The old man sat up in bed, raised on pillows; either the paralysis had not been so entire as was at first supposed, or he had slightly recovered from it. His right arm moved feebly; his tongue was loosed, though only in a half-intelligible jabber. But his countenance showed that, however lay the miserable body, the poor old man was in his right mind. Alas! that mind was not at peace, not lighted with the holy glow cast on the dying by the world to come, It was filled with rage and torment.

Nathanael ran to him, "Father, father, you will destroy yourself. What is it you want?"

The answer was unintelligible to his son, but Agatha gathered from it that the chamber-door was to be shut and bolted. She did so; yet even then the sick man's fury scarce abated. Broken words--curses that the helpless lips refused to ratify; terrible outbursts of wrath, mingled with the piteous moan of senility. Last of all came the name, once given proudly by the young father to his first-born, and now gasped out with maledictions from the same father's dying lips--"Frederick."

Nathanael and Agatha looked at one another with horror. They both knew that the old Squire was bent on driving from his death-bed his own, his first-born son.

Agatha instinctively held down the palsied hands, which were trying to lift themselves towards heaven--not in prayers!

"Father, don't say--don't even think such terrible things. Whatever he has done, forgive him!--for the love of G.o.d, forgive him!"

The old man regarded her, and his excitement seemed redoubled. Agatha fancied it was the father's pride, dreading lest she, a stranger, knew the cause of his anger.

"No, no!" she cried, "I scarcely understand anything; my husband would not tell me. Whatever has happened can all be hushed up. We would forgive anything to a brother--oh, would we not?" And she appealed to Nathanael, who stood motionless, great drops lying on his forehead, though his features were so still.

"It is true, father," he whispered. "No one knows anything but me, and I have kept your honour safe that he might redeem it some time. Perhaps he may. And remember, he is your son--the first-born of his mother. Hush, Agatha!" Nathanael continued, as he saw a sudden change come over the old man's face. "Don't say any more now. Leave me to talk with my father."

With the grave tenderness that he always showed her, he took his wife by the hand, led her to the door, and closed it. Greatly moved, yet feeling satisfied he would do what was right, Agatha obeyed and went down-stairs.

The sisters and brother were a.s.sembled in the study. Marmaduke was there too, but took little part in the family lamentation, except in keeping a perpetual tender watch over the grief of his own Harrie. Anne Valery was absent.

Frederick Harper sat apart. A sullen gloom had succeeded to his misery--with him no feeling ever lasted long, at least in the same form.

Harriet and Eulalie were inspecting with great curiosity their elder brother, whose presence among his long-estranged household seemed accompanied with such a mysterious discomfort. They eyed him doubtfully, as if he had done something very wrong that n.o.body knew of. Mary only, who was next eldest to himself, ventured to address some kind words, and bestir herself about his comfort.

Thus the family sat, Agatha among them, for more than an hour. No one thought of going to bed. All remained together, in a strangely quiet, subdued state, Major Harper being with them all the time, though he hardly spoke, or they to him. He seemed a stranger in his father's house.

Once when he had gone for a few minutes to Elizabeth's room--he had been with Elizabeth long before his coming was known to any of the rest, it was believed--Mary began in her lengthy wandering way to tell anecdotes of his boyish doings; how handsome he was, and how naughty too; and how, when he got into disgrace, she, by the scheming of Elizabeth, used secretly to carry bread-and-honey and apples to his bedroom. And she wiped her eyes, the good, plain-looking sister Mary, saying over and over again,

"Poor Fred!" She never thought of him, like the world, as "Major Frederick Harper," but only as "Poor Fred!"

Several times Agatha stole up-stairs to the door of the room which enclosed the sorrow-mystery of the house. It was always shut, but she could hear Nathanael's voice within--his soft, kind voice, talking quietly by the bedside.

"I never see anything like 'un," said the coachman's wife, who sat without the door. "He do manage th' Squire just as the poor dear Missus did. He do talk just like his mother." And that was evidently the perfection of everything in the old woman's eyes.

Agatha sat down beside her on the staircase, listening to the wind without, that swept fiercely over the hollow in which Kingcombe Holm lay, as if ready to bear away on its pinions a departing soul. It was an awful night to die in. Agatha listened, sensitive to every one of its terrors. But above them all--above the shadow of coming death, fear of the future, anxiety in the present--rose one thought--the thought of her husband.

