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diff --git a/old/cptvs10.txt b/old/cptvs10.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..51563ab --- /dev/null +++ b/old/cptvs10.txt @@ -0,0 +1,21904 @@ +***The Project Gutenberg Etext of The Captives, by Hugh Walpole*** +#3 in our series by Hugh Walpole + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world, be sure to check +the laws for your country before redistributing these files!!! + +Please take a look at the important information in this header. +We encourage you to keep this file on your own disk, keeping an +electronic path open for the next readers. + +Please do not remove this. + +This should be the first thing seen when anyone opens the book. +Do not change or edit it without written permission. 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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.05/20/01*END* +[Portions of this header are copyright (C) 2001 by Michael S. Hart +and may be reprinted only when these Etexts are free of all fees.] +[Project Gutenberg is a TradeMark and may not be used in any sales +of Project Gutenberg Etexts or other materials be they hardware or +software or any other related product without express permission.] + + + + + +This etext was produced by Charles Franks and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team + + + + + +The Captives + +by + +Hugh Walpole + + + + +TO + +ARNOLD BENNETT + +WITH DEEP AFFECTION + + + + +"I confess that I do not see why the very existence +of an invisible world may not in part depend on the +personal response which any of us may make to the +religious appeal. God Himself, in short, may draw +vital strength and increase of very being from our +fidelity. For my own part I do not know what the +sweat and blood and tragedy of this life mean, if they +mean anything short of this. If this life be not a real +fight, in which something is eternally gained for the +universe by success, it is no better than a game of private +theatricals from which one may withdraw at will. +But it feels like a real fight--as if there were something +really wild in the universe which we, with all +our idealities and faithlessness, are needed to redeem; +and first of all to redeem our own hearts from +atheisms and fears . . ." + +WILLIAM JAMES. + + + + +CONTENTS + +PART I: BEGINNING OF THE JOURNEY + + I DEATH OF THE REV. CHARLES CARDINAL + II AUNT ANNE + III THE LONDON HOUSE + IV THE CHAPEL + + +PART II: THE CHARIOT OF FIRE + + I THE WARLOCKS + II EXPECTATION + III MAGGIE AND MARTIN + IV MR. CRASHAW + V THE CHOICE + VI THE PROPHET IN HIS OWN HOME + VII THE OUTSIDE WORLD +VIII PARADISE + IX THE INSIDE SAINTS + X THE PROPHET + XI THE CHARIOT OF FIRE + + +PART III: THE WITCH + + I THE THREE VISITS + II PLUNGE INTO THE OTHER HALF + III SKEATON-ON-SEA + IV GRACE + V THE BATTLE OF SKEATON: FIRST YEAR + VI THE BATTLE OF SKEATON: SECOND YEAR + VII DEATH OF AUNT ANNE +VIII DEATH OF UNCLE MATHEW + IX SOUL OF PAUL + X THE REVIVAL + + +PAET IV: THE JOURNEY HOME AGAIN + + I THE DARK ROOM + II HOBGOBLINS + III THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE + + + + + + + +PART I + +BEGINNING OF THE JOURNEY + + +CHAPTER I + +DEATH OF THE REV. CHARLES CARDINAL + + +Death leapt upon the Rev. Charles Cardinal, Rector of St. Dreots in +South Glebeshire, at the moment that he bent down towards the second +long drawer of his washhand-stand; he bent down to find a clean +collar. It is in its way a symbol of his whole life, that death +claimed him before he could find one. + +At one moment his mind was intent upon his collar; at the next he +was stricken with a wild surmise, a terror that even at that instant +he would persuade himself was exaggerated. He saw before his +clouding eyes a black pit. A strong hand striking him in the middle +of his back flung him contemptuously forward into it; a gasping cry +of protest and all was over. Had time been permitted him he would +have stretched out a hand towards the shabby black box that, true to +all miserly convention, occupied the space beneath his bed. Time was +not allowed him. He might take with him into the darkness neither +money nor clean clothing. + +He had been told on many occasions about his heart, that he must not +excite nor strain it. He allowed that to pass as he allowed many +other things because his imagination was fixed upon one ambition, +and one alone. He had made, upon this last and fatal occasion, haste +to find his collar because the bell had begun its Evensong clatter +and he did not wish to-night to be late. The bell continued to ring +and he lay his broad widespread length upon the floor. He was a +large and dirty man. + +The shabby old house was occupied with its customary life. Down in +the kitchen Ellen the cook was snatching a moment from her labours +to drink a cup of tea. She sat at the deal table, her full bosom +pressed by the boards, her saucer balanced on her hand; she blew, +with little heaving pants, at her tea to cool it. Her thoughts were +with a new hat and some red roses with which she would trim it; she +looked out with little shivers of content at the falling winter's +dusk: Anne the kitchen-maid scoured the pans; her bony frame seemed +to rattle as she scrubbed with her red hands; she was happy because +she was hungry and there would be a beef-steak pudding for dinner. +She sang to herself as she worked. + +Upstairs in the dining-room Maggie Cardinal, the only child of the +Rev. Charles, sat sewing. She hoard the jangling of the church hell; +she heard also, suddenly, with a surprise that made her heart beat +for a moment with furious leaps, a tapping on the window-pane. Then +directly after that she fancied that there came from her father's +room above the thud of some sudden fall or collapse. She listened. +The bell swallowed all other noise. She thought that she had been +mistaken, but the tapping at the window began again, now insistent; +the church bell suddenly stopped and in the silence that followed +one could hear the slight creak of some bough driven by the sea-wind +against the wall. + +The curtains were not drawn and where the curve of the hill fell +away the sky was faintly yellow; some cold stars like points of ice +pierced the higher blue; carelessly, as though with studied +indifference, flakes of snow fell, turning grey against the lamp-lit +windows, then vanishing utterly. Maggie, going to the window, saw a +dark shapeless figure beyond the glass. For an instant she was +invaded by the terror of her surprised loneliness, then she +remembered her father and the warm kitchen, then realised that this +figure in the dark must be her Uncle Mathew. + +She went out into the hall, pushed back the stiff, clumsy handle of +the door, and stepped on to the gravel path. She called out, +laughing: + +"Come in! You frightened me out of my life." + +As he came towards her she felt the mingled kindness and irritation +that he always roused in her. He stood in the light of the hall +lamp, a fat man, a soft hat pushed to the back of his head, a bag in +one hand. His face was weak and good-tempered, his eyes had once +been fine but now they were dim and blurred; there were dimples in +his fat cheeks; he wore on his upper lip a ragged and untidy +moustache and he had two indeterminate chins. His expression was +mild, kindly, now a little ashamed, now greatly indignant. It was a +pity, as he often said, that he had not more control over his +feelings. Maggie saw at once that he was, as usual, a little drunk. + +"Well," she said. "Come in, Uncle. Father is in church, I think," +she added. + +Uncle Mathew stepped with careful deliberation into the hall, put +his bag on a chair, and began a long, rambling explanation. + +"You know, Maggie, that I would have sent you a post card if I had +had an idea, but, upon my soul, there I was suddenly in Drymouth on +important business. I thought to myself on waking this morning--I +took a room at the 'Three Tuns'--'Why, there are Charles and Maggie +whom I haven't seen for an age.' I'd have sent you a telegram but +the truth is, my dear, that I didn't want to spend a penny more than +I must. Things haven't been going so well with me of late. It's a +long story. I want your father's advice. I've had the worst of luck +and I could tell you one or two things that would simply surprise +you--but anyway, there it is. Just for a night I'm sure you won't +mind. To-morrow or the day after I must be back in town or this +thing will slip right through my fingers. These days one must be +awake or one's simply nowhere." + +He paused and nodded his head very solemnly at her, looking, as he +did so, serious and important. + +It was thus that he always appeared, "for one night only," but +staying for weeks and weeks in spite of the indignant protests of +his brother Charles who had never liked him and grudged the expense +of his visits. Maggie herself took his appearance as she did +everything else in her life with good-tempered philosophy. She had +an affection for her uncle; she wished that he did not drink so +much, but had he made a success of life she would not have cared for +him as she did. After all every one had their weaknesses . . . + +She steered her uncle into the dining-room and placed him on a chair +beside the fire. In all his movements he attempted restraints and +dignity because he knew that he was drunk but hoped that his niece, +in spite of her long experience of him, would not perceive it. At +the same time he knew that she did perceive it and would perhaps +scold him about it. This made him a little indignant because, after +all, he had only taken the tiniest drop--one drop at Drymouth, +another at Liskane station, and another at "The Hearty Cow" at +Clinton St. Mary, just before his start on his cold lonely walk to +St. Dreot's. He hoped that he would prevent her criticism by his +easy pleasant talk, so on he chattered. + +She sat down near him and continuing to sew smiled at him, wondered +what there was for dinner and the kind of mood that her father would +be in when he found his dear brother here. + +Maggie Cardinal, at the time, was nineteen years of age. She was +neither handsome nor distinguished, plain indeed, although her mild, +good-natured eyes had in their light a quality of vitality and +interest that gave her personality; her figure was thick and square- +-she would be probably stout one day. She moved like a man. Behind +the mildness of her eyes there was much character and resolve in her +carriage, in the strong neck, the firm breasts, the mouth resolute +and determined. She had now the fine expectation of her youth, her +health, her optimism, her ignorance of the world. When these things +left her she would perhaps be a yet plainer woman. In her dress she +was not clever. Her clothes were ugly with the coarse drab grey of +their material and the unskilful workmanship that had created them. +And yet there would be some souls who would see in her health, her +youth, the kind sympathy of her eyes and mouth, the high nobility of +her forehead from which her hair was brushed back, an attraction +that might hold them more deeply than an obvious beauty. + +Uncle Mathew although he was a silly man was one of these perceptive +souls, and had he not been compelled by his circumstances to think +continually about himself, would have loved his niece very dearly. +As it was, he thought her a fine girl when he thought of her at all, +and wished her more success in life than her "poor old uncle" had +had. He looked at her now across the fireplace with satisfaction. +She was something sure and pleasant in a world that swayed and was +uncertain. He was drunk enough to feel happy so long as he was not +scolded. He dreaded the moment when his brother Charles would +appear, and he strove to arrange in his mind the wise and +unanswerable word with which he would defend himself, but his +thoughts slipped just as the firelight slipped and the floors with +the old threadbare carpet. + +Then suddenly the hall door opened with a jangle, there were steps +in the hall, and Old Timmie Carthewe the sexton appeared in the +dining-room. He had a goat's face and a body like a hairpin. + +"Rector's not been to service," he said. "There's Miss Dunnett and +Mrs. Giles and the two Miss Backshaws. I'm feared he's forgotten." + +Maggie started up. Instantly to her mind came the memory of that +fancied sound from her father's room. She listened now, her head +raised, and the two men, their eyes bleared but their noses sniffing +as though they were dogs, listened also. There were certain sounds, +clocks ticking, the bough scraping on the wall, a cart's echo on the +frozen road, the maid singing far in the depths of the house. Maggie +nodded her head. + +"I'll go and see," she said. + +She went into the hall and stood again listening. Then she called, +"Father! Father!" but there was no answer. She had never in all her +life been frightened by anything and she was not frightened now; +nevertheless, as she went up the stairs, she looked behind her to +see whether any one followed her. + +She called again "Father!" then went to his door, pushed it open, +and looked in. The room was cold with a faint scent of tallow candle +and damp. + +In the twilight she saw her father's body lying like a shadow +stretched right across the floor, with the grey dirty fingers of one +hand clenched. + +After that events followed swiftly. Maggie herself had no time nor +opportunity for any personal emotion save a dumb kind of wonder that +she did not feel more. But she saw all "through a glass darkly." +There had been first that moment when the sexton and Uncle Mathew, +still like dogs sniffing, had peered with their eyes through her +father's door. Then there had been