Mr. Sutcliffe is dead. He died two weeks ago at Agaye.
I can see now how beautiful they were; how beautiful he was, going away
like that, letting her take him away so that the sight of me shouldn't
hurt her.
I can see that what I thought so ugly was really beautiful, their
sticking to each other through it all, his faithfulness and her
forgiveness, their long life of faithfulness and forgiveness.
But my short life with Richard was beautiful too; my coming to him and
leaving him free. I shall never go back on that; I shall never be sorry
for it.
The things I'm sorry for are not caring more for Papa, being unkind to
Mamma, not doing enough for her, not knowing what she was really like.
I'd give anything to have been able to think about her as Mark thought,
to feel about her as he felt. If only I had known what she was really
like. Even now I don't know. I never shall.
But going to Richard--No. If it was to be done again to-morrow I'd do it.
And I don't humbug myself about it. If I made Richard happy I made myself
happy too; _he_ made me happy. Still, if I had had no happiness in it, if
I'd hated it, I'd have done it for Richard all the same.