"There is no need to fear for these," looking affectionately at Nathanael and his wife. "Work is good for young people; and I--or others--will always see that they have work enough supplied to bring in wherewithal to keep the wolf from their door. For the present, they are a great deal better poor than rich."

"Thank you, prudent Miss Valery," said Nathanael laughing.

She responded cheerfully, and then turning to Major Harper, went on with seriousness:

"In other instances, much suffering has been caused by your means; and I would not have it said that any suffered through the Harper family.

I have done what I could to prevent this. Matters are mending at Wheal Caroline. Nathanael tells me I shall have--that is, there will be--a fine flax-harvest there next year."

Speaking of "next year," Anne's voice faltered, but the momentary feebleness pa.s.sed.

"Still, there is one thing, Frederick, which n.o.body can do but you; and it is necessary not only to save yourself but to redeem the honour of your house. It will not cost you much--only a few years' retrenchment, living with your sisters at Kingcombe Holm."

Again Major Harper protested there was nothing in the world he would not do for the sake of virtue, and Anne Valery. She drew her desk to her, and gave him paper and pen.

"Write here, that you will pay gradually to certain shareholders I know of, the money they lost through trust in your name, and in that of the family. It is hardly a legal claim, or if it be, they are too poor to urge it--but I hold it as a bond of honour. Will you do this, Frederick?

Then I shall be happy, knowing there is not a single stain on the Harper name."

In speaking, she had risen and come beside him, looking faded, wan, and old, now that she stood upright, in her black dress, and close cap. Her beauty was altogether of the past, but the moral influence remained.

Frederick Harper took the pen, hesitated, and laid it down. "I do not know what to write."

Anne wrote for him a few plain words, such as a man of honour must inevitably hold as binding. He watched idly the movement of the hand that wrote, and the written lines.

"You have the same slender fingers, Anne, and your writing looks just as it used to do," he said, in a subdued voice.

"There, now--sign."

"Sign!--It is like witnessing a will," said Major Harper, laughing.

"I wish you to consider it so," returned Anne, in a low voice. "Consider it my last will--my last desire, which you promise to fulfil for me?"

He looked at her, took the pen, and signed, his hand trembling; then kissed hers.

"Anne, you know, you were my first love."

The words--said half jesting, yet with a certain mourn-fulness--were scarcely out of his lips, than he had quitted the room. They soon heard the clatter of his horse along the avenue. Major Harper was gone out into the busy world again. He never set foot in quiet Thornhurst more.

The three that were left behind breathed freer--perhaps they would hardly have acknowledged it, but it was so.

"Well, now it is all done," said Nathanael, as he drew closer to the sofa where Anne lay--with Agatha performing all sorts of little unnoticed cares about her. "And now I must think about going."

No one asked him where, but Agatha glancing out of the window, thought, with a shiver, of the dreadful sea curving over into boundlessness from behind those hills.

"I find I must start at once," he continued, "if I would catch the next boat to Havre. It sails from Southampton to-morrow morning. I have just time to ride back to Kingcombe and catch the mail train. No, I'll not let you come home with me," he added, answering a timid look of Agatha's, which seemed to ask, should she come and help him? "No, dear, I can help myself--such a useful-handed fellow doesn't want a wife even to pack up for him. And, possibly, if you were with me, I should only find it the harder to go. It is rather hard."

"But it is right"

"I think," said Anne--they had not known she was listening--"I think it is right, or I would not let Nathanael go. And Heaven will take care of him, and bring him safe home to you, Agatha. Be content."

"I was content," she said, somewhat lightly. It was a strange thing, but yet human nature, that her husband's fits of pa.s.sionate tenderness only seemed to make her own feelings grow calm. Whether it was the shyness of her girlhood, or the variableness of a love not spontaneous but slowly responsive, or whether--a feeling wrong, yet alas! wondrously natural--it was the mere wilfulness of a woman who knows herself to be infinitely beloved, certain it was that Agatha appeared not quite the same as a few hours before. Affectionate still, and happy, happier than it is the nature of deep love to be; yet there was a something wanting--some strong stroke to cleave her heart, and show beyond all doubt what lay at its core. The heart often needs such teaching; and if so, surely--most surely it will come.

Agatha followed her husband to the hall. He was grave with his leave-taking of Anne Valery, who had looked less cheerful, and had breathed rather than spoken the last "G.o.d bless you!--Come back soon."