the summoning of Dr. Bubbage from +the village, his self-importance, his continual "I warned him. I +warned him. He can't say I didn't warn him," and then (very dim and +far away) "Thank you, Miss Cardinal. I think I will have a glass if +you don't mind." There had been cook crying in the kitchen (her red +roses intended for Sunday must now be postponed) and the maid +sniffing in the hall. There had been Uncle Mathew, muddled and +confused, but clinging to his one idea that "the best thing you can +do, my dear, is to send for your Aunt Anne." There had been the +telegram dispatched to Aunt Anne, and then after that the house had +seemed quite filled with people--ladies who had--wished to know +whether they could help her in any way and even the village butcher +who was there for no reason but stood in the hall rubbing his hands +on his thighs and sniffing. All these persons Maggie surveyed +through a mist. She was calm and collected and empty of all +personality; Maggie Cardinal, the real Maggie Cardinal, was away on +a visit somewhere and would not be back for a time or two. + +Then suddenly as the house had filled so suddenly it emptied. Maggie +found that she was desperately tired. She went to bed and slept +instantly. On waking next morning she was aware that it was a most +beautiful winter's day and that there was something strange in the +air. There came to her then very slowly a sense of her father. She +saw him on the one side, persistently as she had found him in his +room, strange, shapeless, with a crumpled face and a dirty beard +that seemed to be more dead than the rest of him. On the other side +she saw him as she had found him in the first days of her +consciousness of the world. + +He must have been "jolly" then, large and strong, laughing often, +tossing her, she remembered, to the ceiling, his beard jet-black and +his eyebrows bushy and overhanging. Once that vigour, afterwards +this horror. She shook away from her last vision of him but it +returned again and again, hanging about her over her shoulder like +an ill-omened messenger. And all the life between seemed to be +suddenly wiped away as a sponge wipes figures off a slate. After the +death of her mother she had made the best of her circumstances. +There had been many days when life had been unpleasant, and in the +last year, as his miserliness had grown upon him, his ill-temper at +any fancied extravagance had been almost that of an insane man, but +Maggie knew very little of the affairs of other men and it seemed to +her that every one had some disadvantage with which to grapple. She +did not pretend to care for her father, she was very lonely because +the villagers hated him, but she had always made the best of +everything because she had never had an intimate friend to tell her +that that was a foolish thing to do. + +It was indeed marvellous how isolated her life had been; she knew +simply nothing about the world at all. + +She could not pretend that she was sorry that her father had died; +and yet she missed him because she knew very well that she was now +no one's business, that she was utterly and absolutely alone in the +universe. It might be said that she could not be utterly alone when +she had her Uncle Mathew, but, although she was ignorant of life, +she knew her Uncle Mathew . . . Nevertheless, he did something to +remove the sharp alarm of her sudden isolation. Upon the day after +her father's death he was at his very best, his kindest, and most +gentle. He was rather pathetic, having drunk nothing out of respect +to the occasion; he felt, somewhere deep down in him, a persistent +exaltation that his brother Charles was dead, but he knew that it +was not decent to allow this feeling to conquer him and he was truly +anxious to protect and comfort his niece so well as he was able. +Early in the afternoon he suggested that they should go for a walk. +Everything necessary had been done. An answer to their telegram had +been received from his sister Anne that she could not leave London +until that night but would arrive at Clinton St. Mary station at +half-past nine to-morrow morning. That would be in good time for the +funeral, a ceremony that was to be conducted by the Rev. Tom +Trefusis, the sporting vicar of Cator Hill, the neighbouring parish. + +The house now was empty and silent. They must escape from that +figure, now decent, clean, and solemn, lying upon the bed upstairs. +Mathew took his niece by the hand and said: + +"My dear, a little fresh air is the thing for both of us. It will +cheer you up." + +So they went out for a walk together. Maggie knew, with a deep and +intimate experience, every lane and road within twenty miles' radius +of St. Dreot's, There was the high-road that went through Gator Hill +to Clinton and then to Polwint; here were the paths across the +fields to Lucent, the lanes that led to the valley of the Lisp, all +the paths like spiders' webs through Rothin Wood, from whose curve +you could see Polchester, grey and white, with its red-brown roofs +and the spires of the Cathedral thrusting like pointing fingers into +the heaven. It was the Polchester View that she chose to-day, but as +they started through the deep lanes down the St. Dreot's hill she +was startled and disturbed by the strange aspect which everything +wore to her. She had not as yet realised the great shock her +father's death had been; she was exhausted, spiritually and +physically, in spite of the deep sleep of the night before. The form +and shape of the world was a little strained and fantastic, the +colours uncertain, now vivid, now vanishing, the familiar trees, +hedges, clouds, screens, as it were, concealing some scene that was +being played behind them. But beyond and above all other sensations +she was conscious of her liberty. She struggled against this; she +should be conscious, before everything, of her father's loss. But +she was not. It meant to her at present not so much the loss of a +familiar figure as the sudden juggling, by an outside future, of all +the regular incidents and scenes of her daily life, as at a +pantomime one sees by a transformation of the scenery, the tables, +the chairs, and pictures the walls dance to an unexpected jig. She +was free, free, free--alone but free. What form her life would take +she did not know, what troubles and sorrows in the future there +might be she did not care--to-morrow her life would begin. + +Although unsentimental she was tender-hearted and affectionate, but +now, for many years, her life with her father had been a daily +battle of ever-increasing anger and bitterness. It may be that once +he had loved her; that had been in those days when she was not old +enough to love him . . . since she had known him he had loved only +money. She would have loved him had he allowed her, and because he +did not she bore him no grudge. She had always regarded her life, +sterile and unprofitable as it was, with humour until now when, like +a discarded dress, it had slipped behind her. She did not see it, +even now, with bitterness; there was no bitterness for anything in +her character. + +As they walked Uncle Mathew was considering her for the first time. +On the other occasions when he had stayed in his brother's house he +had been greatly occupied with his own plans--requests for money +(invariably refused) schemes for making money, plots to frighten his +brother out of one or other of his possessions. He had been frankly +predatory, and that plain, quiet girl his niece had been pleasant +company but no more. Now she was suddenly of the first importance. +She would in all probability inherit a considerable sum. How much +there might be in that black box under the bed one could not say, +but surely you could not be so relentless a miser for so long a +period without accumulating a very agreeable amount. Did the girl +realise that she would, perhaps, be rich? Uncle Mathew licked his +lips with his tongue. So quiet and self-possessed was she that you +could not tell what she was thinking. Were she only pretty she might +marry anybody. As it was, with that figure . . . But she was a good +girl. Uncle Mathew felt kind and tender-hearted towards her. He +would advise her about life of which he had had a very considerable +experience, and of which, of course, she knew nothing. His heart was +warm, although it would have been warmer still had he been able to +drink a glass of something before starting out. + +"And what will you do now, my dear, do you think?" he asked. + +They had left the deep lanes and struck across the hard-rutted +fields. A thin powder of snow lay upon the land, and under the +yellow light of the winter sky the surface was blue, shadowed with +white patches where the snow had fallen more thickly. The trees and +hedges were black and hard against the white horizon that was +tightly stretched like the paper of a Japanese screen. The smell of +burning wood was in the air, and once and again a rook slowly swung +its wheel, cutting the air as it flew. The cold was so pleasantly +sharp that it was the best possible thing for Uncle Mathew, who was +accustomed to an atmosphere of hissing gas, unwashen glasses, and +rinds of cheese. + +Maggie did not answer his question but herself asked one. + +"Uncle Mathew, do you believe in religion?" + +"Religion, my dear?" answered her uncle, greatly startled at so +unusual a question. "What sort of religion?" + +"The kind of religion that father preached about every Sunday--the +Christian religion." + +"To tell you the truth, my dear," he answered confidentially, "I've +never had much time to think about it. With some men, you see, it's +part of their lives, and with others--well, it isn't. My lines never +ran that way." + +"Was father very religious when he was young?" + +"No, I can't say that he was. But then we never got on, your father +and I. Our lines didn't run together at all. But I shouldn't have +called him a religious man." + +"Then all this time father has been lying?" + +Her uncle gazed at her apprehensively. He did not wish to undermine +her faith in her father on the very day after his death, but he was +so ignorant about her, her thoughts and beliefs and desires, that he +did not know what her idea of her father had been. His idea of him +had always been that he was a dirty, miserly scoundrel, but that was +not quite the thing for a daughter to feel, and there was an +innocence and simplicity about Maggie that perplexed him. + +"I can't truly say that I ever knew what your father's private +feelings were. He never cared for me enough to tell me. He may have +been very religious in his real thoughts. We never discussed such +things." + +Maggie turned round upon him. + +"I know. You're pretending. You've said to yourself, 'I mustn't tell +her what I think about her father the very day after his death, that +isn't a pleasant thing to do.' We've all got to pretend that he was +splendid. But he wasn't--never. Who can know it better than I? +Didn't he worry mother until she died? Didn't he lead me an awful +life always, and aren't I delighted now that he's dead? It's +everything to me. I've longed for this day for years, and now we've +got to pretend that we're sorry and that it would be a good thing if +he were alive. It wouldn't be a good thing--it would be a bad thing +for every one. He was a bad man and I hated him." + +Then, quite suddenly, she cried. Turning away from her uncle she +folded her face in her arms like a small child and sobbed. Standing, +looking at her bent shoulders, her square, ugly figure, her shabby +old hat with its dingy black ribbon, pushed a little to the side of +her head, Uncle Mathew thought that she was a most uncomprehensible +girl. If she felt like that about her father why should she cry; and +if she cried she must surely have some affection for his memory. All +he could say was: + +"There, there, my dear--Well, well. It's all right." He felt foolish +and helpless. + +She turned round at last, drying her eyes. "It's such a shame," she +said, still sobbing, "that that's what I shall feel about him. He's +all I had and that's what I feel. But if you knew--if you knew--all +the things he did." + +They walked on again, entering Rothin Wood. "He never tried to make +me religious," she went on. "He didn't care what I felt. I sat in +the choir, and I took a Sunday-school class, and I visited the +villagers, but I, myself--what happened to me--he didn't care. He +never took any trouble about the church, he just gabbled the prayers +and preached the same old sermons. People in the village said it was +a scandal and that he ought to be turned out but no one ever did +anything. They'll clean everything up now. There'll be a new +clergyman. They'll mend the holes in the kitchen floor and the +ceiling of my bedroom. It will be all new and fresh." + +"And what will you do, Maggie?" said her uncle, trying to make his +voice indifferent as though he had no personal interest in her +plans. + +"I haven't thought yet," she said. + +"I've an idea," he went on. "What do you say to your living with me? +A nice little place somewhere in London. I've felt for a long time +that I should settle down. Your father will have left you a little +money--not much, perhaps, but just enough for us to manage +comfortably. And there we'd be, as easy as anything. I can see us +very happy together." + +But he did not as yet know his niece. She shook her head. + +"No," she said. "I'm going to live with Aunt Anne and Aunt +Elizabeth. We wouldn't be happy, Uncle, you and I. Our house would +always be in a mess and there are so many things that I must learn +that only another woman could teach me. I never had a chance with +father." + +He had entered upon this little walk with every intention