“Say I am not at home.”

She had given the same sullen answer to every visitor for four weeks, shutting herself up in stern seclusion, determined that, whatever cruel comments they made, the neighbourhood should have no power of spying into the mystery of “that poor Mrs. Locke Harper who did not live happy with her husband.” For so she felt sure had been the result of that fatal betrayal to her brother-in-law. Since, as Harrie had once said, “Duke never could keep a secret in his life!” But even his own wife could not thoroughly fathom the good heart of Marmaduke Dugdale.

“Not at home?” repeated Dorcas, who had been very faithful to her young mistress. “Not when it's Miss Valery, who has been so ill? Oh, Missus, do'ee see Miss Valery.”

Mrs. Harper hesitated, and during that time her visitor entered uninvited.

“So, Agatha, as you did not come to see me, I have come at last to see you.”

“I am sorry”—

“What, to see me?” said Anne, smiling. But the voice was weak, and the smile had a sickly beauty. Agatha was struck by a change, slight, yet perceptible, which had come over Miss Valery.

“I hear you have been ill—will you take the arm-chair? Are you better to day?”

“Oh yes,” returned Anne, briefly; she was never much in the habit of talking about herself. “But you, my dear, how have you been this long time? Come and let me look at you.”

“It is not worth while. Never mind me. Talk of something else.”

“Of your husband, then. When did you hear from him?”

“Last week.”

“And is he quite well? Will you give a message to him from me when you write again?”

“I never write.”

Miss Valery looked surprised, pained. Evidently to her sick-room had reached the vaguest possible hints of what had happened. Or else Anne must have refused to hear or credit what she was persuaded was an impossible falsehood. In all good hearts scandal unrepeated, unbelieved, dies a natural death.

To Mrs. Harper's brief, sharp sentence there was no reply; her guest turned to other topics.

“Harriet Dugdale comes home to-morrow. It is not often she takes it into her head to pay a three weeks' visit from home. You must have missed her a good deal.”

“No, I did not. I have never been outside the garden.”

“Was that quite right, my dear? And your sisters-in-law complain bitterly that you will not go to Kingcombe Holm.”

“They should have taken more trouble in coming to ask me.

“Nay, in this world we should not judge too harshly. We cannot see into any one's motives. There may have been reasons. I know the Squire has not been at all well; and Mary has spent her whole time in watching him, and in coming to Thornhurst to nurse me.”

“Have you been so very ill, then? I wish—I wish—”

“That you also had come to see me? Well, you will come now. Not to-day; for I am going to use this lovely autumn morning in taking a journey.”

“Whither?”

“To Weymouth, opposite the Isle of Portland.”

After this answer both were silent. Agatha was thinking of the night when her husband rode to Weymouth. Anne was thinking—of what?

At length she put her thoughts aside, and turned to watch the young wife, who had fallen into a sullen, absent mood.

“Does your house please you, Agatha? It is very pretty, I think.”

“Yes, very. I do not complain. Would you like to look over it? Or shall I give you some cake and wine? That is the fashion, I believe, when a visitor first comes to see a bride in her new home.”

The bitterness, the sarcasm of her manner were pitiful to see. Anne Valery watched her, sadly, yet not hopelessly. There was in the calm of that pale face a clearness of vision which pierced through many human darknesses to the light behind.

She only said, “Thank you, I will take some wine; I like to keep up good old customs,”—and waited while Mrs. Harper, with a quick excited manner, and a countenance that changed momentarily, did the first honours of her household. So sad it was to see her doing it all alone! More widow-like than bride-like.

As she came up with the wine-glass, Miss Valery caught her hand, holding it firmly in defiance of Agatha's slight effort to get free.

“Wait a minute for my good wishes to the bride. May God bless you! Not with fortune, which is oftentimes only a curse”—

“That is true,” muttered Agatha, bitterly.

“Not with perfect freedom from care, for that is impossible, or, if possible, would not be good for you. Every one of us must bear our own burden; and we can bear it, if we love one another.”

Agatha's lips were set together.

“If,” continued Anne, firmly—“If we love any one with sincerity and faithfulness, we are sure to reap our reward some time. If any love us, and we believe it and trust them, they are sure to come out clear from all clouds, our own beloved, true to the end. Therefore, Agatha, above all blessings, may God bless you with love! May you be happy in your husband, and make him happy! May you live to see your home merry and full—not silent!—may you die among your children and your own people—not alone!”

The sudden solemnity of this blessing, enhanced by the feebleness of the voice that uttered it, awoke strange emotions in Agatha. She threw herself on her knees by the armchair, where Anne lay back—now faint and pale.

“Oh, if you had been near me—if I had known you always, and you had brought me up, and made a good woman of me.”