The young man did not again say, even to himself, anything about his journey being "hard."

But as he stood in the hall with his wife, he lingered. Youth is youth, and love is love, and each seems so real--life's only reality while it lasts. No human being, while drinking the magic cup, ever looks or listens to those who have drank, and set it down empty. Be the history ever so sad, each one thinks, smiling, "Oh, but I shall be happier than these."

Nathanael took his wife in his arms to bid her good-bye. She stood, looking down; bashful, reserved, but so fair! And so good likewise--all her girlish whims could not hide her heart-goodness. In her whole demeanour was the germ of that n.o.ble womanhood which every good man wishes his wife to possess, that she may become his heart of hearts, the desired and honoured of his soul, and remain such, long after all pa.s.sion dies. There was one thing only wanting in her--the light which played waveringly in and out--sometimes flashing so true and warm and bright, and then disappearing into clouds and mist. The husband could not catch it--not though his eyes were thirsting for the blessed ray.

"These few days will seem a long time, Agatha."

"Will they?"

Nathanael took the smiling face between his hands, and looked down, far down, into the brown depths of her eyes.

"Do you"--He hesitated. "I never asked the question before, knowing it vain; but now, when I am going away--when"--

He paused, the deep pa.s.sion quivering through his voice.--"Do you love me, Agatha?"

She smiled--some insane, wicked influence must have been upon her--but she smiled, hung her head in childish fashion, and whispered, "I don't quite know."

"Well--well!" He sighed, and after a brief silence bade her good-bye, kissed her once, and went towards the door.

"Ah--don't go yet. I was very foolish. I never, never can be half so wise as you. Forgive me."

"Forgive you, my child? Ay, anything." And he received her as she ran into his arms, kissing her again tenderly, with a sad earnestness that almost increased his love.

"Now I must go, my darling wife. Take care of yourself, and good-bye."

So they parted. Agatha went in dry-eyed; then locked herself in the library, and cried violently and long.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

"They are sure to be home to-morrow; nothing can prevent their being home to-morrow," said Agatha, as she read over neither for the first time, nor the second, nor the third, her husband's letter, received from Havre.

It was night now, and they were sitting by the fire in Miss Valery's dressing-room. It had been one of Anne's best days; a wonderfully good day; she had walked about the house, and given several orders to her delighted servants, who, old as they were, would have obeyed the most onerous commands for the pleasure of seeing their mistress strong enough to give them. Some, however, wondered why she should be so particular about the order of a house that never was in disorder, and especially why various furniture arrangements which had gradually in the course of time been altered, should be pertinaciously restored, so that all things might look just as they did years and years ago. Also, though it was a few days in advance of the orthodox day, she would have the house adorned with "Christmas," until it looked a perfect bower.

"It do seem, Mrs. Harper," said the old housekeeper, confidentially--"it do seem just as on the last merry Christmas, afore the family was broke up, and Mr. Frederick turned soldier, and Mr. Locke Harper--that's his uncle--went away with little Master Nathanael, Mr. Locke Harper as is now."

And Agatha had laughed very heartily at the idea of her husband being "little Master Nathanael;" but she had not told this conversation to Anne Valery.

All afternoon the house had been oppressively lively, thanks to a visit from the Dugdale children; which little elves were sent out of the way while their mother performed the not unnecessary duty of putting her establishment in order. For Harrie was determined that her house, and none other, should have the honour of receiving Uncle Brian. As Nathanael had taken for granted the same thing, and as Mary Harper had likewise communicated her opinion, that it was against all etiquette for her poor father's only brother to be welcomed anywhere but at Kingcombe Holm, there seemed likely to be a tolerable family fight over the possession of the said Uncle Brian.

The little Dugdales had talked of him incessantly all day, communicating their expectations concerning him in such a funny fashion that Agatha was ready to die with laughing, and even Anne, who had insisted on having the children about her, was heard to laugh sometimes. She let little Brian climb about her sofa, and answered all sorts of eccentric questions from the others, never seeming weary. At last, when the sound of merry, young voices had died out of the house, and its large, lofty rooms grew solemn with the wailing of the wind, Anne had retreated to her dressing-room, where she sat watching the fire-light, or answering in fragments to Agatha's conversation.

This conversation was wandering enough; catching up various topics, and then letting them drop like broken threads, but all winding themselves into one and the same subject "They will be home to-morrow."