It gave her no pain--it gave her no joy--yet there it was, a visible image sitting strong and calm in the half-lighted chamber of her heart, every feeling of which crept to its feet and lay there, like priestesses in the twilight before a veiled G.o.d.

Nathanael at last opened the door. He looked like one who has struggled and conquered not only with things without, but things within. His face had all the pallor, but likewise all the peace of victory. Agatha rose to meet him.

"Have you been waiting for me this long while? Good child!" And he smiled, but solemnly, as with an inward sense of the Presence which makes all things equal--softens all asperities and calms all pa.s.sions.

"Do you know where my brother is?" asked Nathanael.

"Down-stairs, with the rest."

"Will you go and fetch him?"

Agatha looked up at her husband half incredulously. "Have you then succeeded? Is all made right?"

"Yes."

"Oh, how good--how good you are!" She grasped his hands and kissed them, her eyes floating in tears; then, lest he should be displeased, ran quickly away.

Miss Valery met her at the stairhead, coming from the gallery where were Elizabeth's rooms. They exchanged the usual question, "How is he now?"

and then Agatha said:

"Be glad with me! I am sent to fetch Major Harper."

Anne pressed her hand. "Go and tell him. He is with Elizabeth."

And there Agatha found him overcome with grief--the gay, handsome Major Harper! steadfast neither in good nor evil. He sat, his head bent, his hair falling disordered, its greyness showing, oh! so plain. Plainer still were the wrinkles which a life of smiles had carved only the deeper round the mouth--token of how near upon him was creeping a desolate unhonoured age. By his side, talking softly, with his hand in hers, lay the crippled sister, perhaps the only living creature who really loved him.

"Major Harper," Agatha spoke softly, laying her hand upon his shoulder.

The poor broken-down man, dropping into old age! there was no fear of his thinking she was in love with him now.

"Well, what do you want?"

"I am sent to fetch you to your father."

He looked incredulous;--Agatha repeated her message.

"My husband sent me. Your father wishes very much to see you. Come."

"Elizabeth!" He turned to her as if she could make him understand this incomprehensible news.

Elizabeth clasped his hand and loosed it. She said nothing, but Agatha saw she was weeping for joy. Her brother rose and went through the long gallery they pa.s.sed, his sister-in-law carrying the light, and leading him. He had quite forgotten his courteous manners now. Agatha thought of the days in London--when he had escorted her to operas, and murmured over her in drawing-rooms, making her so happy and honoured in his notice. Poor Major Harper! How vain were all the shows of his brilliant life, the men who had courted him, the women who had flattered and admired him! Agatha forgave him all his follies--ay even all the hearts he had broken. There was not one of those poor hearts, not one, on which he could rest his tired head now!

At the door of their father's room Nathanael met him, a new and more righteous Jacob dealing with a more desolate Esau. And like Esau's was the cry that broke from Frederick Harper as he went in and flung himself on his knees by the bed.

"_Bless me--even me also--O' my father._"

There was no answer. The words of forgiveness were denied his hearing.

The old Squire could but look at his son, and move his lips in an articulate murmur.

Agatha ran to Major Harper's side. It was pitiful to see the shock he had received, and the frenzied way in which he called upon his father to speak--if only one word.

"He cannot speak, you know, but he does indeed forgive you. Be sure that he forgives you!"

Her husband drew her away to the little curtained alcove which had been Mrs. Harper's dressing-room. There they stood, close together--for Nathanael did not let her go, and she clung to him in tears--while the father and son had their reconciliation.

It was silent throughout, for after the first burst, Major Harper was not heard to speak. Now and then came a sound like the smothered sob of a boy. No one saw the faces of father and son; they were bent together, just as when, years upon years ago, the proud father had sometimes condescended to let his baby son, his first-born and heir, go to sleep upon his shoulder.

Thus, after many minutes, Nathanael found them lying.

He held the curtain aside to see his father's countenance; it was very peaceful now, though with a dimness gathering in the open eyes. Agatha had never before seen that look--the unmistakable shadow of death. She shrank back, trembling violently. Her husband put his arm round her.

"Do not be afraid, my child," he whispered, using the old word and tone.