“No, indeed,” observed Gay, who had heard this. “Violet and I were so fond of her; she could be so merry in spite of her pain. I think some of my pleasantest hours have been spent in this room. How pleased she used to be when I had anything new to tell her or show her. I do not wonder you miss her, Mr. Hawtry; I have always been so sorry for you.”
I thought he seemed sorry for himself, for I had never seen him look so sad. I wished then that Gay had not brought us back to this room; it was evidently full of relics of the past, when womanly hands had busied themselves for the comfort of the dearly-loved son and brother.
The little round table beside the couch, with its inlaid workbox and stand of favourite books, must have been Miss Agnes’s, but the netting case and faded silk bag on the other side of the fireplace, with the spectacles lying on the closed Bible, must have belonged to the mother. How sorely must he have missed them! Few men would have cared to have preserved these little homely treasures; they would have swept them away with the dead past. But now and then a strong manly character has this element of feminine tenderness.
I think my look must have expressed sympathy, for Mr. Hawtry came up to me as I stood alone by the window (for Gay was still showing the shells to the children) and said, a little abruptly—
“It is good of you to be sorry for me, but time heals all wounds, and, in spite of pain and loneliness, one would not call them back to suffer.” And then his voice changed to a lower key. “I wish Agnes could have known you, Miss Fenton; how she would have sympathised with your work. All good women are fond of little children, but she doated on them. There were crowds of children in the churchyard on the day she was buried.”
I was too much touched to answer, but he went on as though he did not notice my silence.
“You seem very happy in your work?”
“Very happy.”
“One can see that; you have a most contented expression; it almost makes one envy you. I wonder how you came to think such work was possible.”
I do not know how it was, but I found myself telling Mr. Hawtry all about Aunt Agatha and the cottage at Putney. I had even let fall a word or two about my miserable deficiency. I am not sure what I said, but I certainly saw him smile as though something amused him.