Agatha's Husband Part 52

"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 fas.h.i.+on, 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-gla.s.s, 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 pa.s.ses 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."