"You are not well--I am sure of it."

"Indeed!" said Mr. Grimes, who was following close behind, with the very reluctant Miss Mary towering over his petty head. "No wonder that Mr.

Harper is not quite well to-day."

The Squire swerved aside, like an old steed goaded by the whip, then rose to his full height, which was taller than either of his sons--the Harpers of ancient time were a lofty generation.

"Mr. Grimes, I a.s.sure you I am quite well. Will you do me the honour to cease your anxiety about me, and lead in my daughter to her seat?"

Grimes pa.s.sed on--quenched. There was something in "the grand old name of gentleman" that threw around its owner an atmosphere in which plebeian intruders could not breathe.

"A person, Agatha," whispered the Squire, as his eyes, bright with something of their old glow, followed the evidently objectionable guest--"A person to whom I show civility for the sake of--of my family."

Agatha a.s.sented, though not quite certain to what. Scanning Mr.

Grimes more narrowly, she faintly remembered him, and the unpleasant, nasal-toned voice which had gabbled through her marriage settlement. She wondered what he had come to Nathanael for?--why Nathanael's father paid him such attention?

On her part, the sensation of dislike, unaccountable yet instinctive dislike, was so strong, that it would have been a real satisfaction to her mind if the footmen, instead of respectfully handing Mr. Grimes his soup, had handed himself out at the dining-room window.

The dinner pa.s.sed in grave formality. Even Mr. Grimes seemed out of his element, being evidently, as Eulalie had said, "not _quite_ a gentleman," either by birth or breeding, and lacking that something which makes the grandest gentlemen of all--Nature's. He tried now and then to open a conversation with the Miss Harpers, but Eulalie sneered at him aside, and Mary was politely dignified. Agatha took very little notice of him--her attention was absorbed by her father-in-law.

Mr. Harper looked old--very old. His hands, blanched to a yellowish whiteness, moved about loosely and uncertainly. Once the large diamond mourning ring which the widower always wore, "In memory of Catherine Harper," dropped off on the table-cloth. He did not perceive the loss until Agatha restored it, and then his fingers seemed unable to slip it on again, until his daughter-in-law aided him. In so doing, the clammy, nerveless feel of the old man's hand made her start.

"Thank you, Mrs. Harper," he said, acknowledging her a.s.sistance with his most solemn bend. "And Catherine--Agatha, I mean, if you would be so kind--that is"--

"Yes? observed Agatha, inquiringly, as he made a long pause.

"To--remind me after dinner, my dear. I have duties now--important duties.--My friends!" Here he raised himself in his chair, looked round the dessert-laden table with one of his old smiles, half condescending, half good-humoured, then vainly put his hand on the large claret jug, which Agatha had to lift and guide to her gla.s.s--"My friends, I am delighted to see you all. And on this happy occasion let me have the honour of giving the first toast. The Reverend Frederick Harper and Mistress Mary Harper."

Mary and Eulalie drew back. "That is grandfather and grandmother--dead fifty years ago. What does papa mean?"

But the whisper did not reach the old man, who drank the toast with all solemnity. Mr. Grimes did the same, repeating it loudly, with the addition of "long life, health, and happiness." The daughters each cast down strange, shocked looks upon her untouched gla.s.s. No one spoke.

"Do you make a long stay in Dorsetshire?" observed the Squire, addressing himself courteously to his guest.

"That depends," Grimes answered, with a meaning twinkle of the eye--an eye already growing moistened with too good wine.

"Did you not say," Mary Harper continued, fancying her father looked at her to sustain the conversation--"did you not say you were intending to visit Cornwall?"

"No ma'am. Would rather be excused. As Mr. Harper knows, the place would be too hot to hold _me_ after certain circ.u.mstances."

"Sir!" The old man tried hard to gather himself up into stern dignity, and collect the ideas that where fast floating from him. "Sir," he repeated, first haughtily, and then with a violence so rare to his rigidly gentlemanly demeanour that his daughters looked alarmed--"Sir--at my table--before my family--I beg--I"--Here he suddenly recovered himself, changed his tone, and bowed--"I--beg your pardon."

"Oh, no offence, Squire; none meant, none taken. I came with the best of all intentions towards you and yours. And if things have turned out badly"--

"Did you not say you were acquainted with Cornwall?" abruptly asked Agatha, to prevent his again irritating her father-in-law, who had leaned back, sleepily. He would not close his eyes, but they looked misty and heavy, and his fingers played lazily with one another on the arm of his chair; Agatha laid her own upon them--she could not help it. She lost her fear of the repellent Mr. Harper in the old man, so helpless and feeble. She wished she had come oftener to Kingcombe Holm, and been more attentive and daughter-like to Nathanael's father.

"As to Cornwall," said Grimes, in a confidential whisper, "between you and me, Mrs. Harper, mum's the word."

Agatha drew herself up haughtily; but looked at the old Squire and grew patient. She even tried to eke out the flagging conversation, and luckily remembered the news which Duke Dugdale had that morning ridden over to communicate. She could not help thinking it very odd that no one in the house had hitherto mentioned Mr. Brian Harper's expected return.

"Shall you not be very glad, Mary, to see Uncle Brian. You have heard, of course, how soon he will be here?"

"Uncle Brian here!--And n.o.body told us. Only think, papa"--

"My dear Mary!" There was a gentleness in the Squire's voice more startling even than his violence.

"Did you know, papa, that Uncle Brian is coming home?"

"I think--I--Yes"--with a struggle at recollection--"my son-in-law told me that some commercial business which Brian is transacting for him will bring my brother home. I shall be very happy to see him. You, too, will all be delighted to see your Uncle Brian."

"An uncle? The usual rich uncle from abroad, eh?" whispered Mr. Grimes to Agatha. "I ask merely for your own sake, ma'am, and that of my friend Nathanael."

Agatha curled her lip. That the fellow should dare to speak of "my friend Nathanael!" She glanced at Mary that they might leave the drawing-room, when seeing her father-in-law was about to speak she paused.

The old Squire rose in his customary manner of giving healths. His voice was quavering but loud, as if he could scarcely hear it himself, and tried to make it rise above a whirl of sounds that filled his brain. "My friends and children--my"--here he looked uncertainly at Agatha--"Yes, I remember, my daughter-in-law--allow me to give one toast more--Health, long life, and every blessing to my son--my youngest, worthiest, _only_ remaining son and heir, Nathanael."

"_Only_ son!"--Every one recoiled. The worn-out brain had certainly given way. Mary and Eulalie exchanged frightened glances. Agatha alone, touched by the unexpected tribute to her husband, did not notice the one momentous word.

"Now, Squire, that's hardly fair," cried Mr. Grimes, bursting into a hoa.r.s.e vinous laugh. "A man may go wrong sometimes, but to be thrown overboard for it, and by one's father, too--think better of it, old fellow. And ladies by way of an antidote, allow me to give a toast--Success to my worthy and honourable--_exceedingly_ honourable client, Major Frederick Harper."

The old Squire leaped up in his chair, with eyes starting from their sockets. His lips gurgled out some inarticulate sound scarcely human; his right arm shook and quivered with his vain efforts to raise it; still it hung nerveless by his side. Consciousness and will yet lingered in his brain, but physical life and speech had gone for ever. He fell down struck by that living death--that worse than death, of old age--paralysis.

CHAPTER XXIII.

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 a.s.sumed 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 pa.s.sing 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 pa.s.sages to the distant wing of the house which Elizabeth occupied.