Mr. Locke Harper scarcely spoke to his niece all the way, until just as they were passing the gate where, on that awful walk, Agatha had startled Mrs. Dugdale.
“I hear you came all these miles on foot, in the middle of the night. It was a very brave thing for a woman to do. I did not think any woman could have love enough in her to do it.”
“I know several who would do much more.”
“Who are they?”
“Harrie Dugdale, probably; and for certain, Anne Valery.”
Brian said no more until they reached the gates of Thornhurst. There he helped her to descend, reins in hand, and waited. Just as Agatha was going he touched her arm:
“Ask how she is, will you?”
Agatha sent the message up-stairs, and remained with him for a minute or two. He stood motionless by the horse, his hat pulled down over his brows—nothing visible but the sharp profile of his mouth. Old Andrews called him “that gentleman”—eyed him with some curiosity, then bowed, and wished him a “merry Christmas, sir,” country fashion.
The answer about the mistress of Thornhurst was brief; she was “much the same;” the servants did not seem to apprehend any danger.
Brian shook his niece's hand. “I shall go back across the moors to Kingcombe. Tell her, if, at any time, she would like to see an old friend”—