made both Agatha and her companion start.
As she and the Major entered, there arose, almost like an apparition from his seat in the window-recess, the tall, slight figure of Nathanael.
“N. L.! Where on earth have you dropped from? What a very extraordinary fellow you are!” cried the elder brother.
“Perhaps unwelcome also,” said the quiet voice.
“Unwelcome—never, my dear boy! Only next time, do be a little more confidential. Here have I been telling a whole string of apparent fibs about your movements—have I not Miss Bowen? Do you not consider this brother of mine the most eccentric creature in the world?”
Agatha looked up, and met the young man's eyes. Their expression could not be mistaken; they were lover's eyes—such as never in her life she had met before. They seemed constraining her to do what out of pity or mechanical impulse she at once did—silently to hold out her hand.
Nathanael took it with his usual manner. There was no other greeting on his part or hers. Immediately afterwards he slipped away to the very farthest corner of the room.
It would be hard to say whether Agatha felt relieved or disappointed at his behaviour; but surprised she most certainly was. This was not the sort of “lover's meeting” of girlish imaginings; nor was he the sort of lover, so perfectly unobtrusive, self-restrained, and coldly calm. She was glad she had not been at the pains to write the romantically pitiful, tender refusal, which she had concocted sentence by sentence in her deeply-touched heart, during that first wakeful night He did not seem half miserable enough to need such wondrous compassion.
Freed in a measure from constraint, she became her own natural self, as women rarely, indeed never, are in the presence of those they love, or of those by whom they believe themselves loved. Neither unpleasant consciousness rested heavily on Agatha now; her demeanour was therefore very sweet, candid, and altogether pleasing.
Major Harper even forgot his benevolent precautions on Miss Bowen's account, and tried to render himself as agreeable as heretofore, talking away at a tremendous rate, and with most admirable eloquence, while his brother sat silent in a corner. The contrast between them was never so strong. But once or twice Agatha, wearied out with laughing and listening, stole a look towards the figure that she felt was sitting there; and encountered the only sign Nathanael gave—the unmistakeable “lover's eyes.” They seemed to pierce into her heart and make it quiver—not exactly with tenderness, but with the strange controlling sense by which the love of a strong nature, reticent, and self-possessed even in its utmost passion—at times appears to enfold a woman—and any true affection, whether of lover or friend, to those who have never known it, and are unconsciously pining for lack of it, comes at first like water in a thirsty land.
Miss Bowen's frank gaiety died slowly away, and she fell into more than one long reverie, which did not escape the benign notice of her guardian. He grew serious, and made an attempt to remove from her his own dangerous proximity.
“Come, N. L., it is time we vanished. You have never told me the least fragment of news from home—that is, from Kingcombe.”
“You were too much engaged, brother. But we have plenty of time.”
“Kingcombe; is that the place your father lives at?” said Mrs. lanson, who took a patronising interest in the young man. “What a pretty name! Were you aware of it, Miss Bowen?”
Agatha, for her life, could not help changing colour as she answered “Yes,” knowing perfectly well who was watching her the while, and that he and she were thinking of the same thing, namely, the brief note whose date was her only information as to the family residence of the Harpers.
“Kingcombe is as pretty as its name,” observed the elder brother—“a name more peculiar than at first seems. It was given by a loyal Harper during the Protectorate. It had been St. Mary's Abbey, but he, with pretended sanctimoniousness, changed the name, and called it Kingcombe Holm; as a gentle hint from the Dorsetshire coast to Prince Charles over the water. Ah! a clever fellow was my great-great-grandfather, Geoffrey Harper!”
All laughed at the anecdote, and the Iansons looked with additional respect on the man who thus carelessly counted his grandfathers up to the Commonwealth. But Mrs. Ianson's curiosity penetrated even to the Harpers of Queen Victoria's day.
“Indeed we can't let you two gentlemen away so early. If you have family matters to talk over, suppose we send you for half-an-hour to Miss Bowen's drawing-room! or, if they are not secrets, pray discuss them here. I am sure we are all greatly interested; are we not, Miss Bowen?”
Agatha made some unintelligible answer. She thought Nathanael's quick eyes darted from her to Mrs. lanson and back again, as if to judge whether, young-lady-like, she had told his secret to all her female friends. But there was something in Agatha's countenance which marked her out as that rare character, a woman who can hold her tongue—even in a love affair.
After a minute she looked at Mr. Harper gravely, kindly, as if to say, “You need not fear—I have not betrayed you;” and meeting her candid eyes, his suspicions vanished. He drew nearer to the circle, and began to talk.
“Mrs. lanson is very kind, but we need not hold any such solemn conclave, Frederick,” said he, smiling. “All the news that I did not unfold in my letter of yesterday, I can tell you now. I would like every one here to be interested in our good sisters and in all at home.”
“Yes—oh, yes,” responded the other, mechanically. “Any messages for me?”
“My father says he hopes to see you this autumn at Kingcombe. He is growing an old man now.”
“Ah, indeed!—An admirable man is my father, Miss Bowen. Quite a gentleman of the old school; but peculiar—rather peculiar. Well, what else, Nathanael?”
“Elizabeth, since Emily's death, seems to have longed after you very much.—You were the next eldest, you know, and she fancies you were always very like Emily. She says it is so long since you have been to Kingcombe.”
“It is such a dull place. Besides I have seen them all elsewhere occasionally.”
“All but Elizabeth; and, you know, unless you go to Kingcombe, you never can see Elizabeth,” said the younger brother, gently.
“That is true!—Poor dear soul!” Frederick answered, looking grave. “Well, I will go ere long.”
“Perhaps at Eulalie's wedding, which I told you of?”
“True—true. Eulalie is the youngest Miss Harper, as we should explain to our kind friends here—whom I hope we are not boring very much with our family reminiscences. And Eulalie, contrary to the usual custom of the Harpers, is actually going to be married. To a clergyman, is he not, N. L.?—late Curate of Kingcombe parish?”
“No—of Anne Valery's parish. By the way, you have not yet asked a single question about Anne Valery.”
The Major's aspect visibly changed. In all the years of his acquaintance with the world he had not yet learnt the convenient art of being a physiognomical hypocrite. “Well, never mind—I ask a dozen questions now. How could I forget so excellent a friend of the family?”
“She is indeed,” said Nathanael, earnestly, while a glow of pleasure or enthusiasm dyed his pale features, and he even ceased his close watch over Agatha. “Though I was such a boy when I left, I find I have kept a true memory of Anne Valery. She is just the woman I always pictured her, from my own remembrance, and from Uncle Brian's chance allusions; though, in general, it was little enough he said of England or home. I was quite surprised to hear from Elizabeth what a strong friendship used to exist between Uncle Brian, yourself, and Anne Valery.”
Major Harper's restlessness increased. “Really, we are indulging our friends with our whole genealogy—uncles, aunts, and collateral branches included—which cannot be very interesting to Mrs. and Miss Ianson, or even to Miss Bowen, however kindly she may be disposed towards the Harper family.”