“How can you be either, when you are a philosopher? Would you mind telling me—I am so anxious to learn—what happens to people when they die?”
“Don’t ask me.” He knew by bitter experience that she was making fun of him.
“Oh, but I do ask you. Those paper books of yours are so up-to-date. For instance, what has happened to the child you say was killed on the line?”
The rain increased. The drops pattered hard on the leaves, and outside the corridor men and women were struggling, however stupidly, with the facts of life. Inside it they wrangled. She teased the boy, and laughed at his theories, and proved that no man can be an agnostic who has a sense of humour. Suddenly she stopped, not through any skill of his, but because she had remembered some words of Bacon: “The true atheist is he whose hands are cauterized by holy things.” She thought of her distant youth. The world was not so humorous then, but it had been more important. For a moment she respected her companion, and determined to vex him no more.
They left the shelter of the laurels, crossed the broad drive, and were inside the house at last. She had got quite wet, for the weather would not let her play the simple life with impunity. As for him, he seemed a piece of the wet.
“Look here,” she cried, as he hurried up to his attic, “don’t shave!”
He was delighted with the permission.
“I have an idea that Miss Pembroke is of the type that pretends to be unconventional and really isn’t. I want to see how she takes it. Don’t shave.”
In the drawing-room she could hear the guests conversing in the subdued tones of those who have not been welcomed. Having changed her dress and glanced at the poems of Milton, she went to them, with uplifted hands of apology and horror.
“But I must have tea,” she announced, when they had assured her that they understood. “Otherwise I shall start by being cross. Agnes, stop me. Give me tea.”
Agnes, looking pleased, moved to the table and served her hostess. Rickie followed with a pagoda of sandwiches and little cakes.
“I feel twenty-seven years younger. Rickie, you are so like your father. I feel it is twenty-seven years ago, and that he is bringing your mother to see me for the first time. It is curious—almost terrible—to see history repeating itself.”
The remark was not tactful.
“I remember that visit well,” she continued thoughtfully, “I suppose it was a wonderful visit, though we none of us knew it at the time. We all fell in love with your mother. I wish she would have fallen in love with us. She couldn’t bear me, could she?”
“I never heard her say so, Aunt Emily.”
“No; she wouldn’t. I am sure your father said so, though. My dear boy, don’t look so shocked. Your father and I hated each other. He said so, I said so, I say so; say so too. Then we shall start fair.—Just a cocoanut cake.—Agnes, don’t you agree that it’s always best to speak out?”
“Oh, rather, Mrs. Failing. But I’m shockingly straightforward.”
“So am I,” said the lady. “I like to get down to the bedrock.— Hullo! Slippers? Slippers in the drawingroom?”
A young man had come in silently. Agnes observed with a feeling of regret that he had not shaved. Rickie, after a moment’s hesitation, remembered who it was, and shook hands with him. You’ve grown since I saw you last.”
He showed his teeth amiably.
“How long was that?” asked Mrs. Failing.
“Three years, wasn’t it? Came over from the Ansells—friends.”
“How disgraceful, Rickie! Why don’t you come and see me oftener?”
He could not retort that she never asked him.
“Agnes will make you come. Oh, let me introduce Mr. Wonham—Miss Pembroke.”
“I am deputy hostess,” said Agnes. “May I give you some tea?”
“Thank you, but I have had a little beer.”
“It is one of the shepherds,” said Mrs. Failing, in low tones.
Agnes smiled rather wildly. Mrs. Lewin had warned her that Cadover was an extraordinary place, and that one must never be astonished at anything. A shepherd in the drawing-room! No harm. Still one ought to know whether it was a shepherd or not. At all events he was in gentleman’s clothing. She was anxious not to start with a blunder, and therefore did not talk to the young fellow, but tried to gather what he was from the demeanour of Rickie.
“I am sure, Mrs. Failing, that you need not talk of ‘making’ people come to Cadover. There will be no difficulty, I should say.”
“Thank you, my dear. Do you know who once said those exact words to me?”
“Who?”
“Rickie’s mother.”
“Did she really?”
“My sister-in-law was a dear. You will have heard Rickie’s praises, but now you must hear mine. I never knew a woman who was so unselfish and yet had such capacities for life.”
“Does one generally exclude the other?” asked Rickie.
“Unselfish people, as a rule, are deathly dull. They have no colour. They think of other people because it is easier. They give money because they are too stupid or too idle to spend it properly on themselves. That was the beauty of your mother— she gave away, but she also spent on herself, or tried to.”
The light faded out of the drawing-room, in spite of it being September and only half-past six. From her low chair Agnes could see the trees by the drive, black against a blackening sky. That drive was half a mile long, and she was praising its gravelled surface when Rickie called in a voice of alarm, “I say, when did our train arrive?”
“Four-six.”
“I said so.”
“It arrived at four-six on the time-table,” said Mr. Wonham. “I want to know when it got to the station?”
“I tell you again it was punctual. I tell you I looked at my watch. I can do no more.”
Agnes was amazed. Was Rickie mad? A minute ago and they were boring each other over dogs. What had happened?
“Now, now! Quarrelling already?” asked Mrs. Failing.
The footman, bringing a lamp, lit up two angry faces.
“He says—”
“He says—”
“He says we ran over a child.”
“So you did. You ran over a child in the village at four-seven by my watch. Your train was late. You couldn’t have got to the station till four-ten.”
“I don’t believe it. We had passed the village by four-seven. Agnes, hadn’t we passed the village? It must have been an express that ran over the child.”
“Now is it likely”—he appealed to the practical world —“is it likely that the company would run a stopping train and then an express three minutes after it?”
“A child—” said Rickie. “I can’t believe that the train killed a child.” He thought of their journey. They were alone in the carriage. As the train slackened speed he had caught her for a moment in his arms. The rain beat on the windows, but they were in heaven.
“You’ve got to believe it,” said the other, and proceeded to “rub it in.” His healthy, irritable face drew close to Rickie’s. “Two children were kicking and screaming on the Roman crossing. Your train, being late, came down on them. One of them was pulled off the line, but the other was caught. How will you get out