“Not quite,” said Anne, with a faint smile; “I am hardly strong enough. Frederick,” and her eyes had their former lovely, earnest look—earnest almost to tears, save that girl-tears had from them long been dried,—“Frederick, for the sake of our olden days—of your mother whom we both loved—of your father who has gone to her—listen to me for a little. Trust to your brother—he will not act unjustly. Do not create dissensions in your family; do not let people say that the moment Mr. Harper's head was laid in the grave his children quarrelled over his property.”
“I do not quarrel—I but take my right,” cried Major Harper, becoming again the “man of the world,” as he saw, the curious glances that from time to time reached the bay-window. “Thank you for this good advice; for which my brother owes you even more than I. But I am not a child now, nor a boy in love, to be talked over by a woman.”
Miss Valery rose, rather proudly. “Nor am I that woman, Major Harper. But I have been so long united in affection with your family; I could not bear to think it would be brought to dishonour. Surely—surely you will not be the one to do it.”
Again as he turned to go, she drew him back by those earnest eyes.
“Frederick, it would grieve me so, ay, break my heart, to see them brought into open shame, the old familiar home, and the name—the dear, dear name.”
Major Harper's bitter tongue burst its control and stung. “I now see your motive. Everybody knows how very dearly Anne Valery has all her life loved the Harper name.”
Anne rose to her full height, and a blush, vivid as a girl's, dyed her cheek. “I have,” she said—“I have loved it, and I am not ashamed.”
The blush paled—she sank back on the window-sill. Major Harper was alarmed.
“Anne—how ill you look! What have I done to you?”
“Nothing,” she answered; and, catching his arm, drew herself upright once more.