“Perhaps I ought,” murmured Anne, thoughtfully. “But, just then, it would have been so hard—so hard!”

“What are you saying? Say it again. All your words are good words. Tell me.”

“Nothing, dear. Except”—here Miss Valery raised herself with a sudden effort mental and bodily—“Agatha, will you go with me to Weymouth?”

“If you like. Anywhere to be with you. I am sick of myself.”

“We all are at times, especially when we are young, and do not quite understand ourselves or others. The feeling passes away. But as to Weymouth—do you still dislike to go near the sea?”

“Yes—no! I will try to bear it; I think I could, by your side. And you shall not go alone on any account.”

“Thank you,” said Anne, taking her hand. So they went.

An innocent line of railway darted past Kingcombe, in the vain hope of waking that somnolent town. It was a pleasant whirl across the usual breezy flats of moorland, by some meadows where a network of serpentine streams flashed in the sun. Agatha felt more like her own self; with her, the spirit of Nature was always an exorciser of internal demons; and Anne's conversation aided the beneficent work.

At Dorchester they took a carriage, and drove across the country to Weymouth.

“Are you not getting weary? you looked so but lately,” said Agatha to Miss Valery.

“Not at all, I feel strong now.” Her eyes and cheeks were indeed very bright; she leaned forward and gazed eagerly around.

“This Weymouth seems familiar to you, Miss Valery?”

“Yes; we used to come here every summer—Mr. and Mrs. Harper and the children and I, until she died. She was as good as a mother, or an elder sister”—here Anne hesitated, but repeated the words—“like an elder sister—to me. We were all very happy in those times. It is a great blessing, Agatha, to have had a happy childhood. Where did you spend yours?”

Agatha looked uneasy. “Chiefly in London—I told you.”

“But before then, when you were a very little girl?”

“I do not know. Don't let us talk about that.”

“Not if you do not wish it.” Anne's eyes, which had watched her closely, turned away, and after a few minutes were riveted on a line of blue sea sweeping round a distant headland, and curving off to the horizon. As she looked she became very pale, and shivered. Agatha hardly noticed her, being so busy examining the new regions into which they now entered—the ordinary High Street of an ordinary country town. The sea view had vanished.

Suddenly the carriage turned a corner, and they burst upon the shore of Weymouth Bay. A great, blue, glittering bay, with two white headlands shutting it in; the tide running high, the waves dashing themselves furiously against the sea-wall of the esplanade, breaking into showers of spray, and curling back into the foaming whirl below.

Agatha started, and put her hands before her eyes. “I know that sight—I remember that sound. Oh! where is this place? why did you bring me here?”

At this cry Miss Valery, roused from her momentary fit of abstraction, took hold of Agatha's hand. The girl was trembling violently.

“My dear, I did not expect this, or you should not have come here. This is Weymouth. Now do you remember?”

“How should I? Was I ever here before?” She peered from under her hand at the sparkling sea. “No, it is not like that sea; it is too bright. Yet I hear the same roll against the same wall. It is very foolish, but I wish we could get away.”

“Presently,” said Anne's soothing voice. “We must drive along this shore, and then we will get out at an inn I know, and rest.”

Her manner, her expression, as she fixed her eyes full upon her, struck Agatha with an indescribable feeling. She looked eagerly at Miss Valery, trying to read in that worn face some likeness to the one which had impressed her childish memory with almost angelic beauty.

“Tell me—you say you have been often here—did you ever one stormy day follow a ship that was outward bound? You were in a little boat, and the ship was standing out to sea, round that point—and”—

She stopped, for Anne's face was livid to the very lips. Agatha forgot her own question and its purport.

“Stop the carriage. Let me hold you. Dear—dear Miss Valery, you are worn out—you are fainting.”

“No—I never faint—I am only tired. Don't speak to me for a minute or two, and I shall be well.”

With a long sigh she forcibly brought life back to her cheeks—a feeble life at best. Agatha, watching her, was smitten by a dread which now entered her mind for the first time, driving thence all personal feelings, and making her gaze with sorrowful anxiety on the friend beside her who had been all day so cheerful and kind. And she thought with a remorse amounting to positive horror, that she herself during that day had more than once spoken sharply even to Anne Valery.

A great awe came upon her, reflecting how often we unconsciously walk hand-in-hand, and talk of our own petty earthly trials, with those whose souls' wings are already growing, already stirring with the air that comes to bear them to the unseen land.

It was a relief indescribable, when leisurely strolling along the pavement, she saw among many strange faces one that seemed familiar. The hands knotted loosely at his back, the light hair straggling out from under the hat, that was pushed far up from the forehead—no, she could not be mistaken. She uttered a cry of pleasure.

“Look, look! there he is; I am certain it is he.”

