“Well, wilful lads must have their way,” cried his brother, “and I am only too glad to see you so much better.”
With that the flow of the Major's winning conversation recommenced; in which current all the rest of the company lay like silent pebbles, only too happy to be bubbled round by such a pleasant and refreshing stream.
The younger Harper sat in his arm-chair, leaning his forehead on his hand, and from under that curve now and then looking at them all, especially Agatha.
At a late hour the brothers went away, leaving Mrs. and Miss Ianson in a state of extreme delight, and Miss Bowen in a mood that, to say the least, was thoughtful—more thoughtful than usual.
After that lively evening followed three dull days, consisting of a solitary forenoon, an afternoon walk through the squares, dinner, backgammon, and bed; the next morning, de capo al fine, and so on; a dance of existence as monotonous as that of the spheres, and not half so musical. On the fourth day, while Miss Bowen was out walking, Nathanael Harper called to take leave before his journey to Dorsetshire. He stayed some time, waiting Agatha's return, Mrs. Ianson thought; but finally changed his mind, and made an abrupt departure, for which that young lady was rather sorry than otherwise.
The fifth day, Emma Thornycroft appeared, and, strange to say, without any of her little ones; still stranger, without many references to them on her lips, except the general information that they were all getting well now.
The busy woman evidently had something on her mind, and plunged at once in médias res.
“Agatha, dear, I came to have a little talk with you.”
“Very well,” said Agatha smiling; calmly and prepared to give up her morning to the discussion of some knotty point in dress or infantile education. But she soon perceived that Emma's pretty face was too ominously important for anything short of that gravest interest of feminine life—matrimony; or more properly in this case—match-making.
“Agatha, love,” repeated Emma, with the affectionate accent that was always quite real, but which now deepened under the circumstances of the case, “do you know that young Northen has been speaking to Mr. Thornycroft about you again.”
“I am very sorry for it,” was the short answer.
“But, my dear, isn't it a great pity that you could not like the young man? Such a good young man too, and with such a nice establishment already. If you could only see his house in Cumberland Terrace—the real Turkey carpets, inlaid tables, and damask chairs.”
“But I can't marry carpets, tables, and chairs.”
“Agatha, you are so funny! Certainly not, without the poor man himself. But there is no harm in him, and I am sure he would make an excellent husband.”
“I sincerely hope so, provided he is not mine. Come, Tittens, tell Mrs. Thornycroft what you think on the matter,” cried the wilful girl, trying to turn the question off by catching her little favourite. But Emma would not thus be set aside. She was evidently well primed with a stronger and steadier motive than what usually occupied and sufficed her easy mind.
“Ah, how can you be so childish! But when you come to my age”—
“I shall, in a few more years. I wonder if I shall be as young-looking as you, Emma?” This was a very adroit thrust on the part of Miss Agatha, but for once it failed.
“I hope and trust so, dear. That is, if you have as good a husband as I have. Only, be he what he may, he cannot be such another as my dear James.”
Agatha internally hoped he might not; for, much as she liked and respected Emma's good spouse, her ideal of a husband was certainly not Mr. James Thornycroft.
“Tell me,” continued the anxious matron, keeping up the charge—“tell me, Agatha, do you ever intend to marry at all?
“Perhaps so; I can't say. Ask Tittens!”
“Did you ever think in earnest of marrying? And”—here with an air of real concern Emma stole her arm round her friend's waist—“did you ever see anybody whom you fancied you could like, if he asked you?”
Agatha laughed, but the colour was rising in her brown cheek. “Tut, tut, what nonsense!”
“Look at me, dear, and answer seriously.”
Agatha, thus hemmed in, turned her face full round, and said, with some dignity, “I do not know, Emma, what right you have to ask me that question.”
“Ah, it is so; I feared it was,” sighed Emma, not in the least offended. “I often thought so, even before he hinted”———
“Who hinted—and what?”
“I can't tell you; I promised not. And of course you ought not to know. Oh, dear, what am I letting out!” added poor Mrs. Thornycroft, in much discomfiture.
“Emma, you will make me angry. What ridiculous notion have you got into your head? What on earth do you mean?” cried Miss Bowen, speaking quicker than her usual quick fashion, and dashing the kitten off her knee as she rose.
“Don't be vexed with me, my poor dear girl. It may not be so—I hope not; and even if it were, he is so handsome, so agreeable, and talks so beautifully—I am sure you are not the first woman by many a dozen that has been in love with him.”
“With whom?” was the sharp question, as Agatha grew quite pale.
“I must not say.—Ah, yes—I must. It may be a mere supposition. I wish you would only tell me so, and set my mind at rest, and his too. He is quite unhappy about it, poor man, as I see. Though, to be sure, he could not help it, even if you did care for him.”
“Him—what 'him?'”
“Major Harper.”
Agatha's storm of passion sank to a dead calm. She sat down again composedly, turning her flushed cheeks from the light.
“This is a new and very entertaining story. You will be kind enough, Emma, to tell me the whole, from beginning to end.”
“It all lies in a nutshell, my dear. Oh, how glad I am that you take it so quietly. Then, perhaps it is all a mistake, arising from your hearty manner to every one. I told him so, and said that he need not scruple visiting you, or be in the least afraid that”——
“That I was in love with him? He was afraid, then? He informed you so? Very kind of him! I am very much obliged to Major Harper.”
“There now—off you go again. Oh, if you would but be patient”
“Patient—when the only friend I had insults me!—when I have neither father, nor brother—nobody—nobody”——
She stopped, and her throat choked; but the struggle was in vain; she burst into uncontrollable tears.
“You have me, Agatha, always me, and James!” cried Emma, hanging about her neck, and weeping for company; until, very soon, the proud girl shut down the floodgates of her passion, and became herself again.
