Thornhurst while Anne was ill, and Eulalie--somehow--I don't know--but Eulalie is always busy."

Eulalie, whose hardest toil was looking in the gla.s.s, and patting her dog's ears, a.s.sented apologetically. Perhaps she read something in her sister-in-law's face which showed her that Agatha was not to be trifled with.

"Will you go up and see Elizabeth? She has often asked for you."

"Has she? I will go after dinner," briefly answered Agatha She would not be got rid of in that way.

"Shall we sit and talk then, till my father comes in with that queer little man who has been with him all day? about whom Mary and I have been vainly puzzling our brains. Such an ugly little fellow, and, between you and me, not _quite_ a gentleman. I wonder at papa's asking him to stay and dine. I shan't do the civil to him; you may."

"Thanks for the permission."

"Perhaps that is the very reason Papa sent for you," continued Eulalie, stretching herself out on the sofa. "The person said he knew you, and asked Mary where you were living, and whether you were very happy together, you and your husband."

Agatha rose abruptly, dashing down a heavy volume that lay on her knee--she certainly had not a mild temper. While she wavered between reining in her anger as she had last night vowed, and pouring upon Eulalie all the storm of her roused pa.s.sions--the door opened, and Mr.

Harper entered with his much-depreciated guest.

The old gentleman was dressed with unusual care, and walked with even more of slow stateliness than ordinary. He met Agatha with his customary kindness.

"Welcome. You have been somewhat of a stranger lately. It must not happen again, my dear." And drawing her arm through his, he faced the "little ugly fellow" of Eulalie's dislike.

"Mr. Grimes, let me present you to my son's wife, Mrs. Locke Harper."

"You forget, sir," interrupted Grimes, importantly; "I have long ago had that honour, through Major"--

The old Squire started, put his hand to his forehead--"Yes, yes, I did forget. My memory, sir--my memory is as good as ever it was."

The sharp contradictory ending of his speech, the colour rising to the old man's cheek and forehead, whence it did not sink, but lay steadily, a heavy, purple blotch, attracted Agatha's notice--certainly more than Mr. Grimes did.

"I had the honour, Mrs. Harper," said the latter, bowing, "to be present when your marriage settlement was signed. I had likewise the honour of preparing the deed, by the wish and according to the express orders of Major Har"--

"That is sufficient," interrupted the Squire. "Sir, I never burden ladies with the wearisomeness of legal discussion.--Did you drive or ride here, Agatha?"

"If you remember, you sent the carriage for me."

"Yes, yes--of course," returned the old man. "It was a pleasant drive, was it? Your husband enjoyed it too?"

"My husband is in Cornwall"

"Certainly. I understand."

Which was more than Agatha did. She could not make him out at all. The wandering eye, dulled with more than mere age--for it had been his pride that the Harper eye always sparkled to the last; the accidental twitches about the mouth, which hung loosely, and seemed unable to control its muscles; above all, the extraordinary and sudden lapse of a memory which had hitherto been wonderful for his years. There was something not right, some hidden wheel broken or locked in the mysterious mechanism that we call human life.

Agatha felt uneasy. She wished Nathanael had been at home: and began to consider whether some one--not herself--ought not to write and hint that his father did not seem quite well.

Meanwhile, she closely watched the old man, who seemed this day to show her more kindness and attention than ever,--there was no mistaking that.

He kept her constantly at his side, talking to her with marked courtesy.

Once she saw his eyes--those poor, dull, restless eyes, fixed on her with an expression that was quite unaccountable. Going in to dinner, his step, which began measured and stately, suddenly tottered. Agatha caught his arm.