“Oh, Tibby, you angel, that’s so like you. You always want to shoulder the blame for every speck of wrong-doing or depression that appears in your little universe. Women like you always do. It’s an odd sort of responsible unselfishness. That doesn’t in the very least express to any one else what I mean, but it does to myself. You never allow that any one else has any responsibility when things go wrong, and you never take the smallest share of the responsibility—or the praise, rather—when things go right.”
Miss Tibbutt laughed. In spite of her queer earnestness over what seemed—at all events to others—very little things, and her quite extraordinary conscientiousness—some people indeed might have called it scrupulosity—she had really a keen sense of humour. She was always ready to laugh at her own earnestness as soon as she perceived it. She was not, however, always ready to abandon it, unless it were quite, quite obvious that she had really better do so. And then she did it with a quick mental shake, and put an odd little mocking humour in its place.
“But, my dear, one generally is responsible, and that just because my universe is so small, as you justly pointed out. But I always believe literally what any one says. I don’t in the least mean that Pia said what was not true. Of course she thought she had swept away the cobweb and the bubble, and I’ve no doubt she did. But it left a gap, as you said. I ought to have seen the gap and tried to fill it.”
Trix shook her head.
“You couldn’t, Tibby, if the bubble were the colour I fancy. Only the bubble itself, consolidated, could do that.”
“Oh, my dear, you mean—?” said Miss Tibbutt.
“Just that,” nodded Trix. “It was bound to happen some time. Pia is made to give and receive love. She was too young when she married to know what it really meant. And, well, think of those years of her married life.”
“I thought of them for seven years,” said Miss Tibbutt quietly. “You don’t think I’ve forgotten them now?”
Trix’s eyes filled with quick tears.
“Of course you haven’t. I didn’t mean that. What I do mean is that I suppose she thought she had got the real thing then, and all the young happiness in it was destroyed in a moment. Then came those seven terrible years. For an older woman perhaps there would have been a self-sacrificing joy in them; for Pia, there was just the brave facing of an obvious duty. She was splendid, of course she was splendid, but no one could call it joy. Now, somehow, she’s had a glimpse of what real joy might be. And it has vanished again. I don’t know how I know, but it’s true. I feel it in my bones.”