“To a house, then—call it by what name you please. To your own house, which we will merely say is mine. Your comfort”—he stopped a little—“must always be the first consideration of your husband.”
“My husband!” she repeated, almost in a shriek—and the old fit of fierce laughter was coming back.
At this moment Eulalie's curious eyes were seen turning towards the little room. Nathanael moved so as to shield his wife from them. “Hush!” he said, sorrowfully, even with a sort of pity—“hush, Agatha. We are married. Between us two there must be, under all circumstances, honour and silence.”
His manner was so solemn, free from bitterness or anger, that Agatha's passion was quelled. She was awed as by the sight of some dead face, wronged grievously in life, but which now only revenges itself by the hopelessness of its mute perpetual smile. She remained staring blankly into the fire, plaiting and unplaiting the sash of her dress with heedless fingers. Eulalie might peer safely.
“There was another thing,” resumed Nathanael, “which, before telling the rest of the household, I wished to say to you. I had business in Weymouth to-morrow; and—if”—
“Well? I listen.”
“If—I were to ride there to-night”—
“Go.” A soft, quick word—a mere motion of the lips—and yet it was the one word of doom.
After that, without saying more, Mr. Harper walked back slowly into the drawing-room, and Agatha sat by the fireside alone.
She heard the rest talking—complaining—reasoning—heard one or two persuasive calls for “Agatha”—but she never moved. Then came the bell hastily pulled, and the old Squire's testy summons for “Mr. Locke Harper's horse,” and “was it a fine night, and the moon risen?” Then the drawing-room door opened and closed. No—he was not gone—not without saying adieu. He would surely pay his wife that deference. Outside the wall she heard his foot ascending the staircase, slowly, with heavy pauses between each step. She crept close to the farther door—behind the curtain, and listened.