I.
Potnia, Potnia Nux—
Lady, our Lady,
Night,
You who give sleep to men, to men labouring and suffering—
Out of the darkness, come,
Come with your wings, come down
On the house of Agamemnon.
Time stretched out behind and before you, time to read, to make music, to make poems in, to translate Euripides, while Mamma looked after her flowers in the garden; Mamma, sowing and planting and weeding with a fixed, vehement passion. You could hear Catty and little Alice, Maggie's niece, singing against each other in the kitchen as Alice helped Catty with her work. You needn't have been afraid. You would never have anything more to do in the house. Roddy wasn't there.
Agamemnon—that was where you broke off two years ago. He didn't keep you waiting long to finish. You needn't have been afraid.
Uncle Victor's letter came on the day when the gentians flowered. One minute Mamma had been happy, the next she was crying. When you saw her with the letter you knew. Uncle Victor was sending Dan home. Dan was no good at the office; he had been drinking since Roddy died. Three months.
Mamma was saying something as she cried. "I suppose he'll be here, then, all his life, doing nothing."