of +settling the whole affair before their return. He had had no idea of +any opposition--her ignorance of the world would make her easy to +adapt. But now when he saw that she had already considered the +matter and was firmly resolved, his arguments deserted him. + +"Just consider a moment," he said. + +"I think it will be best for me to live with the aunts," she +answered firmly. "They have wished it before. Of course then it was +impossible but now it will do very well." + +He had one more attempt. + +"You won't be happy there, my dear, with all their religion and the +rest of it--and two old maids. You'll see no life at all." + +"That depends upon myself," she answered, "and as to their religion +at least they believe in it." + +"Yes, your Aunt Anne is a very sincere woman," Uncle Mathew answered +grimly. + +He was angry and helpless. She seemed suddenly some one with whom it +was impossible to argue. He had intended to be pathetic, to paint +delightful pictures of uncle and niece sheltering snugly together +defended by their affection against a cold and hostile London. His +own eyes had filled with tears as he thought of it. What a hard, +cold-hearted girl she was! Nevertheless for the moment he abandoned +the subject. + +That she should go and live with her aunts was not for Maggie in any +way a new idea. A number of years ago when she had been a little +girl of thirteen or fourteen years of age her father had had a most +violent quarrel with his sister Anne. Maggie had never known the +exact cause of this although even at that period she suspected that +it was in some way connected with money. She found afterwards that +her father had considered that certain pieces of furniture +bequeathed to the family by a defunct relation were his and not his +sister's. Miss Anne Cardinal, a lady of strong character, clung to +her sofa, cabinet, and porcelain, bowls, and successfully maintained +her right. The Reverend Charles forbade the further mention of her +name by any member of his household. This quarrel was a grievous +disappointment to Maggie who had often been promised that when she +should be a good girl she should go and stay with her aunts in +London. She had invented for herself a strange fascinating picture +of the dark, mysterious London house, with London like a magic +cauldron bubbling beyond it. There was moreover the further +strangeness of her aunt's religion. Her father in his anger had +spoken about "their wicked blasphemy," "their insolence in the eyes +of God," "their blindness and ignorant conceit." Maggie had +discovered, on a later day, from her uncle that her aunts belonged +to a sect known as the Kingscote Brethren and that the main feature +of their creed was that they expected the second coming of the Lord +God upon earth at no very distant date. + +"Will it really happen, Uncle Mathew?" she asked in an awe-struck +voice when she first heard this. + +"It's all bunkum if you ask me," said her uncle. "And it's had a +hardening effect on your aunts who were kind women once, but they're +completely in the hands of the blackguard who runs their chapel, +poor innocents. I'd wring his neck if I caught him." + +All this was very fascinating to Maggie who was of a practical mind +with regard to the facts immediately before her but had beyond them +a lively imagination. Her life had been so lonely, spent for the +most part so far from children of her own age, that she had no test +of reality. She did not see any reason why the Lord God should not +come again and she saw every reason why her aunts should condemn her +uncle. That London house swam now in a light struck partly from the +wisdom and omniscience of her aunts, partly from God's threatened +descent upon them. + +Aunt Anne's name was no longer mentioned in St.Dreot's but Maggie +did not forget, and at every new tyranny from her father she thought +to herself--"Well, there is London. I shall be there one day." + +As they walked Maggie looked at her uncle. What was he really? He +should be a gentleman and yet he didn't look like one. She +remembered things that he had at different times said to her. + +"Why, look at myself!" he had on earlier days, half-maudlin from +"his drop at the 'Bull and Bush,'" exclaimed to Maggie, "I can't +call myself a success! I'm a rotten failure if you want to know, and +I had most things in my favour to start with, went to Cambridge, had +a good opening as a barrister. But it wasn't quick enough for me. I +was restless and wanted to jump the moon--now look at me! Same with +your father, only he's put all his imagination into money--same as +your aunts have put theirs into religion. We're not like ordinary +people, us Cardinals." + +"And have I got a lot of imagination too?" Maggie had asked on one +occasion. + +"I'm sure I don't know," her uncle had answered her. "You don't look +to me like a Cardinal at all--much too quiet. But you may have it +somewhere. Look out for a bad time if you have." + +Today Maggie's abrupt checking of his projects had made him sulky +and he talked but little. "Damn it all!" he had started out with the +most charming intentions towards the girl and now look at her! Was +it natural conduct in the day after she had lost her only protector? +No, it was not. Had she been pretty he might have, even now, +forgiven her, but today she looked especially plain with her pale +face and shabby black dress and her obstinate mouth and chin. He was +uneasy, too, about the imminent arrival of his sister Anne, who +always frightened him and made him think poorly of the world in +general. No hope of getting any money out of her, nor would Charles +have left him a penny. It was a rotten, unsympathetic world, and +Uncle Mathew cursed God as he strutted sulkily along. Maggie also +had fallen into silence. + +They came at last out of the wood and stood at the edge of it, with +the pine trees behind them, looking down over Polchester. On this +winter's afternoon Polchester with the thin covering of snow upon +its roofs sparkled like a city under glass. The Cathedral was dim in +the mist of the early dusk and the sun, setting behind the hill, +with its last rays caught the windows so that they blazed through +the haze like smoking fires. Whilst Maggie and her uncle stood there +the bells began to ring for Evensong, and the sound like a faint +echo seemed to come from behind them out of the wood. In the spring +all the Polchester orchards would be white and pink with blossom, in +the summer the river that encircled the city wall would run like a +blue scarf between its green sloping hills--now there was frost and +snow and mist with the fires smouldering at its heart. She gazed at +it now as she had never gazed at it before. She was going into it +now. Her life was beginning at last. When the sun had left the +windows and the walls were grey she turned back into the wood and +led the way silently towards home. + +The house that night was very strange with her father dead in it. +She sat, because she thought it her duty, in his bedroom. He lay on +his bed, with his beard carefully combed and brushed now, spread out +upon the sheet. His closed eyes and mouth gave him a grave and +reverend appearance which he had never worn in his life. He lay +there, under the flickering candle-light, like some saint who at +length, after a life of severe discipline, had entered into the joy +of his Lord. Beneath the bed was the big black box. + +Maggie did not look at her father. She sat there, near the dark +window, her hands folded on her lap. She thought of nothing at all +except the rats. She was not afraid of them but they worried her. +They had been a trouble in the house for a long time past, poison +had been laid for them and they had refused to take it. They had +had, perhaps, some fear of the Reverend Charles, at any rate they +scampered and scurried now behind the wainscoting as though +conscious of their release. "Even the rats are glad," Maggie thought +to herself. In the uncertain candle-light the fancy seized her that +one rat, a very large one, had crept out from his hole, crawled on +to the bed, and now sat on the sheet looking at her father. It would +be a horrible thing did the rat walk across her father's beard, and +yet for her life she could not move. She waited, fascinated. She +fancied that the beard stirred a little as though the rat had moved +it. She fancied that the rat grew and grew in size, now there were +many of them, all with their little sharp beady eyes watching the +corpse. Now there were none; only the large limbs outlined beneath +the spread, the waxen face, the ticking clock, the strange empty +shape of his grey dressing-gown hanging upon a nail on the wall. +Where was her father gone? She did not know, she did not care--only +she trusted that she would never meet him again--never again. Her +head nodded; her hands and feet were cold; the candle-light jumped, +the rats scampered . . . she slept. + +When it was quite dark beyond the windows and the candles were low +Maggie came downstairs, stiff, cold, and very hungry. She felt that +it was wrong to have slept and very wrong to be hungry, but there it +was; she did not pretend to herself that things were other than they +were. In the dining-room she found supper laid out upon the table, +cold beef, potatoes in their jackets, cold beetroot, jelly, and +cheese, and her uncle playing cards on the unoccupied end of the +table in a melancholy manner by himself. She felt that it was wrong +of him to play cards on such an occasion, but the cards were such +dirty grey ones and he obtained obviously so little pleasure from +his amusement that he could not be considered to be wildly +abandoning himself to riot and extravagance. + +She felt pleasure in his company; for the first time since her +father's death she was a little frightened and uneasy. She might +even have gone to him and cried on his shoulder had he given her any +encouragement, but he did not speak to her except to say that he had +already eaten. He was still a little sulky with her. + +When she had finished her meal she sat in her accustomed chair by +the fire, her head propped on her hands, looking into the flame, and +there, half-asleep, half-awake, memories, conversations, long- +vanished scenes trooped before her eyes as though they were bidding +her a long farewell. She did not, as she sat there, sentimentalise +about any of them, she saw them as they were, some happy, some +unhappy, some terrifying, some amusing, all of them dead and passed, +grey and thin, the life gone out of them. Her mind was fixed on the +future. What was it going to be? Would she have money as her uncle +had said? Would she see London and the world? Would she find +friends, people who would be glad to be with her and have her with +them? What would her aunts be like? and so from them, what about all +the other members of the family of whom she had heard? She painted +for herself a gay scene in which, at the door of some great house, a +fine gathering of Cardinals waited with smiles and outstretched +hands to welcome her. Then, laughing at herself as she always did +when she had allowed her fancy free rein, she shook her head. No, it +certainly would not be like that. Relations were not like that. That +was not the way to face the world to encourage romantic dreams. Her +uncle, watching her surreptitiously, wondered of what she was +thinking. Her determined treatment of him that afternoon continued +to surprise him. She certainly ought to make her way in the world, +but what a pity that she was so plain. Perhaps if she got some +colour into her cheeks, dressed better, brushed her hair +differently--no, her mouth would always be too large and her nose +too small--and her figure was absurd. Uncle Mathew considered that +he was a judge of women. + +He rose at last and, rather shamefacedly, said that he should go to +bed. Maggie wondered at the confusion that she detected in him. She +looked at him and he dropped his eyes. + +"Good night, Uncle Mathew." + +He looked at her then and noticed by her white face and dark-lined +eyes what a strain the day had been to her. He saw again the figure +in the shabby black hat sobbing in the lane. He suddenly put his +arms about her and held her close to him. She noticed that he +smelled of whisky, but she felt his kindness, and putting her hand +on his fat shoulder kissed once more his cheek. + +When he had left her, her weariness came suddenly down upon her, +overwhelming her as though the roof had fallen in. The lamp swelled +before her tired eyes as though it had been an evil, unhealthy +flower. The table slid into the chairs and the cold beef leered at +the jelly; the pictures jumped and the clock ran in a mad scurry +backwards and forwards. + +She dragged her dazed body up through the silent house to her +bedroom, undressed, was instantly in bed and asleep. + +She slept without dreams but woke suddenly as though she had been +flung into the midst of one. She sat up in bed, knowing from the +thumping of her heart that she was seized with panic but finding, in +the first flash, no reason for her alarm. The room was pitch black +with shadows of light here and there, but she had with her, in the +confusion of her sleep, uncertainty as to the different parts of the +room. What had awakened her? Of what was she frightened? Then +suddenly, as one slits a black screen with a knife, a thin line of +light cracked the darkness. As though some one had whispered it in +her ear she knew that the door was there and the dark well of +uncertainty into which she had been plunged was suddenly changed +into her own room where she could recognise the window, the chest of +drawers, the looking-glass, the chairs. Some one was opening her +door