“Thank you, Mrs. Harper,” he said, acknowledging her assistance with his most solemn bend. “And Catherine—Agatha, I mean, if you would be so kind—that is”—
“Yes? observed Agatha, inquiringly, as he made a long pause.
“To—remind me after dinner, my dear. I have duties now—important duties.—My friends!” Here he raised himself in his chair, looked round the dessert-laden table with one of his old smiles, half condescending, half good-humoured, then vainly put his hand on the large claret jug, which Agatha had to lift and guide to her glass—“My friends, I am delighted to see you all. And on this happy occasion let me have the honour of giving the first toast. The Reverend Frederick Harper and Mistress Mary Harper.”
Mary and Eulalie drew back. “That is grandfather and grandmother—dead fifty years ago. What does papa mean?”
But the whisper did not reach the old man, who drank the toast with all solemnity. Mr. Grimes did the same, repeating it loudly, with the addition of “long life, health, and happiness.” The daughters each cast down strange, shocked looks upon her untouched glass. No one spoke.
“Do you make a long stay in Dorsetshire?” observed the Squire, addressing himself courteously to his guest.
“That depends,” Grimes answered, with a meaning twinkle of the eye—an eye already growing moistened with too good wine.
“Did you not say,” Mary Harper continued, fancying her father looked at her to sustain the conversation—“did you not say you were intending to visit Cornwall?”
“No ma'am. Would rather be excused. As Mr. Harper knows, the place would be too hot to hold me after certain circumstances.”
“Sir!” The old man tried hard to gather himself up into stern dignity, and collect the ideas that where fast floating from him. “Sir,” he repeated, first haughtily, and then with a violence so rare to his rigidly gentlemanly demeanour that his daughters looked alarmed—“Sir—at my table—before my family—I beg—I”—Here he suddenly recovered himself, changed his tone, and bowed—“I—beg your pardon.”