“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 assumed 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 circumstance 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”—
She paused, hesitated, put her hand to her heart, as she often did, and ceased to speak; but Agatha eagerly continued the sentence:
“Next year we will come and stay here, you and I; or perhaps, as a very great favour, we'll admit one or two more. Next year, when you are quite strong, remember. We will be very happy, next year.”