"Ay, there's the pity--there's the wickedness," said Nathanael, beneath his breath. "People tell me such things are common in England, but I would have starved rather than have been mixed up in such a transaction, even in the smallest way, and with property that was bona fide my own."

"And," said Agatha, slowly understanding, "this property was not Major Harper's own. Also, his doing the thing secretly afterwards, and leading you to believe what was--not quite true. I must say it, I think it was very wrong of your brother."

"Don't let us talk of him more than we can help. Remember--a brother, Agatha!"

More light dawning on his strange conduct, his self-command, his secrecy even with her. His wife clung to his arm, her heart br.i.m.m.i.n.g with emotion that she dared not pour out. For he seemed inclined to be reserved even now.

"You see," he added, as they walked along, "I have had some few things to try me."

Agatha pressed his arm. Oh that she could break through that awe of him and his goodness, that shame of her own foolish erring self!

"Agatha," he said, stopping suddenly, "the thing that hurt me was my father. If only he had died a month ago, and never heard of this!"

If only now Agatha could speak! But she felt choking. They walked past the windows and looked in. "There is Anne sitting by herself as she used to sit, watching Fred and me in the garden. He was such a handsome, gay young man. I felt so proud of being his little brother. And my poor father--he had not a hope in the world that did not rest on Frederick."

He walked on rapidly back into the shadiest and darkest walk. There he stopped. "Agatha," taking both her hands, and reading her features closely--"Agatha, would you be very unhappy if we went back and lived, poor, in the little cottage?"

"Unhappy? I?"

"I would try that you should not be. I can earn quite enough to give you many comforts. We should not be any more content if we claimed our rights and lived in prosperity at Kingcombe Holm."

"Oh, no!"

"Besides, I am not sure that these are our rights, morally speaking. I think, if my father had lived long enough, he would have undone what he did in a moment of pa.s.sion, and let the first will stand. This is what I have said to myself, when considering that I have duties towards my wife as well as towards others, and that this would restore what was taken from her. 'An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.' But, Agatha, we would not urge that law?"

"Never! G.o.d forbid! And Major Harper was so kind to me when I was an orphan."

"_Only_ kind? Did he never--No, I am getting foolish. Say on, Agatha.

Come, sit here; we can talk, and n.o.body can see or hear us." And he led his wife to a sheltered arbutus-bower. "Well, was my brother so kind to you?"

"He was, indeed. For the sake of that time I would forgive him anything; I have already forgiven him a good deal."

"Indeed? Tell me or not, as you choose; I urge no right to pry into your secrets."

"Oh, don't look, don't speak in that way! Why should I not tell you?

I would have told you before, had you asked. It was nothing--indeed nothing. But I was a proud girl, and he made me angry with him."

"For what cause?"

She grew confused--hesitated; the shamefacedness of girlhood came over her. "I will tell you," she said at last boldly. "It is surely no harm to tell anything to my husband:--Major Harper once said to Emma Th.o.r.n.ycroft, that he thought I was 'in love' with him."

"Well!"

"It was cruel, it was wicked, it insulted my pride. And more than that--it wounded me to the heart that _he_ should say so."

"Was it--don't speak if you don't like--was it _true_?"

"No," cried Agatha, the blood rushing in a torrent over her face. "No, it was not true. I liked, I admired him, in a free girlish way; but I never, never loved him."

There was a minute's hush in the arbutus-bower, and then Nathanael sank down to his wife's side--down, lower yet, to her very feet. He wrapped his arms round her waist, laying his head in her lap. His whole frame shook convulsively.

"Oh Heaven! You surely did not think _that?_" cried Agatha, appalled.

"I did, ever since the day we were married. I heard him say so in the church.--He repeated it to me afterwards.--And it was a lie! Curse"--

"No, no, forgive him!" And Agatha sobbed on her husband's neck, clasped by him as she never thought he would clasp her in this world.

At last he rose, pale and sad. "There is other forgiveness needed. I have been very cruel to you, Agatha. I had made him a promise, and to it I sacrificed myself and you too, without remorse. But now you see how it was. I could have judged my brother that I loved; I dared not _slay my enemy._"

The only answer was a soft hand-pressure.

"I hardly know what I am about, Agatha,--not even whether or no my wife loves me; she did not when we were first married, I fear?"

Agatha drooped her head.

"Never mind, she shall love me yet; I am quite fearless now." He stood up, holding her tight in his arms, as if daring the whole world to wrest her from him. His whole aspect was changed. It was like the breaking up of an Arctic winter, when the trees bud, and the rivers pour sounding down, and the sun bursts out, reigning gloriously. For a long time they remained thus, clasped together, so motionless that the little robin of the arbutus-trees hopped on to a bough near them and began a song.

"We must go in now," said Agatha.

"Ay; we must not forget Anne, or anybody. One can do so much good when one is happy!"

"I feel so." She rose, hanging on his arm, but trembling still, almost frightened by the insanity of his joy, whirled dizzily in the torrent of his overwhelming love.

"You understand now what I had to say to you! You can guess how I mean to act as regards my brother?"

"I think I can."

"And you will give your consent? Without it I would have done nothing. I would not have taken from my wife these worldly goods, and left her only me and my love, unless she willed it so."

"I do will it."

"G.o.d bless her." He lifted Agatha from her feet, rocking her in his arms like a baby. "I always said G.o.d bless her! even when I was most wretched--most mad. I knew she was one of His angels--a woman worthy of all love, though she had none for me. I was not very cruel to her, was I?"

"No--no."

"I will never be cruel to her any more. I will smother down all my pride, my reserve, the horrible suspiciousness which is rooted in my nature. I will never doubt or wound her--only love her--only love her."

Breathless, Agatha trembled to her feet again. Her husband stood by her side--calmer now, and radiant in the beauty of his youth. Manly as he was, there was something about him which could only be expressed by the word "beautiful"--a something that, be he ever so old, would keep up his boyish likeness--his look of "the angel Gabriel."

"Let us go into the house now."

They went--those two young hearts thrilling and bounding with life and joy--into the darkening house, the hushed presence of Anne Valery.

She was lying on her sofa, very still and death-like. The white cap tied under her chin, the hands folded--the perfect silence in and about the room--it was like as if she had lain down to rest, calmly and alone, in her solitary house, and in her sleep the spirit had flown away;--away into the glorious company of angels and archangels, never to be alone any more.

But it was not so. Hearing footsteps, Anne opened her eyes, and roused herself quickly. She looked from one to the other of the young people--at the first glance she seemed to understand all A great joy flashed across her; but she said nothing. She as well as they were long used to that peculiarity of nature--which especially belonged to the Harper family--a conviction of the uselessness of talk and the sacredness of silence.

"Has my brother arrived?" said Nathanael.