“I feel as if I were taking the right view for the first time. I don’t know though that that is fair to myself; I think I always took it. But I wonder if Mother knew that I did.”
“I think that whatever we feel honestly always comes through. I am sure we need not be in any doubt about that. What we do not feel honestly, what we only imagine or wish we felt, will separate itself in the end; and we shall be glad to feel it sorted out, and to lay it aside, knowing that we want only sincerity between ourselves and our dear one. I think I can tell you that for certain.”
“Did you find that when your husband died?” said Gregory.
“Oh, that is a different loss,” said Agatha, drawing herself back. “That is a loss we do not compare to any but itself, the loss unique, isolated, supreme. I did not mean that when I spoke about my sorrows; I thought I gave a hint of that. I hope you will never have to face it. That is generally the woman’s lot.”
“No one knows the difference it makes, when someone has died by her own will.”
“Ah, that is what you have to face alone. That is where your experience has its own isolation,” said Agatha, seeming to grant the advantage here. “There is the darkness, the hint of tragedy, the shadow of feeling that we must condemn. But in a way, does it not soften the trouble”—she bent down and just looked into his face— “that she left you by her own choice? That she had no will to live to be thwarted? Would not that have been a harder thing? You are spared that.”
“That is the worst of it,” said Gregory, with tears under his words. “She had nothing; she felt she had nothing. Her own courage was all she had. It gave way, and it meant the end.”
“That is how I should wish my son to feel about me,” said Agatha, as though struck by this realisation, “if I could be in the same place. We will imagine it for a moment for your sake. Of course he would know I could not choose that way out. It is not quite what we all call courage. But if I were not as I am, and could do the same, I should wish him to feel as you do.”
“Would you dare to do it?” said Gregory.
“It is not a question of daring to do it,” said Agatha, lifting her head. “It is a question rather of daring not to do it. Ah, I remember when my husband died. It did take some daring.”
“Are you speaking honestly?” said Gregory.
“What did you say?” said Agatha.
“I said, ‘Are you speaking honestly?’”
“It is of no good to ask a question if you are not sure about that. The answer would mean nothing.”
“I never think those answers do mean anything. You are right that it was a useless question. I know we all give the answers. I should not have said the things that lead to them. Of course my trouble should stay where it is.”
“Surely not, when you are talking to an old friend. If I have made you feel that, I have failed you. That is how we must put it.”
“No, you have been too forbearing. The person does not exist who would not fail me at the moment. I make too much demand. Rachel will be killed amongst us all.”
“Lady Hardisty is staying with you?” said Agatha.
“Yes, for a few days. Sir Percy is utterly kind to us.”
“She is a very charming woman,” said Agatha.
“Who is?” said Geraldine, entering the room with her sister. “Of the many women in the neighbourhood who is your choice?”
“Charm is rarer than women,” said Kate.
“That is the point,” said Geraldine.
“Lady Hardisty,” said Agatha in an easy, open tone.
“Yes, she is charming. I should say brilliant is more her word,” said Geraldine.
“Fortunate creature, to offer such a choice of words!” said Kate. “She undoubtedly does offer it. I was going to say clever.”
“She is certainly an effective talker,” said Agatha, moving with a soft rustle to the tea-table. “It gives one quite a thrill to see her come in and sight her victim. We are certainly indebted to her for a good deal of enlivening though perhaps we ought not always to enjoy it as we do.”
“I did not know she made victims,” said Geraldine.
“Didn’t you? Oh, yes,” said Agatha.
“Another gift,” said Kate. “But I had not observed it. Her humour strikes me as so kind.”
“True humour is always kind,” said Agatha. “And Lady Hardisty is not without the knowledge of it. By no means. But she takes a pleasure sometimes in getting her shafts home. Oh yes, she does. Haven’t you been struck by it? Oh yes.”
“I believe I have noticed her getting them in at you, Agatha,” said Geraldine.
“Well, it is no wonder if I have perceived it then,” said Agatha, laughing and looking round, as she stooped to offer something to Kate. “I don’t think it is anything to be surprised at, if it has not escaped me.”
“You poor thing!” said Geraldine. “Ought we to have come to your rescue? I don’t remember more than half noticing it.”
“I don’t remember noticing it at all,” said Agatha, laughing again, and motioning Gregory to keep his seat. “But it is no wonder, if it was so, that something came home. It would have been the last thing she was out for, to fail of that. I am glad I saved her effort from being quite wasted.”
“Even though your perceptions were rather dim,” said Geraldine.
“Yes, well, it is a thing I am hardly prepared for,” said Agatha, standing up and speaking with deliberate frankness. “It is a thing I should never do myself, and that does not predispose me to think it likely that anyone else should do it. But if I have afforded any satisfaction, I am delighted.”
“Rather a sardonic kind of delight,” said Geraldine.
“No,” said Agatha consideringly. “No, I do not think so. I should honestly have no objection to being the target for a little innocent fun, or the excuse for it, if you like. I think there is nothing we should rightly object to in that position.”
“Then I should wrongly object,” said Geraldine. “Nobody would dare to use me for such purposes. It is no wonder Lady Hardisty settles on you. Perhaps she would not do it if she knew you.”
“I am sure she would intend nothing that was really ill-natured or malicious,” said Agatha, glancing at Gregory. “I think I found her shafts rather flattering than otherwise, though she did not intend them to be so. Missiles often hit the mark better when they are not aimed.”
“I thought you had not noticed them!” said Geraldine.
“I must be going. Thank you very much for putting up with me. I said I would be home early,” said Gregory.
“Now what I think you want, is a succession of long nights,” said Agatha. “You take my advice and see that you get them. If I were coming with you I should not leave it in your hands.”
“Poor boy, he was very silent,” said Kate. “I am sure I don’t wonder.”
“I wonder he came,” said Geraldine. “I should have felt too self-conscious in my sensitive youth.”
“Oh, he had plenty to say when he first came in, before he had an audience,” said Agatha. “That might have made him self-conscious; I daresay it did. He came to get it all off his mind, I think.”
“What did he say?” said Geraldine.
“Oh, we had the whole gambit to run through,” said Agatha, standing with a pitying, tolerant smile. “I was not spared any of it. The poor boy felt he had to tell someone, I suppose. Well, I am only too glad that I could be of any relief to him.”
“You were alone in being up to that,” said Kate.
“I think there is not much in it,” said Agatha. “I think it was only that he wanted just the life-stamp, that drew out his boyish confidences, without making him feel there was anything unnatural in his pouring them forth. That was all it was, I believe.”