“Her friend and adviser,” Anne interposed.
“I never doubted, Nathanael, that it was at your own request. Otherwise it were impossible that Miss Valery would so far have insulted my family.”
At these words Anne coloured, and moved a step or two with something of the pride of her young days. “I did not think, Mr. Harper, that it would have been either an insult to offer, or a disgrace to accept, the position which your son desires to hold. Far be it from me in any way to wrong any member of your family, especially the son whom your wife left in my arms—and Brian's—when she died.”
Agatha had never before heard Miss Valery say “Brian.” She was evidently speaking as people do when much moved, using a form of phrase and alluding to things not commonly referred to.
The old Squire sat silent a minute, and then stretched out his hand. “I know your goodness, Anne! But I cannot renounce all my rights. Even a younger son must not throw discredit on his family. Except in one brief instance, for centuries there has never been a Harper who worked for his living.”
“Then, father, let me be the first to commence that act of inconceivable boldness and energy,” said Nathanael, with a good-humoured persuasive smile. “Let me, being likewise a younger son, take a leaf out of Uncle Brian's book, and try to labour, as he once did, in my own county, with the honour of my own race about me.”
“And what did he effect? Was he not looked down upon, humiliated, cheated? I never ride past his old deserted clay-pits without being thankful that he went to Canada, rather than have disgraced us by what his folly must have come to at last. He would have lost the little he had—have been bankrupt, perhaps dishonoured.”
“Mr. Harper!”—Anne rose from her chair—“I think you speak rather hardly of your brother. It never could be said, or will be said, that Brian Harper was dishonoured.”
At these words, spoken with unusual warmth, Nathanael gratefully clasped her hand. The Squire observed, with added dignity, that no one could be more sensible than himself of his brother's merit, and that he thanked Miss Valery for extending her kind interests to every branch of the Harper family.
“And now,” he continued, “we will cease this conversation. My son knows my sentiments, and will doubtless act upon them. I never maintain arguments with my children.” And the sentence implied that what “I never do,” was consequently a thing unnecessary and impossible to be done. The old gentleman leant on each arm of his chair, and feebly tried to rise.