And the black, black cloud fell over her; the near vision of an existence wherein _he_ was not--the going home a widow--or worse, because she could never have the certainty of widowhood. To be incessantly watching by day, and starting up at night, with the thought that he was come! Never to know when, where, or in what manner he died; to have no last blessing--no last kiss! At the moment, Agatha would have given her whole future life--nay, her immortal soul--to cling for one minute round her husband's neck and tell him how she loved him--with the one perfect love which nothing now could ever alter, weaken, or estrange.

Mr. Dugdale moved aside. He knew that for this burst of anguish there was no consolation. After a time, he came and said those few soothing words which are all that people can say, without being those "miserable comforters" who only torture the more.

Even then, in that last moment of anguish, there was power in the good and soothing influence so peculiar to Marmaduke Dugdale. Agatha grew calmer--at least more pa.s.sive. Soon, she saw that the little steamer's head was turned to the sh.o.r.e. A convulsion pa.s.sed over her, but she did not rebel.

"There is a faint hope even yet," said Duke, with a melancholy voice that almost gave the lie to his words. "They may have drifted safe ash.o.r.e somewhere--though it would be almost a miracle. Or they may have been carried far out to sea, and been picked up by some outward-bound ship. It's just a chance--but"--

Agatha understood that "but" Nothing but strong conviction would have forced it from her brother-in-law's lips. Her last hope died.

An hour or two more they spent in gliding up the narrow channel of that salt-water swamp, which at high tide appeared so glittering from the Thornhurst road. When approached, it was a muddy chaos, desolate as an uninhabited world.

They went as far up-stream as the little steamer could run, and then landed on the bank which ab.u.t.ted on some rushy meadows. It was a dark winter's night--there was not a soul abroad, though some faint light showed they were near the town. The bells of Kingcombe Church were ringing merrily through the mist.

"I had quite forgotten," muttered Duke to himself. "This must be Christmas-eve."

What a Christmas-eve!

He half led, half lifted Agatha through the wet fields and along the road.

"You will go to my house, and let the Missus and me take care of you, my child?"

"No, no; I will go home!"

So, without any further argument, he took her to her own gate. There it was, the familiar gate, with its shiny evergreens glittering in the lamp-light; beyond it, the dusky line of Kingcombe Street.. The cottage within was all dark, except for the faintest ray creeping under the hall-door. Marmaduke opened it, and called Dorcas. She came, and when she saw them, rushed forward sobbing.

"Oh, missus, missus--is it my missus?"

It was indeed the sorrowful mistress, who stood like a spectre in her desolate home. But Dorcas dragged her in, and opened the parlour-door.

There was an odour of warmth--bright light, which so dazzled Agatha that at first she saw nothing. Then she saw some one lying on the sofa.

And lo! there--half-buried in pillows, haggard and death-like, yet alive--was a face she knew--a calm, sleeping face--falling round it the long light hair.

CHAPTER x.x.x.

It was Christmas morning. All the good people of Kingcombe were going to church. One only household did not go to church--there was hardly need, when all their life henceforward would be one long grateful psalm.

Agatha came down much as she had done on her first Sunday morning in the same house, and made breakfast in the little parlour. There was a strange hush about her--a joy too solemn for outward expression. When she had finished all her preparations, she stood by the window, looking on the sunny little garden, and listening to the Christ-mas-bells. The tears sprang faster--faster--her lips moved. What she was uttering no ear heard--save One. Whatever the good Kingcombe people thought, He to whom the whole earth is a temple, and all time a long Sabbath of praise--would forgive her that she did not go to church that day.

She heard a foot on the stairs, and ran thither like lightning.

Nathanael appeared. He was extremely feeble--every motion seemed to give him pain;--and his whole appearance was that of one rescued from the very jaws of the grave. But he looked so happy--so infinitely happy!

Agatha half-scolded him. "Why did you not call me? Why not let me help you to walk? I can do it, I know." And creeping under his arm, she tried to convert her little self into a marvellously strong support.

Her husband only smiled, allowing himself to be led to the sofa, laid down, and made comfortable with countless pillows. Then she stood and looked at him.

"Are you content?"

"Quite content," he murmured. "So content, that I want nothing in this wide world."

And by his look his wife knew that this was true.

"Agatha, darling, you have been crying? Come and sit here."

She came--making a minute's pretence of smiles, and then fell on his neck, weeping,

"Oh! I don't deserve to be so happy--so very happy!"

"Child," he answered, with a grave tenderness, "if we went by desert, who among us would deserve anything? Should I, who was so hard and cold towards my poor little wife, when, if I had said one word out of my real heart, and not kept it down so proudly--Ah! I was very wicked. I, too, did not deserve that G.o.d should save me from death, and bring me home to my dear wife's love. Darling! don't let us talk of deservings; only let us try to be good, and always, always love one another."

Oh, the heavenly silence of that embrace, the life of life, that was in it! Now for the first time the bond of full and perfect love was drawn round the husband and wife, sacredly shutting them in from the world without, which could never more come between them, or intermeddle with their sorrows or their joys.

At length Agatha freed herself gently from his clasp, saying, after her old habit of hiding emotion under a jest, something about the impossibility that the mistress of a household could idle away her time in this way. She made her husband's breakfast, and insisted on watching him finish it.

Drinking, he said with a shudder, "Oh, Agatha, you don't know what it is to be thirsty! The hunger was nothing to it."

"Don't talk of that, don't," murmured she, turning pale.

"I will not, dear. But was it not strange that we should have drifted ash.o.r.e at Weymouth?"

"Very strange."

"Have you sent over the way this morning, to see after Uncle Brian?"

"Not yet; but Harrie will take care of him. He is not near so much hurt as you, and I must look after my own husband first." And once again wistfully gazing at him, she threw her arms round his neck, murmuring, "My own--my own!"

The church-bells ceased, the breakfast was removed, and the husband and wife sat together.

"Somebody," said Nathanael, suddenly--"somebody ought to go and see Anne Valery this Christmas-day.

"Does she know?"

"She knew last night. Marmaduke said he should ride over and tell her."

"What news for her to hear--dear, dear Anne!"

And they fell into a silence.

Agatha said at last, "When am I to see Uncle Brian?"

"Very soon, dear. Yet--stay--is not that some one at the door?"

It certainly was. People walked into one another's houses so very unceremoniously at Kingcombe. This visitor, however, paused in the hall, and then opened the parlour-door.

He was a remarkably tall man, with grey hair, and features not unlike Nathanael's, being regular and delicate. But their expression was much harsher, and indicative of a strong will and a settled bitterness, which only pa.s.sed over when he smiled. This smile was very beautiful, and seemed to steal from his worn and hard-lined aspect at least ten years.