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 pa.s.sive as death, without death's sanct.i.ty 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 a.s.sent, 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, compa.s.sionately, "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?"