and her first thought that it was of course her father was +checked instantly by the knowledge, conveyed again as though some +one had whispered to her, that her father was dead. + +The thin line of light was now a wedge, it wavered, drew back to a +spider's thread again, then broadened with a flush of colour into a +streaming path. Some one stood in the doorway holding a candle. +Maggie saw that it was Uncle Mathew in his shirt and trousers. + +"What is it?" she said. + +He swayed as he stood there, his candle making fantastic leaps and +shallows of light. He was smiling at her in a silly way and she saw +that he was drunk. She had had a horror of drunkenness ever since, +as a little girl, she had watched an inebriated carter kicking his +wife. She always, after that, saw the woman's bent head and stooping +shoulders. Now she knew, sitting up in bed, that she was frightened +not only of Uncle Mathew, but of the house, of the whole world. + +She was alone. She realised her loneliness in a great flash of +bewilderment and cold terror as though the ground had suddenly +broken away from her and she was on the edge of a vast pit. There +was no one in the house to help her. Her father was dead. The cook +and the maid were sunk in heavy slumber at the other end of the +house. There was no one to help her. She was alone, and it seemed to +her that in the shock of that discovery she realised that she would +always be alone now, for the rest of her life. + +"What is it, Uncle Mathew?" she said again. Her voice was steady, +although her heart hammered. Some other part of her brain was +wondering where it was that he had got the drink. He must have had a +bottle of whisky in his room; she remembered his shyness when he +said good-night to her. + +He stood in the middle of the floor, swaying on his feet and smiling +at her. The flame of the light rose and fell in jerks and spasms. + +"I thought," he said, "I'd come--to see m'little Maggie, m'little +niece, jus' to talk a lill bit and cheer her up--up." He drew nearer +the bed. "She'll be lonely, I said--lonely--very--aren't you--lonely +Maggie?" + +"It's very late," she said, "and you're dropping grease ail over the +floor with that candle. You go back to bed, uncle. I'm all right. +You go back to bed." + +"Go back? No, no, no. Oh no, not back to bed. It'll soon be mornin'. +That'll be jolly-jolly. We'll talk--together till mornin'." + +He put the candle on a chair, nearly falling as he did so, then came +towards her. He stood over her, his shirt, open at the neck, +protuberating over his stomach, his short thick legs swaying. His +red, unshaven face with the trembling lips was hateful to her. + +Suddenly he sat on the edge of her bed and put his hands out towards +her. He caught her hair. + +"My little Maggie--my little Maggie," he said. + +The fright, the terror, the panic that seized her was like the +sudden rising of some black figure who grew before her, bent towards +her and with cold hard fingers squeezed her throat. For an instant +she was helpless, quivering, weak in every bone of her body. + +Then some one said to her: + +"But you can manage this." + +"I can manage this," she answered almost aloud. + +"You're alone now. You mustn't let things be too much for you." + +She jumped out of bed, on the farther side away from her uncle. She +put on her dressing-gown. She stood and pointed at the door. + +"Now, uncle, you go back to your room at once. It's disgraceful +coming in the middle of the night and disturbing every one. Go back +to bed." + +The new tone in her voice startled him. He looked at her in a +bewildered fashion. He got up from the bed. + +"Why, Maggie--I only--only--" + +He stared from her to the candle and from the candle back to her +again. + +"Now go," she repeated. "Quick now." + +He hung his head. "Now you're angry--angry with your poor ole uncle- +-poor ole uncle." He looked at her, his eyes puzzled as though he +had never seen her before. + +"You're very hard," he said, shaking his head. He stumbled towards +the door--"Very hard," he repeated, and went out, his head still +hanging. + +She heard him knock his foot against the stairs. Soon there was +silence. + +She blew out the candle and went back to bed. She lay there, her +heart, at first, throbbing, her eyes straining the darkness. Then +she grew more tranquil. She felt in her heart a strange triumph as +though already she had begun life and had begun it with success. She +thought, before she sank deep into sleep, that anything would yield +to one did one only deal sensibly with it . . . After all, it was a +fine thing to be alone. + + + + +CHAPTER II + +AUNT ANNE + + +In the morning, however, she discovered no fine things anywhere. The +hours that had elapsed since her father's death had wrought in him a +"sea-change." He had gained nobility, almost beauty. She wondered +with a desolate self-criticism whether during all those years she +had been to blame and not he. Perhaps he had wished for sympathy and +intimacy and she had repulsed him. His little possessions here and +there about the house reproached her. + +Uncle Mathew had a bad headache and would not come down to +breakfast. She felt indignant with him but also indulgent. He had +shown himself hopelessly lacking in good taste, and good feeling, +but then she had never supposed that he had these things. At the +same time the last support seemed to have been removed from her; it +might well be that her Aunt Anne would not care for her and would +not wish to have her in her house. What should she do then? Whither +should she go? She flung up her head and looked bravely into the +face of Ellen, the cook, who came to remove the breakfast, but she +had to bite her lip to keep back the tears that WOULD come and fill +her eyes so that the world was misty and obscure. + +There was, she fancied, something strange about Ellen. In HER eyes +some obscure triumph or excitement, some scorn and derision, Maggie +fancied, of herself. Had the woman been drinking? . . . + +Then there arrived Mr. Brassy, her father's solicitor, from Cator +Hill. He had been often in the house, a short fat man with a purple +face, clothes of a horsy cut, and large, red, swollen fingers. He +took now possession of the house with much self-importance. "Well, +Miss Maggie" (he blew his words at her as a child blows soap- +bubbles). "Here we are, then. Very sad indeed--very. I've been +through the house--got the will all right. Your aunt, you say, will +be with us?" + +"My aunt from London. Miss Anne Cardinal. I expect her in half an +hour. She should have arrived at Clinton by the half-past nine +train." "Well, well. Yes--yes--indeed, your uncle is also here?" + +"Yes. He will be down shortly." + +"Very good, Miss Maggie. Very good." + +She hated that he should call her Miss Maggie. He had always treated +her with considerable respect, but to-day she fancied that he +patronised her. He placed his hand for a moment on her shoulder and +she shrank back. He felt her action and, abashed a little, coughed +and blew his nose. He strutted about the room. Then the door opened +and Ellen the cook looked in upon them. + +"I only wished to see, Miss, whether I could do anything for you?" + +"Nothing, thank you," said Maggie. + +"Been with you some time that woman?" said Mr. Brassy. + +"Yes," said Maggie, "about five years, I think." + +"Hum! Hum--name of Harmer." + +"Yes. Harmer." + +"Not married?" + +"No," answered Maggie, wondering at this interest. + +"Not so far as you know." + +"No. She's always Miss Harmer." + +"Quite so--quite so. Dear me, yes." + +Other people appeared, asked questions and vanished. It seemed to +have been all taken out of her hands and it was strange how desolate +this made her. For so many years she had had the management of that +house, since her fourteenth birthday, indeed. Ugly and dilapidated +though the place had been, it had grown, after a time, to belong to +her, and she had felt as though it were in some way grateful to her +for keeping it, poor thing, together. Now it had suddenly withdrawn +itself and was preparing for the next comer. Maggie felt this quite +definitely and thought that probably it was glad that now its roof +would be mended and its floors made whole. It had thrown her +off . . . Well, she would not burden it long. + +There were sounds then of wheels on the gravel. The old dilapidated +cab from Clinton with its ricketty windows and moth-eaten seats that +smelt of straw and beer was standing at the door, the horse puffing +great breaths of steam into the frozen air. Her aunt had arrived. +Maggie, standing behind the window, looked out. The carriage door +opened, and a figure, that seemed unusually tall, appeared to +straighten itself out and rose to its full height on the gravel path +as though it had been sitting in the cab pressed together, its head +upon its knees. + +Then in the hall that was dark even on the brightest day, Aunt Anne +revealed herself as a lady, tall indeed, but not too tall, of a fine +carriage, in a black rather shabby dress and a black bonnet. Her +face was grave and sharply pointed, with dark eyes--sad rather, and +of the pale remote colour that the Virgin in the St. Dreot's east +end window wears. Standing there in the dusky hall, quietly, quite +apart from the little bustle that surrounded her, she seemed to +Maggie even in that first moment like some one wrapt, caught away +into her own visions. + +"I paid the cabman five shillings," she said very softly. "I hope +that was right. And you are Maggie, are you?" + +She bent down and kissed her. Her lips were warm and comforting. +Maggie, who had, when she was shy, something of the off-hand manner +of a boy, said: + +"Yes. That's all right. We generally give him four and six." + +They went into the dining-room where was Mr. Brassy. He came forward +to them, blowing his words at them, rubbing his hands: + +"Miss Cardinal--I am honoured--my name is Brassy, your brother's +lawyer. Very, very sad--so sudden, so sudden. The funeral is at +twelve. If there is anything I can do--" + +Miss Cardinal did not regard him at all and Maggie saw that this +annoyed him. The girl watched her aunt, conscious of some strange +new excitement at her heart. She had never seen any one who in the +least resembled this remote silent woman. Maggie did not know what +it was that she had expected, but certainly it had not been this. +There was something in her Aunt's face that recalled her father and +her uncle, something in the eyes, something in the width and height +of the forehead, but this resemblance only accentuated the +astounding difference. Maggie's first impression was her ultimate +one--that her aunt had strayed out of some stained-glass window into +a wild world that did not bewilder her only because she did not +seriously regard it. Maggie found herself wondering who had fastened +her aunt's buttons and strings when she rose in the morning, how had +she ever travelled in the right train and descended at the right +station? How could she remember such trifles when her thoughts were +fixed on such distant compelling dreams? The pale oval face, the +black hair brushed back from the forehead, the thin hands with long +tapering fingers, the black dress, the slender upright body--this +figure against the cold bright winter sunlight was a picture that +remained always from that day in Maggie's soul. + +Her aunt looked about her as though she had just awaked from sleep. +"Would you care to come up to your room?" asked Maggie, feeling the +embarrassment of Mr. Brassy's presence. + +"Yes, dear, thank you--I will," said Miss Cardinal. They moved from +the room, Aunt Anne walking with a strange, almost clumsy +uncertainty, halting from one foot to the other as though she had +never learnt to trust her legs, a movement with which Maggie was to +become intensely familiar. It was as though her aunt had flown in +some earlier existence, and had never become accustomed to this +clumsier earthly fashion. + +The spare bedroom was a bright room with a broad high window. The +view was magnificent, looking over the hill that dropped below the +vicarage out across fields and streams to Cator Hill, to the right +into the heart of the St. Dreot Woods, to the left to the green +valley through whose reeds and sloping shadows the Lisp gleamed like +a burnished wire threading its way to the sea. There was a high- +backed old-fashioned chair by the window. Against this Miss Cardinal +stood, her thin body reflected, motionless, as though it had been +painted in a long glass behind her. She gazed before her. + +Maggie saw that she was agitated, passionately moved. The sun +catching the hoar-frost on the frozen soil turned the world to +crystal, and in every field were little shallows of blue light; the +St. Dreot Woods were deep black with flickering golden stars. + +She tried to speak. She could not. Tears were in her eyes. "It is so +long . . . since I . . . London," she smiled at Maggie. Then Maggie +heard her say: + +The Lord is my shepherd; therefore can I lack nothing. + +He shall feed me in a green pasture; and lead me forth beside the +waters of comfort. + +He shall convert my soul, and bring me forth in the paths of +righteousness, for His Name's sake. + +Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will +fear no evil; for thou art with me, they rod and thy staff comfort +me. + +Thou shalt prepare a table before me against them that trouble me: +thou hast anointed my head with oil, and my cup shall be full. + +But thy loving--kindness and mercy shall follow me all the days of +my life; and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever. + +There was a pause--then Maggie said timidly, "Won't you take off +your bonnet? It will be more