"No--unless it was for the sake of my husband."

Anne gave no reply, and her husband's name plunged Agatha into such a maze of painful thought, that she was for a long time altogether silent.

"Shall I tell you a story, Agatha?"

"Anything--anything, to keep me from thinking."

"If I do, it is one you must not tell again, unless to Nathanael, for I would put no secrets between husband and wife."

"Ah, that is right--that is kind. Would that _he_ had thought the same!"

"What did you say, dear?"

"Nothing! Nothing of any consequence. Don't mind me. Go on."

"It is a history which I think it right and best to tell you. You will both need to keep it sacred for a little while--not for very long."

As she spoke, a shudder pa.s.sed through Anne's frame. Was it the involuntary shrinking of mortality in sight of immortality?

Shortly afterwards she began to talk in her usual sweet tone--perhaps a shade more serious.

"'There were once two _friends_--three I should say, but the third far less intimate than the other two. Something happened--it is now too long ago to signify what--which made the elder of the first two angry with his dearest friend and the other. He went away suddenly, writing word to his friend--his own--that he should sail next day, leaving England for ever."

"That was wrong!" cried Agatha. "People ought never to be pa.s.sionate and unjust in friendship. It was very wrong."

"Hush! you do not know all the circ.u.mstances; you cannot judge," Anne answered hastily. "His friend, who greatly honoured him, and knew what pain his loss would bring to many, wished to prevent his going. She"--

"It was a woman, then?"

"Yes."

"And were they _only_ friends?"

"They were friends," repeated Miss Valery, in a tone which, doubtful as the answer was, made Agatha feel she had no right to inquire further.

"She never knew how much he cared for her until that last letter he wrote, just after he had gone away. On receiving it, she followed him--which she had a right to do--to the place he mentioned, a seaport from which he was to sail. When she reached it, the vessel had already heaved anchor and was standing out to sea. She saw it--the very ship he was on board--in the middle of the bay."

"The bay! Was it then"--

"Hush, dear, just for a little,--I cannot speak long. It was a stormy day, and few boats would go out. However, there was on the beach a woman who was also very eager to catch the vessel. Together they managed to get a boat, and embarked--this lady I speak of--the woman and a little girl."

Agatha listened with painful avidity.

"It was not the woman's own child, or she could not have been so careless of it It was tossed into the bottom of the boat, and lay there crying. The lady felt sorry for it, and took it in her arms. They had gone but a little way from the sh.o.r.e when it was playing about her, quite happy again. While playing--she looking at the ship, and not watching the little thing as she ought to have done--the child fell overboard."

A loud sob burst from Agatha.

"Hush, still hush, my darling! The child was saved. The ship sailed away, but the child--you _know_ that she was saved. I am thankful to G.o.d it was so!"

Anne wrapped her arms tightly round the sobbing girl, and after a few moments she also wept.

"I remember it all now," cried Agatha, as soon as she found words--"the sh.o.r.e, the headlands, the bay. I was that little child, and it was you who saved me!"

Anne made no answer but by pressing her closer.

"I felt it the first moment I ever saw you. I never forgot you--never!

But how did you know me?"

"Was I likely ever to lose sight of that little child? And also, years before, I had once or twice met your father--though this would have been nothing. But from that day I felt that you belonged to me. And now, since you are become a Harper, you do."

Agatha embraced her, and then suddenly looked mournful.--"But yourself?

Tell me, did you ever again meet your--your friend?"

No answer. A slight movement of the lips sufficed to explain the whole.

"And it was all through me," cried Agatha, to whom that soft smile was agony. "And what have I done in requital? I have lived a useless, erring life; I have suffered--oh, how I have suffered! Far better I had been left lying at the bottom of that quiet bay. Why did G.o.d let you save me?"

"That you might grow up a good and n.o.ble woman, fulfilling worthily the life He spared, and giving it back into His hands, in His time, as a true and faithful servant. Dare not to murmur at His will--dare not to ask why He saved you, Agatha Harper."

Saying this, as sternly as Anne Valery could speak--she tried to put Agatha from her breast, but the girl held her too fast.

"Oh, do not cast me away. I have n.o.body in the world but you. Forgive me! Guide my life which I owe you, and make it worth your saving. Love me--teach my husband to love me. If you knew how miserable I am, and may be always."

"No one is miserable always," returned Anne faintly, as she leaned back, her hands dropping down cold and listless. "We grow content in time. We shall all be--very happy--some day."

She spoke with hesitation and difficulty. The next minute, in spite of her declaration that she never fainted, Miss Valery had become insensible.

CHAPTER XXII.

"What, up and dressed already, without sending for me? Did you not promise last night that I should do everything for you just as if I were your child? How very naughty you are, Miss Valery."

Agatha spoke rather crossly; it was a relief to speak so. Anne turned round--she was sitting at the window of the inn bed-chamber looking on Weymouth Bay.

"Am I naughty? And you have a.s.sumed the right to scold me? That is quite a pleasure. I have had no one to scold me for a great many years."

There was a certain pathos running through her cheerfulness which made Agatha's heart burst. She had lain awake half the night thinking of Anne Valery, and had guessed, or put together many things, which made her come with uncontrollable emotion into the presence of her whose fate had been so knotted up with her own. For that this circ.u.mstance had in some way or other brought about Anne's fate--the one fate of a woman's life--Agatha could not doubt. Neither could she doubt who was this "friend." But she said nothing--she felt she had no right.

"Don't look at the sea, please. Look at me. Tell me how you feel this morning."

"Well--quite well. We will go home to-day. What did you tell Mr. Dugdale last night?"

"Only what you desired me--that, being wearied, you felt inclined to stay the night at Weymouth."

"That was right.--Look, Agatha, how beautiful the sea is. I must teach you not to be afraid of it any more. Next year"--