Agatha Christie: The Burden

"Without remorse?"

"Remorse? Oh yes. It was a wicked thing to do. I know that. I've lived with it ever since. I can't forget."

"Hence the Foundation for Sub-Normal Children? Good works? A course of duty, stern duty. It's your way of making amends."

"It's all I can do."

"Is it any use?"

"What do you mean? It's worthwhile."

"I'm not talking of its use to others. Does it help you?"

"I don't know…"

"It's punishment you want, isn't it?"

"I want, I suppose, to make amends."

"To whom? Henry? But Henry's dead. And from all I've heard, there's nothing that Henry would care less about than sub-normal children. You must face it, Laura, you can't make amends."

She stood motionless for a moment, like one stricken. Then she flung back her head, the colour rose in her cheeks. She looked at him defiantly, and his heart leapt in sudden admiration.

"That's true," she said. "I've been trying, perhaps, to dodge that. You've shown me that I can't. I told you I didn't believe in God, but I do, really. I know that what I've done was evil. I think I believe, in my heart of hearts, that I shall be damned for it. Unless I repent-and I don't repent. I did what I did with my eyes open. I wanted Shirley to have her chance, to be happy, and she was happy. Oh, I know it didn't last long-only three years. But if for three years she was happy and contented, and even if she did die young, then it's worth it."

As he looked at her, the greatest temptation of his life came to Llewellyn-the temptation to hold his tongue, never to tell her the truth. Let her keep her illusion, since it was all she had. He loved her. Loving her, how could he strike her brave courage down into the dust? She need never know.

He walked over to the window, pulled aside the curtain, stared out unseeing into the lighted streets.

When he turned, his voice was harsh.

"Laura," he said, "do you know how your sister died?"

"She was run over-"

"That, yes. But how she came to be run over-that you don't know. She was drunk."

"Drunk?" she repeated the word almost uncomprehendingly. "You mean-there had been a party?"

"No party. She crept secretly out of the house and down to the town. She did that now and again. She sat in a caf? there, drinking brandy. Not very often. Her usual practice was to drink at home. Lavender water and eau-de-Cologne. She drank them until she passed out. The servants knew; Wilding didn't."

"Shirley-drinking? But she never drank? Not in that way! Why?"

"She drank because she found her life unbearable, she drank to escape."

"I don't believe you."

"It's true. She told me herself. When Henry died, she became like someone who had last their way. That's what she was-a lost, bewildered child."

"But she loved Richard, and Richard loved her."

"Richard loved her, but did she ever love him? A brief infatuation-that's all it ever was. And then, weakened by sorrow and the long strain of looking after an irascible invalid, she married him."

"And she wasn't happy. I still can't believe it."

"How much did you know about your sister? Does a person ever seem the same to two different people? You see Shirley always as the helpless baby that you rescued from fire, you see her as weak, helpless, in need always of love, of protection. But I see her quite differently, although I may be just as wrong as you were. I see her as a brave, gallant, adventurous young woman, able to take knocks, able to hold her own, needing difficulties to bring out the full capabilities of her spirit. She was tired and strained, but she was winning her battle, she was making a good job of her chosen life, she was bringing Henry out of despair into the daylight, she was triumphant that night that he died. She loved Henry, and Henry was what she wanted; her life was difficult, but passionately worthwhile.

"And then Henry died, and she was shoved back-back into layers of cotton-wool and soft wrapping, and anxious love, and she struggled and. she couldn't get free. It was then that she found that drink helped. It dimmed reality. And once drink has got a hold on a woman, it isn't easy to give it up."

"She never told me she wasn't happy-never."

"She didn't want you to know that she was unhappy."

"And I did that to her-I?"

"Yes, my poor child."

"Baldy knew," Laura said slowly. "That's what he meant when he said: 'You shouldn't have done it, young Laura.' Long ago, long ago he warned me. Don't interfere. Why do we think we know what's best for other people?" Then she wheeled sharply towards him. "She didn't-mean to? It wasn't suicide?"

"It's an open question. It could be. She stepped off the pavement straight in front of the lorry. Wilding, in his heart of hearts, thinks it was."

"No. Oh, no!"

"But I don't think so. I think better of Shirley than that. I think she was often very near to despair, but I don't believe she ever really abandoned herself to it. I think she was a fighter, I think she continued to fight. But you don't give up drinking in the snap of a finger. You relapse every now and then. I think she stepped off that pavement into eternity without knowing what she was doing or where she was going."

Laura sank down on to the sofa.

"What shall I do? Oh! What shall I do?"

Llewellyn came and put his arms round her.

"You will marry me. You'll start again."

"No, no, I can never do that."

"Why not? You need love."

"You don't understand. I've got to pay. For what I've done. Everyone has to pay."

"How obsessed you are by the thought of payment."

Laura reiterated: "Everyone has to pay."

"Yes, I grant you that. But don't you see, my dearest child-" He hesitated before this last bitter truth that she had to know. "For what you did, someone has already paid. Shirley paid."

She looked at him in sudden horror.

"Shirley paid-for what I did?"

He nodded.

"Yes. I'm afraid you've got to live with that. Shirley paid. And Shirley is dead, and the debt is cancelled. You have got to go forward, Laura. You have got, not to forget the past, but to keep it where it belongs, in your memory, but not in your daily life. You have got to accept not punishment but happiness. Yes, my dear, happiness. You have got to stop giving and learn to take. God deals strangely with us-He is giving you, so I fully believe, happiness and love. Accept them in humility."

"I can't. I can't!"

"You must."

He drew her to her feet.

"I love you, Laura, and you love me-not as much as I love you, but you do love me."

"Yes, I love you."

He kissed her-a long, hungry kiss.

As they drew apart, she said, with a faint shaky laugh:

"I wish Baldy knew. He'd be pleased!"

As she moved away, she stumbled and half fell.

Llewellyn caught her.

"Be careful-did you hurt yourself?-you might have struck your head on that marble chimney-piece."

"Nonsense."

"Yes, nonsense-but you're so precious to me…"

She smiled at him. She felt his love and his anxiety.

She was wanted, as in her childhood she had longed to be wanted.

And suddenly, almost imperceptibly, her shoulders sagged a little, as though a burden, a light burden, but still a burden, had been placed on them.

For the first time, she felt and comprehended the weight of love…