comfortable." "Thank you, my dear." She +took off her bonnet and laid it on the bed. Then she resumed her +stand at the window, her eyes lost in the sunny distance. "I did +wrong," she said, as though she were speaking to herself. "I should +not have allowed that quarrel with your father. I regret it now very +deeply. But we always see too late the consequences of our proud +self-will." She turned then. + +"Come here, dear," she said. + +Maggie came to her. Her aunt looked at her and Maggie was deeply +conscious of her shabby dress, her rough hands, her ugly boots. +Then, as always when she was self-critical, her eyes grew haughty +and her mouth defiant. + +Her aunt kissed her, her cool, firm fingers against the girl's warm +neck. + +"You will come to us now, dear. You should have come long ago." + +Maggie wanted to speak, but she could not. + +"We will try to make you happy, but ours is not an exciting life." + +Maggie's eyes lit up. "It has not," she said, "been very exciting +here always." Then she went on, colour in her cheeks, "I think +father did all he could. I feel now that there were a lot of things +that I should have done, only I didn't see them at the time. He +never asked me to help him, but I wish now that I had offered--or-- +suggested." + +Her lips quivered, again she was near tears, and again, as it had +been on her walk with Uncle Mathew, her regret was not for her +father but for the waste that her life with him had been. But there +was something in her aunt that prevented complete confidence. She +seemed in something to be outside small daily troubles. Before they +could speak any more there was a knock on the door and Uncle Mathew +came in. He stood there looking both ashamed of himself and +obstinate. + +He most certainly did not appear at his best, a large piece of +plaster on his right cheek showing where he had cut himself with his +razor, and a shabby and tight black suit (it was his London suit, +and had lain crumpled disastrously in his hand-bag) accentuating the +undue roundness of his limbs; his eyes blinked and his mouth +trembled a little at the corners. He was obviously afraid of his +sister and flung his niece a watery wink as though to implore her +silence as to his various misdemeanours. + +Brother and sister shook hands, and Maggie, as she watched them, was +surprised to feel within herself a certain sympathy with her uncle. +Aunt Anne's greeting was gentle and kind but infinitely distant, and +had something of the tenderness with which the Pope washes the feet +of the beggars in Rome. + +"I'm so glad that you were here," she said in her soft voice. "It +must have been such a comfort to Maggie." + +"He has been, indeed, Aunt Anne," Maggie broke in eagerly. + +Her uncle looked at her with great surprise; after his behaviour of +last night he had not expected this. Reassured, he began a voluble +explanation of his movements and plans, rubbing his hands together +and turning one boot against the other. + +He had a great deal to say, because he had seen neither of his +sisters for a very long time. Then he wished to make a good +impression because Maggie, the heiress, would be of importance now. +What an idiot he had been last night. What had he done? He could +remember nothing. It was evident that it had been nothing very bad-- +Maggie bore him no grudge--good girl, Maggie. He felt affectionate +towards her and would have told her so had her aunt not been +present. These thoughts underlay his rambling history. He was aware +suddenly that his audience was inattentive. He saw, indeed, that his +sister was standing with her back half-turned, gazing on to the +shining country beyond the window. He ceased abruptly, gave his +niece a wink, and when this was unsuccessful, muttering a few words, +stumbled out of the room. + +The whole village attended the funeral, not because it liked the +Rev. Charles, but because it liked funerals. Maggie was, in all +probability, the only person present who thought very deeply about +the late Vicar of St. Dreot's. The Rev. Tom Trefusis who conducted +the ceremony was a large red-faced man who had played Rugby football +for his University and spent most of his energy over the development +of cricket and football clubs up and down the county. He could not +be expected to have cared very greatly for the Rev. Charles, who had +been at no period of his life and in no possible sense of the word a +sportsman. As he conducted the service his mind speculated as to the +next vicar (the Rev. Tom knew an excellent fellow, stroke of the +Cambridge boat in '12, who would be just the man) the possibility of +the frost breaking in time for the inter-county Rugby match at +Truxe, the immediate return of his wife from London (he was very +fond of his wife), and, lastly, a certain cramp in the stomach that +sometimes "bowled him over" and of which the taking of a funeral-- +"here to-day and gone to-morrow"--always reminded him. + +"Wonder how long I'll last," he thought as he stood over the grave +of the Rev. Charles and let his eyes wander over the little white +gravestones that ran almost into the dark wall of St. Dreot Woods as +though they were trying to hide themselves. "Wish the frost 'ud +break--ground'll be as hard as nails." The soil fell, thump, thump +upon the coffin. Rooks cawed in the trees; the bell tolled its +cracked note. The Rev. Charles was crammed down with the soil by the +eager spades of the sexton and his friend, who were cold and wanted +a drink. + +Maggie, meanwhile, watched the final disappearance of her father +with an ever-growing remorse. Ever since her declaration to her +uncle during their walk yesterday this new picture of her father had +grown before her eyes. She had already forgotten many, many things +that might now have made her resentful or at least critical. She saw +him as a figure most disastrously misunderstood. Without any +sentimentality in her vision she saw him lonely, proud, reserved, +longing for her sympathy which she denied him. His greed for money +she saw suddenly as a determination that his daughter should not be +left in want. All those years he had striven and his apparent +harshness, sharpness, unkindness had been that he might pursue his +great object. + +She did not cry (some of the villagers curiously watching her +thought her a hard-hearted little thing), but her heart was full of +tenderness as she stood there, seeing the humped grey church that +was part of her life, the green mounds with no name, the dark wood, +the grey roofs of the village clustered below the hill, hearing the +bell, the rooks, the healthy voice of Mr. Trefusis, the bark of some +distant dog, the creak of some distant wheel. + +"I missed my chance," she thought. "If only now I could have told +him!" + +Her aunt stood at her side and once again Maggie felt irritation at +her composure. "After all, he was her brother," she thought. She +remembered the feeling and passion with which her aunt had repeated +the Twenty-third Psalm. She was puzzled. + +A moment of shrinking came upon her as she thought of the coming +London life. + +Then the service was over. The villagers, with that inevitable +disappointment that always lingers after a funeral, went to their +homes. The children remained until night, under the illusion that it +was Sunday. + +Maggie spent the rest of the day, for the most part, alone in her +room and thinking of her father. Her bedroom, an attic with a +sloping roof, contained all her worldly possessions. In part because +she had always been so reserved a child, in part because there had +been no one in whom she might confide even had she wished it, she +had always placed an intensity of feeling around and about the few +things that were hers. Her library was very small, but this did not +distress her because she had never cared for reading. Upon the +little hanging shelf above her bed (deal wood painted white, with +blue cornflowers) were The Heir of Redclyffe, a shabby blue-covered +copy, Ministering Children, Madame How and Lady Why, The Imitation +of Christ, Robinson Crusoe, Mrs. Beeton's Cookery Book, The Holy +Bible, and The Poems of Longfellow. These had been given her upon +various Christmasses and birthdays. She did not care for any of them +except The Imitation of Christ and Robinson Crusoe. The Bible was +spoilt for her by incessant services and Sunday School classes; The +Heir of Redclyffe and Ministering Children she found absurdly +sentimental and unlike any life that she had ever known; Mrs. Beeton +she had never opened, and Longfellow and Kingsley's Natural History +she found dull. For Robinson Crusoe she had the intense human +sympathy that all lonely people feel for that masterpiece. The +Imitation pleased her by what she would have called its common +sense. Such a passage, for example: "Oftentimes something lurketh +within, or else occurreth from without, which draweth us after it. +Many secretly seek themselves in what they do, and know it not." + +"They seem also to live in good peace of mind, when things are done +according to their will and opinion; but if things happen otherwise +than they desire, they are straightway moved and much vexed." + +And behind this common sense she did seem to be directly in touch +with some one whom she might find had she more time and friends to +advise her. She was conscious in her lonely hours, that nothing gave +her such a feeling of company as did this little battered red book, +and she felt that that friendliness might one day advance to some +greater intimacy. About these things she was intensely reserved and +she spoke of them to no human being. + +Even for the books for whose contents she did not care she had a +kindly feeling. So often had they looked down upon her when she sat +there exasperated, angry at her own tears, rebellious, after some +scene with her father. No other place but this room had seen these +old agonies of hers. She would be sorry after all to leave it. + +There were not many things beside the books. Two bowls of blue +Glebeshire pottery, cheap things but precious, a box plastered with +coloured shells, an amber bead necklace, a blue leather writing- +case, a photograph of her father as a young clergyman with a beard +and whiskers, a faded daguerreotype of her mother, last, but by no +means least, a small black lacquer musical-box that played two +tunes, "Weel may the Keel row" and "John Peel,"--these were her +worldly possessions. + +She sat there; as the day closed down, the trees were swept into the +night, the wind rose in the dark wood, the winter's moon crept pale +and cold into the sky, snow began to fall, at first thinly, then in +a storm, hiding the moon, flinging the fields and roads into a white +shining splendour; the wind died and the stars peeped between the +flakes of whirling snow. + +She sat without moving, accusing her heart of hardness, of +unkindness. She seemed to herself then deserving of every +punishment. "If I had only gone to him," she thought again and +again. She remembered how she had kept apart from him, enclosed +herself in a reserve that he should never break. She remembered the +times when he had scolded her, coldly, bitterly, and she had stood, +her face as a rock, her heart beating but her body without movement, +then had turned and gone silently from the room. All her wicked, +cold heart that in some strange way cared for love but could not +make those movements towards others that would show that it cared. +What was it in her? Would she always, through life, miss the things +for which she longed through her coldness and obstinacy? + +She took her father's photograph, stared at it, gazed into it, held +it in an agony of remorse. She shivered in the cold of her room but +did not know it. Her candle, caught in some draught, blew out, and +instantly the white world without leapt in upon her and her room was +lit with a strange unearthly glow. She saw nothing but her father. +At last she fell asleep in the chair, clutching in her hand the +photograph. + +Thus her aunt found her, later in the evening. She was touched by +the figure, the shabby black frock, the white tired face. She had +been honestly disappointed in her niece, disappointed in her +plainness, in her apparent want of heart, in her silence and +moroseness. Mathew had told her of the girl's outburst to him +against her father, and this had seemed to her shocking upon the +very day after that father's death. Now when she saw the photograph +clenched in Maggie's hand tears came into her eyes. She said, +"Maggie! dear Maggie!" and woke her. Maggie, stirring saw her aunt's +slender figure and delicate face standing in the snowlight as though +she had been truly a saint from heaven. + +Maggie's first impulse was to rise up, fling her arms around her +aunt's neck and hug her. Had she done that the history of her life +might have been changed. Her natural shyness checked her impulse. +She got up, the photograph dropped from her hand, she smiled a +little and then said awkwardly, "I've been asleep. Do you want me? +I'll come down." + +Her aunt drew her towards her. + +"Maggie, dear," she said, "don't feel lonely any more. Think of me +and your Aunt Elizabeth as your friends who will always care for +you. You must never be lonely again." + +Maggie's whole heart responded. She felt its wild beating but she +could do nothing, could say nothing. Her body stiffened. In spite of +herself she withdrew herself. Her face reddened, then, was pale. + +"Thank you, aunt," was all she could say. + +Her aunt moved away. Silently they went downstairs together. + +At about ten the next morning they were seated in the dining-room-- +Aunt Anne, Uncle Mathew, Maggie, and Mr. Brassy. Mr. Brassy was +speaking: + +"I'm afraid, Miss Cardinal, that