“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.