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”—