Anne started violently.

“Mr. Dugdale, Mr. Dugdale!” Agatha called out.

He came up to the carriage with the most lengthened “E—h!” that she had ever heard him utter. “What brought you two here? This bleak day too. Very wrong of Anne!”

“But she would come. She said she wanted a breath of sea-air, and I think, besides, she has business.”

“No,” interrupted Anne, “no business, except bringing Agatha to see Weymouth. Now shall we rest, and have some tea at the inn. You'll come with us, Mr. Dugdale?”

“Yes, I want to speak to you, Anne. I've got news about—that little affair you know of. That was why I came to Weymouth to-day. Eh, now—just look there!”

With a countenance brimful of pleasure he came to Miss Valery's side, and pointed to a steamer that lay in the offing.

“It's the Anna Mary. She made the passage from New York in no time. I've been aboard her already. I fancied I might find him there. Now, what do you think, Anne?”

“Is he come?” said Anne, in a steady voice. She had quite recovered herself now.

“No—not this time. But he will sail, for certain, by the next New York packet to Havre.”

“Thank God!” It was a very low answer—just a sigh, and nothing more.

“And we have satisfactorily ended all that business which you first put into my head,” continued Duke, rubbing his hands with great glee. “It was a risk certainly, but then it was for him. My children will never be a bit the poorer.”

“No,” murmured Anne Valery to herself.

“And think what an election we shall have! With him to make speeches for Trenchard, and argue in this wonderful way about Free-trade, and tell the farmers all about Canadian wheat! Glorious!”

“What are you both talking about?” cried Agatha, who had been considerably puzzled. “Do let me hear, if it is not a secret.”

“No secret,” said Anne, turning round, speaking clearly and composedly, and not at all like a sick person. “Mr. Brian Harper is coming home.”

Agatha clapped her hands for joy.

When they dismounted from the carriage, and had ordered tea at the inn, Anne still seemed quite strong. She said it was the sea-breeze that brought life to her, and stood at the open window gazing over the bay. Agatha thought she had never seen Miss Valery's face so near looking beautiful as now; it was the faint reflex of girlhood's brightness, like the zodiacal light which the sun casts on the sky long after he has gone down.

After tea,—at which meal Mr. Dugdale did not appear, a fact that nobody wondered at, since he was left to wander about Weymouth at his own sweet will, without Harrie to catch him and remind him that there was such a thing as time, likewise such sublunary necessities as eating and drinking—after tea Miss Valery and Mrs. Harper sat at the window together.

It was only an inn-window, the panes scribbled over with many names, and it lighted an ordinary inn-parlour, looking on the esplanade. Yet it was a pleasant seat; quiet, too, for the town was almost deserted as winter-time came on. The bay, smoothed by the ebbing tide, lay like crystal under a sky where sunset and moonlight mixed. Agatha ventured to look at the sea now. She beheld with a curious interest a sight till now so unfamiliar, taking a childish pleasure in watching the great white arm of moon-rays stretch further and further across the water, changing the ripples into molten silver, and making ethereal and ghostlike every little boat that glided through them.

By-and-by came a group of wandering musicians, playing very respectably, as German street-musicians always do. They converted the dark esplanade and the shabby inn-parlour into a fairy picture of visible and audible romance.

“It is quite like a scene in a play,” said Agatha, laughing and trying to make Miss Valery laugh. She could not see her clearly in the moonlight, but she did not like her sitting so quiet and silent.

“Yes, very like a play, with 'Herz, mein Herz,' for a serenade. What a sweet old tune it is!”

“I used to sing it once.” And Agatha began following the instruments with her voice. “No, I can't sing. I could sooner cry.”

“Why? Are you sorrowful?”

“No—happy. Yet all feels strange, very strange.” She crept to Miss Valery, wrapped her arms round her waist, and laid her head timidly on her shoulder. Anne drew her nearer, with a more caressing manner than she ever used to any one. Agatha Harper seemed that night of all nights to lie very near her heart.

“Herz, mein Herz,” died faintly away down the esplanade; there was nothing but the glitter of the bay, and the moon climbing higher and higher above the Isle of Portland.

Anne spoke at last, amidst the half-playful, half-tender caresses that were so dear to Agatha, who had never known what it was to be calmly and safely in a mother's arms. Lying thus seemed most like it.

“Do you think I care for you, Agatha, my child?”

“I cannot tell. Perhaps not, for I am not good enough to deserve it.”

“Do you know what first made me care for you?”

“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 passed 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 passionate and unjust in friendship. It was very wrong.”

“Hush! you do not know all the circumstances; 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 shore 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 God 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 shore, 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 God let you save me?”

“That you might grow up a good and noble 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 nobody 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.