there can be no question about the +legality of this. It has been duly witnessed and signed. I regret +extremely . . . but as you can well understand, I was quite unable +to prevent. With the exception of a legacy of 300 Pounds Sterling to +Miss Maggie Cardinal everything goes to Miss Ellen Harmer, 'To whom +I owe more than I can ever possibly--'" + +"Thank you," interrupted Aunt Anne. "This is, I think, the woman who +has been cook here during the last four years?" + +"About five, I think," said Mr. Brassy softly. + +Uncle Mathew was upon his feet, trembling. + +"This is monstrous," he stuttered, "absolutely monstrous. Of course +an appeal will be made--undue influence--the most abominable thing." + +Maggie watched them all as though the whole business were far from +herself. She sat there, her hands folded on her lap, looking at the +mantelpiece with the ugly marble clock, the letter clip with old +soiled letters in it, the fat green vase with dusty everlastings. +Just as on the night when her uncle had come into her room she had +fancied that some one spoke to her, so now she seemed to hear: + +"Ah, that's a nasty knock for you--a very nasty knock." + +Her father had left all his money, with the exception of 300, Pounds +Sterling to Ellen the cook; Maggie did not, for a moment, speculate +as to the probable total amount. Three hundred pounds seemed to her +a very large sum--it would at any rate give her something to begin +life upon--but the thing that seized and held her was the secret +friendship that must have existed between her father and Ellen-- +secret friendship was the first form that the relationship assumed +for her. She saw Ellen, red of face with little eyes and a flat nose +upon which flies used to settle, a fat, short neck, the wheezings +and the pantings, the stumping walk, the great broad back. And she +saw her father--first as the tall, dirty man whom she used to know, +with the shiny black trousers, the untidy beard, the frowning eyes, +the nails bitten to the quick, the ragged shirt-cuffs--then as that +veiled shape below the clothes, the lift of the sheet above the +toes, the loins, the stomach, the beard neatly brushed, the closed +yellow eyelids, the yellow forehead, the rats with their gleaming +eyes. In a kind of terror as though she were being led against her +will into some disgusting chamber where the skulls were stale and +the sights indecent, she saw the friendship of those two--Ellen the +cook and her father. + +Young, inexperienced though she was, she was old already in a +certain crude knowledge of facts. It could not be said that she +traced to their ultimate hiding-place the relations of her father +and the woman, but in some relation, ugly, sordid, degraded, she saw +those two figures united. Many, many little things came to her mind +as she sat there, moments when the cook had breathlessly and in a +sudden heat betrayed some unexpected agitation, moments when her +father had shown confusion, moments when she had fancied whispers, +laughter behind walls, scurrying feet. She entwined desperately her +hands together as pictures developed behind her eyes. + +Ah! but she was ashamed, most bitterly ashamed! + +The rest of the interview came to her only dimly. She knew that +Uncle Mathew was still upon his feet protesting, that her aunt's +face was cold and wore a look of distressed surprise as though some +one had suddenly been rude to her. + +From very, very far away came Mr. Brassy's voice: "I was aware that +this could not be agreeable, Miss Cardinal. But I am afraid that, +under the circumstances, there is nothing to be done. As to undue +influence I think that I should warn you, Mr. Cardinal, that there +could be very little hope . . . and of course the expense . . . if I +may advise you . . ." + +The voice sank away again, the room faded, the air was still and +painted; like figures on a stage acting before an audience of one +Maggie saw those grotesque persons . . . + +She did not speak one word during the whole affair. + +After a time she saw that Mr. Brassy was not in the room. Her aunt +was speaking to her: + +"Maggie, dear--I'm so very sorry--so very sorry. But you know that +you will come to us and find a home there. You mustn't think about +the money--" + +With a sudden impulse she arose, almost brushing her aunt aside. + +"Ah! that's not it--that's not it!" she cried. Then, recovering +herself a little, she went on--"It's all right, Aunt Anne. I'm all +right. I'm going out for a little. If I'm not back for lunch, don't +wait. Something cold, anything, tell Ellen--" + +At the sudden mention of that name she stopped, coloured a little, +turned away and left the room. In the hall she nearly ran against +the cook. The woman was standing there, motionless, breathing +deeply, her eyes fixed upon the dining-room. When she saw Maggie, +she moved as though she would speak, then something in the girl's +face checked her. She drew back into the shadow. + +Maggie left the house. + +The brother and sister, remaining in the room, walked towards one +another as though driven by some common need of sympathy and +protection against an outside power. Mathew Cardinal felt a genuine +indignation that had but seldom figured in his life before. He had +hated his brother, always, and never so greatly as at the moments of +the man's reluctant charity towards him. But now, in the first clean +uplift of his indignation, there was no self-congratulation at the +justification of his prophecies. + +"I knew him for what he was. But that he could do this! He meant it +to hurt, too--that was like him all over. He had us in his mind. I +wish I'd never taken a penny from him. I'd rather have starved. Yes, +I would--far rather. I've been bad enough, but never a thing like +that--" + +His sister said quietly: + +"He's dead, Mathew. We can do nothing. Maggie, poor child . . ." + +He approached for an instant more nearly than he had ever done. He +took her hand. There were tears in his eyes. + +"It's good of you, Anne--to take her." + +She withdrew her hand--very gently. + +"I wish we'd taken her before. She must have had a terrible time +here. I'd never realised . . ." + +He stood away from her near the window, feeling suddenly ashamed of +his impetuosity. + +"She's a strange girl," Anne Cardinal went on. "She didn't seem to +feel this,--or anything. She hasn't, I think, much heart. I'm afraid +she may find it a little difficult with us--" + +Mathew was uncomfortable now. His mood had changed; he was sullen. +His sister always made him feel like a disgraced dog. He shuffled on +his feet. + +"She's a good girl," he muttered at last, and then with a confused +look about him, as though he were searching for something, he +stumbled out of the room. + +Meanwhile Maggie went on her way. She chose instinctively her path, +through the kitchen garden at the back of the village, down the hill +by the village street, over the little bridge that crossed the rocky +stream of the Dreot, and up the steep hill that led on to the +outskirts of Rothin Moor. The day, although she had no eyes for it, +was one of those sudden impulses of misty warmth that surprise the +Glebeshire frosts. The long stretch of the moor was enwrapped by a +thin silver network of haze; the warmth of the sun, seen so dimly +that it was like a shadow reflected in a mirror, struck to the very +heart of the soil. Where but yesterday there had been iron frost +there was now soft yielding earth; it was as though the heat of the +central fires of the world pressed dimly upward through many miles +of heavy weighted resistance, straining to the light and air. Larks, +lost in golden mist, circled in space; Maggie could feel upon her +face and neck and hands the warm moisture; the soil under her feet, +now hard, now soft, seemed to tremble with some happy anticipation; +the moor, wrapped in its misty colour, had no bounds; the world was +limitless space with hidden streams, hidden suns. + +The moor had a pathetic attraction for her, because not very long +ago a man and a woman had been lost, only a few steps from Borhedden +Farm, in the mist--lost their way and been frozen during the night. +Poor things! lovers, perhaps, they had been. + +Maggie felt that here she could walk for miles and miles and that +there was nothing to stop her; the clang of a gate, a house, a wall, +a human voice was intolerable to her. + +Her first thought as she went forward was disgust at her own +weakness; once again she had been betrayed by her feelings. She +could remember no single time when they had not betrayed her. She +recalled now with an intolerable self-contempt her thoughts of her +father at the time of the funeral and the hours that followed. It +seemed to her now that she had only softened towards his memory +because she had believed that he had left her money--and now, when +she saw that he had treated her contemptuously, she found him once +again the cruel, mean figure that she had before thought him. + +For that she most bitterly, with an intensity that only her +loneliness could have given her, despised herself. And yet something +else in her knew that that reproach was not a true one. She had +really softened towards him only because she had felt that she had +behaved badly towards him, and the discovery now that he had behaved +badly towards her did not alter her own original behaviour. She did +not analyse all this; she only knew that there were in her longings +for affection, a desire to be loved, an aching for companionship, +and that these things must always be kept down, fast hidden within +her. She realised her loneliness now with a fierce, proud, almost +exultant independence. No more tears, no more leaning upon others, +no more expecting anything from anybody. She was not dramatic in her +new independence; she did not cry defiance to the golden mist or the +larks or the hidden sun; she only walked on and on, stumping forward +in her clumsy boots, her eyes hard and unseeing, her hands clasped +behind her back. + +Her expectation of happiness in her opening life that had been so +strong with her that other day when she had looked down upon +Polchester was gone. She expected nothing, she wanted nothing. Her +only thought was that she would never yield to any one, never care +for any one, never give to any one the opportunity of touching her. +At moments through the mist came the figure of the cook, stout, +florid, triumphant. Maggie regarded her contemptuously. "You cannot +touch me," she thought. Of her father she would never think again. +With both hands she flung all her memories of him into the mist to +be lost for ever . . . + +She came suddenly upon a lonely farm-house. She knew the place, +Borhedden; it had often been a favourite walk of hers from the +Vicarage to Borhedden. The farmer let rooms there and, because the +house was very old, some of the rooms were fine, with high ceilings, +thick stone walls, and even some good panelling. The view too was +superb, across to the Broads and the Molecatcher, or back to the +Dreot Woods, or to the dim towers of Polchester Cathedral. The air +here was fine--one of the healthiest spots in Glebeshire. + +The farm to-day was transfigured by the misty glow; cows and horses +could be faintly seen, ricks burnt with a dim fire. Somewhere +dripping water falling on to stone gave a vocal spirit to the +obscurity. The warm air seemed to radiate about the house like a +flame that is obscured by sunlight. + +The stealthy movements of the animals, the dripping of the water, +were the only sounds. To Maggie the house seemed to say something, +something comforting and reassuring. + +Standing there, she registered her vow that through all her life she +would care for no one. No one should touch her. + +Had there been an observer he might have found some food for his +irony in the contemplation of that small, insignificant figure so +ignorant of life and so defiant of it. He would have found perhaps +something pathetic also. Maggie thought neither of irony nor of +pathos, but turned homewards with her mouth set, her eyes grave, her +heart controlled. + +As she walked back the sun broke through the mist, and, turning, she +could see Borhedden like a house on fire, its windows blazing +against the sky. + +It was natural that her aunt should wish to return to London as soon +as possible. For one thing, Ellen the cook had packed her clothes +and retired to some place in the village, there to await the +departure of the defeated family. Then the house was not only +unpleasant by reason of its atmosphere and associations, but there +were also the definite discomforts of roofs through which the rain +dripped and floors that swayed beneath one's tread. Moreover, Aunt +Elizabeth did not care to be left alone in the London house. + +Uncle Mathew left on the day after the funeral. He had one little +last conversation with Maggie. + +"I hope you'll be happy in London," he said. + +"I hope so," said Maggie. + +"I know you'll do what you can to help your aunts." Then he went on +more nervously. "Think of me sometimes. I shan't be able to come and +see you very often, you know--too busy. But I shall like to know +that you're thinking about me." + +Maggie's new-found resolution taken so defiantly upon the moor was +suddenly severely tested. She felt as though her uncle were leaving +her to a world of enemies. She drove down her sense of desolation, +and he saw nothing but her quiet composure. + +"Of course I'll think of you," she answered. "And you must come +often." + +"They don't like me," he said, nodding his head towards where Aunt +Anne might be supposed to be waiting. "It's not my fault altogether- +-but they have severe ideas. It's religion, of course." + +She suddenly seemed to see