The eighteen months that followed--for the end came sooner than we had expected--were, I think, the happiest days my father and mother had ever known; or if happy be not altogether the right word, let me say the most beautiful, and most nearly perfect. To them it was as though God in His sweet thoughtfulness had sent death to knock lightly at the door, saying: "Not yet. You have still a little longer to be together. In a little while." In those last days all things false and meaningless they laid aside. Nothing was of real importance to them but that they should love each other, comforting each other, learning to understand each other. Again we lived poorly; but there was now no pitiful straining to keep up appearances, no haunting terror of what the neighbours might think. The petty cares and worries concerning matters not worth a moment's thought, the mean desires and fears with which we disfigure ourselves, fell from them.
There came to them broader thought, a wider charity, a deeper pity.
Their love grew greater even than their needs, overflowing towards at things. Sometimes, recalling these months, it has seemed to me that we make a mistake seeking to keep Death, God's go-between, ever from our thoughts. Is it not closing the door to a friend who would help us would we let him (for who knows life so well), whispering to us:
"In a little while. Only a little longer that you have to be together. Is it worth taking so much thought for self? Is it worth while being unkind?"
From them a graciousness emanated pervading all around. Even my aunt Fan decided for the second time in her career to give amiability a trial. This intention she announced publicly to my mother and myself one afternoon soon after our return from Devonshire.
"I'm a beast of an old woman," said my aunt, suddenly.
"Don't say that, Fan," urged my mother.
"What's the good of saying 'Don't say it' when I've just said it," snapped back my aunt.
"It's your manner," explained my mother; "people sometimes think you disagreeable."
"They'd be daft if they didn't," interrupted my aunt. "Of course you don't really mean it," continued my mother.
"Stuff and nonsense," snorted my aunt; "does she think I'm a fool. I like being disagreeable. I like to see 'em squirming."
My mother laughed.
"I can be agreeable," continued my aunt, "if I choose. Nobody more so."
"Then why not choose?" suggested my mother. "I tried it once," said my aunt, "and it fell flat. Nothing could have fallen flatter."
"It may not have attracted much attention," replied my mother, with a smile, "but one should not be agreeable merely to attract attention."
"It wasn't only that," returned my aunt, "it was that it gave no satisfaction to anybody. It didn't suit me. A disagreeable person is at their best when they are disagreeable."
"I can hardly agree with you there," answered my mother.
"I could do it again," communed my aunt to herself. There was a suggestion of vindictiveness in her tones. "It's easy enough. Look at the sort of fools that are agreeable."
"I'm sure you could be if you tried," urged my mother.
"Let 'em have it," continued my aunt, still to herself; "that's the way to teach 'em sense. Let 'em have it."
And strange though it may seem, my aunt was right and my mother altogether wrong. My father was the first to notice the change.
"Nothing the matter with poor old Fan, is there?" he asked. It was one evening a day or two after my aunt had carried her threat into effect. "Nothing happened, has there?"
"No," answered my mother, "nothing that I know of."
"Her manner is so strange," explained my father, "so--so weird."
My mother smiled. "Don't say anything to her. She's trying to be agreeable."
My father laughed and then looked wistful. "I almost wish she wouldn't," he remarked; "we were used to it, and she was rather amusing."
But my aunt, being a woman of will, kept her way; and about the same time that occurred tending to confirm her in her new departure. This was the introduction into our small circle of James Wellington Gadley.
