“But the poorer shareholders—the widows—the old maids?”
“Ay, there's the pity—there's the wickedness,” said Nathanael, beneath his breath. “People tell me such things are common in England, but I would have starved rather than have been mixed up in such a transaction, even in the smallest way, and with property that was bona fide my own.”
“And,” said Agatha, slowly understanding, “this property was not Major Harper's own. Also, his doing the thing secretly afterwards, and leading you to believe what was—not quite true. I must say it, I think it was very wrong of your brother.”
“Don't let us talk of him more than we can help. Remember—a brother, Agatha!”
More light dawning on his strange conduct, his self-command, his secrecy even with her. His wife clung to his arm, her heart brimming with emotion that she dared not pour out. For he seemed inclined to be reserved even now.
“You see,” he added, as they walked along, “I have had some few things to try me.”
Agatha pressed his arm. Oh that she could break through that awe of him and his goodness, that shame of her own foolish erring self!
“Agatha,” he said, stopping suddenly, “the thing that hurt me was my father. If only he had died a month ago, and never heard of this!”
If only now Agatha could speak! But she felt choking. They walked past the windows and looked in. “There is Anne sitting by herself as she used to sit, watching Fred and me in the garden. He was such a handsome, gay young man. I felt so proud of being his little brother. And my poor father—he had not a hope in the world that did not rest on Frederick.”
He walked on rapidly back into the shadiest and darkest walk. There he stopped. “Agatha,” taking both her hands, and reading her features closely—“Agatha, would you be very unhappy if we went back and lived, poor, in the little cottage?”