“And a great shame not to tell me long before. As if I did not care for Uncle Brian as much as anybody does. What a Christmas we shall have—Uncle Brian, Nathanael, and Fred.”
“Is Major Harper coming?” The question was from Anne.
“Elizabeth hopes so. He surely will not disappoint Elizabeth. And he must come to see Uncle Brian; they were such friends, you know. All the middle-aged oddities in Kingcombe are on the qui vive to see Uncle Brian and Fred. They two were the finest young fellows in the neighbourhood, people say, and to think they should both come back miserable old bachelors! Nobody married but my poor Duke! Hurra!”
So she rattled on until they reached Agatha's door. One of the Kingcombe Holm servants stood there with the carriage. Mrs. Locke Harper was wanted immediately, to dine at her father-in-law's.
“I will not go. I will not leave Miss Valery. They don't often ask me—indeed, I have never been since—No, I will not go,” she added obstinately.
“Do!” entreated Anne, who had sat down, faint with a walk so short that no one thought of its fatiguing her—not even Agatha.
“T' Squire do want'ee very bad, Missus. Here!” And the old coachman, almost as old as his master, gave to Mrs. Harper a note, which was only the second she had ever received from her husband's father. It was a crabbed, ancient hand, blotted and blurred, then steadied resolutely into the preciseness of a school-boy—one of those pathetic fragments of writing that irresistibly remind one of the trembling failing hand—the hand that once wrote brave love-letters.
“You are highly favoured; my father rarely writes to any one. What does he say?” cried Harrie, rather jealous.
Agatha read aloud:
“My dear Daughter-in-law, “Will you honour me by dining here to-day, without fail? “I remain, always your affectionate Father, “Nathanael Harper.”