She kept on saying to herself, Why shouldn’t they come? What difference
did it make?
Up till now she had not admitted that anything could make a difference,
that anything could touch, could alter by a shade the safe, the
intangible, the unique relation between her and Rodney. It was proof
against anything that anybody could think. And the Powells were not
given to thinking things. Agatha’s own mind had been a crystal without a
flaw, in its clearness, its sincerity.
It had to be, to ensure the blessed working of the gift; as again, it
was by the blessed working of the gift that she kept it so. She could
only think of that, the secret, the gift, the inexpressible thing, as
itself a flawless crystal, a charmed circle; or rather, as a sphere that
held all the charmed circles that you draw round things to keep them
safe, to keep them holy.
She had drawn her circle round Rodney Lanyon and herself. Nobody could
break it. They were supernaturally safe.
And yet the presence of the Powells had made a difference. She was
forced to own that, though she remained untouched, it had made a
difference in him. It was as if, in the agitation produced by them, he
had brushed aside some veil and had let her see something that up till
now her crystal vision had refused to see, something that was more than
a lurking possibility. She discovered in him a desire, an intention that
up till now he had concealed from her. It had left its hiding place; it
rose on terrifying wings and fluttered before her, troubling her. She
was reminded that, though there were no lurking possibilities in her,
with him it might be different. For him the tie between them might come
to mean something it had never meant and could not mean for her,
something she had refused not only to see but to foresee and provide
for.
She was aware of a certain relief when Monday came and he had left her
without any further unveilings and revealings. She was even glad when,
about the middle of the week, the Powells came with a cart-load of
luggage and settled at the farm. She said to herself that they would
take her mind off him. They had a way of seizing on her and holding her
attention to the exclusion of all other objects.
She could hardly not have been seized and held by a case so pitiful, so
desperate as theirs. How pitiful and desperate it had become she learned
almost at once from the face of her friend, the little pale-eyed wife,
whose small, flat, flower-like features were washed out and worn fine by
watchings and listenings on the border, on the threshold.
Yes, he was worse. He had had to give up his business (Harding Powell
was a gentle stockbroker). It wasn’t any longer, Milly Powell
intimated, a question of borders and of thresholds. They had passed all
that. He had gone clean over; he was in the dreadful interior; and she,
the resolute and vigilant little woman, had no longer any power to get
him out. She was at the end of her tether.
Agatha knew what he had been for years? Well—he was worse than that; far
worse than he had been, ever. Not so bad, though, that he hadn’t
intervals in which he knew how bad he was, and was willing to do
everything, to try anything. They were going to try Sarratt End. It was
her idea. She knew how marvellously it had answered with dear Agatha
(not that Agatha ever was, or could be, where _he_ was, poor darling).
And besides, Agatha herself was an attraction. It had occurred to Milly
Powell that it might do Harding good to be near Agatha. There was
something about her; Milly didn’t know what it was, but she felt it,
_he_ felt it—an influence, or something, that made for mental peace. It
was, Mrs. Powell said, as if she had some secret.
She hoped Agatha wouldn’t mind. It couldn’t possibly hurt her. _He_
couldn’t. The darling couldn’t hurt a fly; he could only hurt himself.
And if he got really bad, why then, of course, they would have to leave
Sarratt End. He would have, she said sadly, to go away somewhere. But
not yet—oh, not yet; he wasn’t bad enough for that. She would keep him
with her up to the last possible moment—the last possible moment. Agatha
could understand, couldn’t she?
Agatha did indeed.
Milly Powell smiled her desperate white smile, and went on; always with
her air of appeal to Agatha. That was why she wanted to be near her. It
was awful not to be near somebody who understood, who would understand
him. For Agatha would understand—wouldn’t she?—that to a certain extent
he must be given in to? _That_—apart from Agatha—was why they had chosen
Sarratt End. It was the sort of place—wasn’t it?—where you would go if
you didn’t want people to get at you; where (Milly’s very voice became
furtive as she explained it) you could hide. His idea—his last—seemed to
be that something _was_ trying to get at him.
No, not people. Something worse, something terrible. It was always after
him. The most piteous thing about him—piteous but adorable—was that he
came to her—to _her_, imploring her to hide him.
And so she had hidden him here.
Agatha took in her friend’s high courage as she looked at the eyes where
fright barely fluttered under the poised suspense. She approved of the
plan. It appealed to her by its sheer audacity. She murmured that if
there were anything that she could do, Milly had only to come to her.
Oh, well, Milly _had_ come. What she wanted Agatha to do—if she saw him
and he should say anything about it—was simply to take the line that he
was safe.
Agatha said that was the line she did take. She wasn’t going to let
herself think, and Milly mustn’t think—not for a moment—that he wasn’t,
that there was anything to be afraid of.
“Anything to be afraid of _here_. That’s my point,” said Milly.
“Mine is that here or anywhere—wherever _he_ is—there mustn’t be any
fear. How can he get better if we keep him wrapped in it? You’re _not_
afraid. You’re not afraid.”
Persistent, invincible affirmation was part of her method, her secret.
Milly replied a little wearily (she knew nothing about the method).
“I haven’t time to be afraid,” she said. “And as long as you’re not—”
“It’s you who matter,” Agatha cried. “You’re so near him. Don’t you
realize what it means to be so near?”