Agatha rose, and ran to the window.
Anne half rose too. “I fancy I hear two horses. Is anybody with Nathanael?”
“Only Mr. Dugdale.”
“Ah! well!” There was the slightest possible compression of eyelids and mouth, and Anne resumed her place again. “It is very kind of Marmaduke.”
The visitors came in softly. Duke Dugdale was the kindest, gentlest soul to any one that was ill—wise as a doctor, merry as a child. But now—though he strove to hide it—his countenance was overcast.
“It's no use, Anne,” he said, after a brief greeting, during which he felt her pulse in quite a professional way, and pronounced it “stronger—much stronger—and too quick almost.”
“What is of no use?”
“Brian Harper won't come home! All his abominable, con—yes, I'll out with it—his confounded pride.” And Duke tried to look very savage, but couldn't manage it.
“Where is he?”
“Somewhere near Havre; we can't make out where. He will not write. Ask Nathanael.”