in his eyes some terror or despair, as +though he knew that he was going to drop "this time"--farther than +ever before. + +She caught his arm. "Uncle Mathew, what are you going to do? Where +will you live? Take my three hundred pounds if it will help you. I +don't want it just now. Keep it for me." + +He had a moment of resolute, clear-sighted honesty. "No, my dear, if +I had it it would go in a week. I can't keep money; I never could. +I'm really better without any. I'm all right. You'll never get rid +of me--don't you fear. We've got more in common than you think, +although you're a good girl and I've gone to pieces a bit. All the +same there's plenty worse than me. Your aunt, for all her religion, +is damned difficult for a plain man to get along with. Most people +would find me better company, after all. One last word, Maggie." + +He bent down and whispered to her. "Don't you go getting caught by +that sweep who runs their chapel up in London. He's a humbug if ever +there was one--you mark my words. I know a thing or two. He's done +your aunts a lot of harm, and he'll have his dirty fingers on you if +you let him." + +So he departed, his last kiss mingled with the usual aroma of whisky +and tobacco, his last attitude, as he turned away, that strange +confusion of assumed dignity and natural genial stupidity that was +so especially his. + +Maggie turned, with all her new defiant resolution, to face the +world alone with her Aunt Anne. Throughout the next day she was +busied with collecting her few possessions, with her farewells to +the one or two people in the village who had been kind to her, and +with little sudden, almost surreptitious visits to corners of the +house, the garden, the wood where she had at one time or another +been happy. + +As the evening fell and a sudden storm of rain leapt up from beneath +the hill and danced about the house, she had a wild longing to stay- +-to stay at any cost and in any discomfort. London had no longer +interest, but only terror and dismay. She ran out into the dark and +rain-drenched garden, felt her way to an old and battered seat that +had seen in older days dolls' tea-parties and the ravages of bad- +temper, stared from it across the kitchen-garden to the lights of +the village, that seemed to rock and shiver in the wind and rain. + +She stared passionately at the lights, her heart beating as though +it would suffocate her. At last, her clothes soaked with the storm, +her hair dripping, she returned to the house. Her aunt was in the +hall. + +"My dear Maggie, where have you been?" in a voice that was kind but +aghast. + +"In the garden," said Maggie, hating her aunt. + +"But it's pouring with rain! You're soaking! You must change at +once! Did you go out to find something?" + +Maggie made no answer. She stood there, her face sulky and closed, +the water dripping from her. Afterwards, as she changed her clothes, +she reflected that there had been many occasions during these three +days when her aunt would have felt irritation with her had she known +her longer. She had always realised that she was careless, that when +she should be thinking of one thing she thought of another, that her +housekeeping and management of shops and servants had been irregular +and undisciplined, but until now she had not sharply surveyed her +weaknesses. Since the coming of her aunt she had been involved in a +perfect network of little blunders; she had gone out of the room +without shutting the door, had started into the village on an +errand, and then, when she was there, had forgotten what it was; +there had been holes in her stockings and rents in her blouses. +After Ellen's departure she had endeavoured to help in the kitchen, +but had made so many mistakes that Aunt Anne and the kitchen-maid +had been compelled to banish her. She now wondered how during so +many years she had run the house at all, but then her father had +cared about nothing so that money was not wasted. She knew that Aunt +Anne excused her mistakes just now because of the shock of her +father's death and the events that followed it, but Maggie knew also +that these faults were deep in her character. She could explain it +quite simply to herself by saying that behind the things that she +saw there was always something that she did not see, something of +the greatest importance and just beyond her vision; in her efforts +to catch this farther thing she forgot what was immediately in front +of her. It had always been so. Since a tiny child she had always +supposed that the shapes and forms with which she was presented were +only masks to hide the real thing. Such a view might lend interest +to life, but it certainly made one careless; and although Uncle +Mathew might understand it and put it down to the Cardinal +imagination, she instinctively knew that Aunt Anne, unless Maggie +definitely attributed it to religion, would be dismayed and even, if +it persisted, angered. Maggie had not, after all, the excuse and +defence of being a dreamy child. With her square body and plain +face, her clear, unspeculative eyes, her stolid movements, she could +have no claim to dreams. With a sudden desolate pang Maggie +suspected that Uncle Mathew was the only person who would ever +understand her. Well, then, she must train herself. + +She would close doors, turn out lights, put things back where she +found them, mend her clothes, keep accounts. Indeed a new life was +beginning for her. She felt, with a sudden return to the days before +her walk on the moor, that if only her aunts would love her she +would improve much more rapidly. And then with her new independence +she assured herself that if they did not love her she most certainly +would not love them . . . + +That night she sat opposite her aunt beside the fire. The house lay +dead and empty behind them. Aunt Anne was so neat in her thin black +silk, her black shining hair, her pale pointed face, a little round +white locket rising and falling ever so slowly with the lift of her +breast. There were white frills to her sleeves, and she read a slim +book bound in purple leather. Her body never moved; only once and +again her thin, delicate hand ever so gently lifted, turned a page, +then settled down on to her lap once more. She never raised her +eyes. + +The fire was heavy and sullen; the wind howled; that old familiar +beating of the twigs upon the pane seemed to reiterate to Maggie +that this was her last evening. She pretended to read. She had found +a heavy gilt volume of Paradise Lost with Dore's pictures. She read +these words: + +Beyond this flood a frozen Continent Lies dark and wilde, beat with +perpetual storms Of whirlwind and dire hail; which on firm land +Thaws not, but gathers heap, and ruin seems Of ancient pile; all +else deep snow and ice, A gulf profound as that Serbonian bay +Betwixt Damiata and Mount Casius old, Where armies whole have sunk; +the parching Air Burns froze, and cold performs the effect of Fire. + +Further again, words caught her eye. + +Thus roving on In confused march forlorn, th' adventurous Bands With +shuddering horror pale, and eyes aghast Viewed first their +lamentable lot, and found No rest; through many a dark and drearie +Vaile They passed, and many a Region dolorous. O'er many a frozen, +many a fiery Alpe, Rocks, Caves, Lakes, Fens, Bogs, Dens and shades +of death, A Universe of death, which God by curse Created evil, for +evil only good Where all life dies, death lives, and nature breaks +Perverse, all monstrous, all prodigious things, Abominable, +inutterable, and worse Than Fables yet have feigned, or fear +conceived, Gorgons, and Hydras, and Chimaeras dire. + +She did not care for reading, most especially she did not care for +poetry, but to-night she saw the picture. Up to the very bounds of +the house this waste country, filled with beasts of prey, animals +with fiery eyes and incredible names, the long stretch of snow and +ice, the black water with no stars reflected in it, the wind. + +A coal crashed in the fire; she gave a little cry. + +"My dear, what is it?" said Aunt Anne. Then, with a little shake of +her shoulders, she added: "There's a horrid draught. Perhaps you +forgot to close the kitchen-door when you came away, Maggie dear." + +Maggie flushed. Of course she had forgotten. She left the room, +crossed the hall. Yes, there was the door, wide open. She locked it, +the place was utterly cold and desolate. She closed the door, stood +for a moment in the little hall. + +"I don't care what's going to happen!" she cried aloud. So ended her +life in that house. + + + + +CHAPTER III + +THE LONDON HOUSE + + +It was strange after this that the start on the London journey +should be so curiously unexciting; it was perhaps the presence of +Aunt Anne that reduced everything to an unemotional level. Maggie +wondered as she sat in the old moth-eaten, whisky-smelling cab +whether her Aunt Anne was ever moved about anything. Then something +occurred that showed her that, as yet, she knew very little about +her aunt. As, clamping down the stony hill, they had a last glimpse +at the corner of the two Vicarage chimneys, looking above the high +hedge like a pair of inquisitive lunatics, Maggie choked. She +pressed her hands together, pushed her hair from her face and, in so +doing, touched her black hat. + +"Your hat's crooked, Maggie dear," said her aunt gently. The girl's +hot hands clutched the soft packet of sandwiches and a little black +handbag that yesterday Aunt Anne had bought for her in the village. +It was a shabby little bag, and had strange habits of opening when +it was not expected to do so and remaining shut when something was +needed from it. It gaped now and, just as the cab climbed Cator +Hill, it fell forward and flung the contents on to the floor. +Maggie, blushing, looked up expecting a reproof. She saw that her +aunt's eyes were fixed upon the view; as upon the day of her +arrival, so now. Her face wore a look of rapture. She drank it in. + +Maggie also took the last joy of the familiar scene. The Vicarage, +like a grey crouching cat, lay basking on the green hill. The +sunlight flooded the dark wood; galleons of clouds rolled like +lumbering vessels across the blue sky. + +"It's lovely, isn't it?" whispered Maggie. + +"Beautiful--beautiful," sighed her aunt. + +"I've always loved just this view. I've often walked here just to +see it," Maggie said. + +Aunt Anne sat back in her seat. + +"It's been hard for me always to live in London. I love the country +so." + +"So do I," said Maggie, passionately. + +For a moment they were together, caught up by the same happiness. + +Then Aunt Anne said: + +"Why, your bag, dear! The things are all about the place." + +Maggie bent down. When she looked up again they had dipped down on +the other side of the hill. + +Maggie had only once in all her life been in a train, but on this +present occasion she did not find it very thrilling. It was rather +like being in anything else, and her imagination exercised itself +upon the people in the carriage rather than the scenery outside. She +was at first extremely self-conscious and fancied that every one +whispered about her. Then, lulled by the motion of the train and the +warmth, she slept; she was more deeply exhausted by the events of +the last week than she knew, and throughout the day she slumbered, +woke, and slumbered again. + +Quite suddenly she awoke with a definite shock to a new world. +Evening had come; there were lights that rushed up to the train, +stared in at the window, and rushed away again. On every side things +seemed to change places in a general post, trees and houses, hedges +and roads, all lit by an evening moon and wrapt in a white and +wavering mist. Then the town was upon them, quite instantly; streets +ran like ribbons into grey folds of buildings; rows of lamps, +scattered at first, drew into a single point of dancing flame; +towers and chimneys seemed to jump from place to place as though +they were trying to keep in time with the train; a bell rang +monotonously; wreaths of smoke rose lazily against the stars and +fell again. + +When at last she found herself, a tiny figure, standing upon the +vast platform under the high black dome, the noise and confusion +excited and delighted her. She rose to the waves of sound as a +swimmer rises in the sea, her heart beat fast, and she was so +eagerly engaged in looking about her, in staring at the hurrying +people, in locating the shrill screams of the engines, in +determining not to jump when the carriages jolted together, that her +little black bag opened unexpectedly once more and spilled a +handkerchief, a hand-mirror, a paper packet of sweets, a small pair +of scissors, and a shabby brown purse upon the station-floor. She +was greatly confused when an old gentleman helped her to pick them +up. The little mirror was broken. + +"Oh! it's bad luck!" she cried, staring distressfully at the old +man. He smiled, and would have certainly been very agreeable to her +had not Aunt Anne, who had been finding their boxes and securing a +cab, arrived and taken Maggie away. "You shouldn't speak to strange +gentlemen, dear," said Aunt Anne. + +But Maggie did not listen. It was characteristic of Anne Cardinal +that she should secure the only four-wheeler in the station, +rejecting the taxi-cabs that waited in rows for her pleasure. Had +Maggie only known, her aunt's choice was eloquent of their future +life together. But Maggie did not know and did not care. Her +excitement was intense. That old St. Dreot life had already swung so +far behind her that it was like a fantastic dream; as they rumbled +through the streets, the cries, the smells, the lights seemed +arranged especially for her. She could not believe that they had all +been, just like this, before her arrival. As with everything, she +was busy imagining the World behind this display, the invisible +Circle inside the circle that she saw. + +They came into the Strand, and the masses of moving people seemed to +her like somnambulists walking without reason or purpose. She felt +as though there would suddenly come a great hole in the middle of +the street into which the cab would tumble. The noise seemed to her +country ears deafening, and when, suddenly, the lighted letters of +some advertisement flashed out gigantic against the sky, she gave a +little scream. She puzzled her aunt by saying: + +"But it isn't really like this, is it?" + +To which Aunt Anne could only say: + +"You're hungry and tired, dear, I expect." + +With one last outrending scream the whole world seemed to fling +itself at the window, open because Aunt Anne thought the cab "had a +smell." "Oosh--O O S H." "OOSH." . . . Maggie drew back as though +she expected some one to leap in upon them. Then, with that +marvellous and ironical gift of contrast that is London's secret, +they were suddenly driven into the sleepiest quiet; they stumbled up +a street that was like a cave for misty darkness and muffled echoes. +The cab's wheels made a riotous clatter. + +A man posting a letter in a pillar-box was the only figure in the +street. The stars shone overhead with wonderful brilliance, and a +little bell jangled softly close at hand. All the houses were tall +and secret, with high white steps and flat faces. A cat slipped +across the street; another swiftly followed it. + +St. Dreot's seemed near at hand again and Ellen the cook not so far +away. Maggie felt a sudden forlornness and desolation. + +"What a very quiet street!" she whispered, as though she were afraid +lest the street should hear. + +They stopped before one of the flat-faced houses; Aunt Anne rang the +bell, and an old woman with a face like a lemon helped the cabman +with the boxes. Maggie was standing in a hall that smelt of damp and +geraniums. It was intensely dark, and a shrill scream from somewhere +did not make things more pleasant. + +"That's Edward the parrot," said Aunt Anne. "Take care not to +approach him too closely, dear, because he bites." + +Then they went upstairs, Maggie groping her way and stumbling at the +sharp corners. The darkness grew; she knocked her knee on the corner +of something, cried out, and a suddenly opened door threw a pale +green light upon a big picture of men in armour attacking a +fortified town beneath a thundery sky. This picture wavered and +faltered, hung as it was upon a thin cord strained to breaking- +point. Maggie reached the security of the room beyond the passage, +her shoulders bent a little as though she expected to near at every +instant the crashing collapse of the armoured men. Her eyes unused +to the light, she stumbled into the room, fell into some one's arms, +felt that her poor hat was crooked and her cheeks burning, and then +was rebuked, as it seemed, by the piercing cry of Edward the parrot +from the very bowels of the house. + +She stammered something to the man who had held her and then let her +go. She was confused, hot and angry. "They'll think me an idiot who +can't enter a room properly." She glared about her and felt as +though she had been taken prisoner by some strange people who lived +under the sea. She was aware, when her eyes were accustomed to the +dim light, that the entrance of herself and her aunt had interrupted +the conversation of three people. Near the fireplace sat a little +woman wearing black mittens and a white lace cap; standing above her +with his arm on the mantelpiece was a thin, battered-looking +gentleman with large spectacles, high, gaunt features and a very +thin head of hair; near the door was the man against whom Maggie had +collided. She saw that he was young, thick-set and restless. She +noticed even then his eyes, bright and laughing as though he were +immensely amused. His mouth opened and closed again, his eyes were +never still, and he made fierce dumb protests with his body, jerking +it forward pulling it back, as a rider strives to restrain an unruly +horse. Maggie was able to notice these things, because during the +first moments her Aunt Anne entirely held the stage. She advanced to +the fireplace with her halting movement, embraced the little lady by +the fire with a soft and unimpassioned clasp. + +"Well, Elizabeth, here we are, you see," turned to the thin +gentleman saying, "Why you, Mr. Magnus! I thought that you were +still in Wiltshire! "then from the middle of the room addressing the +stout young man: "I'm very glad to see you, Mr. Warlock." + +Maggie fancied that the three persons were nervous of her aunt; the +stout young man was amused perhaps at the general situation, but Mr. +Magnus by the fireplace showed great emotion, the colour mounting +into his high bony cheeks and his nostrils twitching like a horse's. +Maggie had been always very observant, and she was detached enough +now to notice that the drawing-room was filled with ugly and +cumbrous things and yet seemed unfurnished. Although everything was +old and had been there obviously for years, the place yet reminded +one of a bare chamber into which, furniture had just been piled +without order or arrangement. Opposite the door was a large and very +bad painting of the two sisters as young girls, sitting, with arms +encircled, in low dresses, on the seashore before a grey and angry +sea, and Uncle Mathew as a small, shiny-faced boy in tight short +blue trousers, carrying a bucket and spade, and a smug, pious +expression. The room was lit with gas that sizzled and hissed in a +protesting undertone; there was a big black cat near the fire, and +this watched Maggie with green and fiery eyes. + +She stood there by the door tired and hungry; she felt +unacknowledged and forgotten. + +"I know I shall hate it," was her thought; she was conscious of her +arms and her legs; her ankle tickled in her shoe, and she longed to +scratch it. She sneezed suddenly, and they all jumped as though the +floor had opened beneath them. + +"And Maggie?" said the little lady by the fireplace. + +Maggie moved forward with the awkward gestures and the angry }ook in +her eyes that were always hers when she was ill at ease. + +"Maggie," said Aunt Anne, "has been very good." + +"And she's tired, I'm sure," continued the little lady, who must of +course be Aunt Elizabeth. "The journey was easy, dear. And you had +no change. They gave you footwarmers, I hope. It's been lovely +weather. I'm so glad to see you, dear. I've had no photograph of you +since you were a baby." + +Aunt Elizabeth had a way, Maggie thought, of collecting a number of +little disconnected statements as though she were working out a sum +and hoped--but was not very certain--that she would achieve a +successful answer. "Add two and five and three and four . . ." The +statements that she made were apparently worlds apart in interest +and importance, but she hoped with good fortune to flash upon the +boards a fine result. She was nervous, Maggie saw, and her thin +shoulders were a little bent as though she expected some one from +behind to strike her suddenly in the small of the back. + +"She's afraid of something," thought Maggie. + +Aunt Elizabeth had obviously not the strong character of her sister +Anne. + +"Thank you," said Maggie, looking, for no reason at all, at Mr. +Magnus, "I slept in the train, so I'm not tired." She stopped then, +because there was nothing more to say. She felt that she ought to +kiss her aunt; she thought she saw in her aunt's small rather watery +eyes an appeal that she should do so. The distance, however, seemed +infinite, and Maggie had a strange feeling that her bending down +would break some spell, that the picture in the passage would fall +with a ghostly clatter, that Edward the parrot would scream and +shriek, that the gas would burst into a bubbling horror, that the +big black cat would leap upon her and tear her with its claws. + +"Well, I'm not afraid," she thought. And, as though she were defying +the universe, she bent down and kissed her aunt. She fancied that +this act of hers produced a little sigh of relief. Every one seemed +to settle down. They all sat, and conversation was general. + +Mr. Magnus had a rather melancholy, deprecating voice, but with some +touch of irony too, as though he were used to being called a fool by +his fellow-beings, but after all knew better than they did. He did +not sound at all conceited; only amused with a little gentle +melancholy at his own position. + +"I'm glad to see you so well, Miss Cardinal," he said with an air of +rather old-fashioned courtesy. "I had been afraid that it might have +exhausted you. I only came to welcome you. I must return at once. I +have an article to finish before midnight." + +Aunt Anne smiled gently: "No, I'm not tired, thank you. And what has +happened while I have been away?" + +"I have been away too, as you know," said Mr. Magnus, "but I +understand that your sister has been very busy--quite a number--" + +Aunt Elizabeth said in her trembling voice: "No. No--Anne--I assure +you. Nothing at all. As you know, the Bible Committee wanted to +discuss the new scheme. Last Tuesday. Mr. Warlock, Mr. Simms, young +Holliday, Miss Martin, Mary Hearst. And Sophie Dunn. AND Mr. Turner. +Nothing at all. It was a wet day. Last Tuesday afternoon." + +"Your mother is quite well, I hope, Mr. Warlock?" said Aunt Anne, +turning to the young man. "Yes--she's all right," he answered. "Just +the same. Amy wants you to go and see her. I was to give you the +message, if you could manage to-morrow sometime; or she'd come here +if it's more convenient. There's something important, she says, but +I don't suppose it's important in the least. You know what she is." + +He spoke, laughing. His eyes wandered all round the room and +suddenly settled on Maggie with a startled stare, as though she were +the last person whom he had expected to find there. + +"Yes. To-morrow afternoon, perhaps--about three, if that would suit +her. How is Amy?" + +"Oh, she's all right. As eager to run the world as ever--and she +never will run it so long as she shows her cards as obviously as she +does. I tell her so. But it's no good. She doesn't listen to me, you +know." + +Aunt Anne, with the incomparable way that she had, brushed all this +very gently aside. She simply said: "I'm glad that she's well." Then +she turned to the other gentleman: + +"Your writing's quite satisfactory, I hope, Mr. Magnus." + +She spoke as though it had been a cold or a toothache. + +He smiled his melancholy ironical smile. "I go on, you know, Miss +Cardinal. After all, it's my bread and butter." + +Maggie, looking at him, knew that this was exactly the way that he +did not regard it, and felt a sudden sympathy towards him with his +thin hair, his large spectacles and his shabby clothes. But her look +at him was the last thing of which she was properly conscious. The +wall beyond the fireplace, that had seemed before to her dim and +dark, now suddenly appeared to lurch forward, to bulge before her +eyes; the floor with its old, rather shabby carpet rose on a slant +as though it was rocked by an unsteady sea; worst of all, the large +black cat swelled like a balloon, its whiskers distended like wire. +She knew that her eyes were burning, that her forehead was cold, and +that she felt sick. She was hungry, and at the same time was +conscious that she could eat nothing. Her only wish was to creep +away and hide herself from every one. + +However, through all her confusion she was aware of her +determination not to betray to them that she was ill. "If only the +cat wouldn't grow so fast, I believe I could manage," was her +desperate thought. There was a roaring in her ears; she caught +suddenly from an infinite distance the voice of the stout young man- +-"She's ill! She's fainting!" + +She was aware that she struggled to face him with fierce protesting +eyes. The next thing she knew was that she lay for the second time +that afternoon in his arms. She felt that he laid her, clumsily but +gently, upon the sofa; some one sprinkled cold water on her +forehead. Deep down in her soul she hated and despised herself for +this weakness before strangers. She closed her eyes tightly, +desiring to conceal not so much the others as herself from her +scornful gaze. She heard some one say something about a cup of tea, +and she wanted it suddenly with a desperate, fiery desire, but she +would not speak, no, not if they were to torture her with thirst for +days and days--to that extent at least she could preserve her +independence. + +She heard her Aunt Elizabeth say something like: "Poor thing-- +strain--last week--father--too much." + +She gathered all her energies together to say "It hasn't been too +much. I'm all right," but they brought her a cup of tea, and before +that she succumbed. She drank it with eager greed, then lay back, +her eyes closed, and slowly the bars of hot iron withdrew from her +forehead. She slept. + +She woke to a room wrapped in a green trembling twilight. She was +alone save for the black cat. The fire crackled, the gas was turned +low, and the London murmur beyond the window was like the hum of an +organ. There was no one in the room; she felt, as she lay there, an +increasing irritation at her weakness. She was afraid too for her +future. Did she faint like this at the earliest opportunity people +would allow her no chance of earning her living. Where was that fine +independent life upon which, outside Borhedden Farm, she had +resolved? And these people, her aunts, the young man, the thin +spectacled man, what would they think of her? They would name it +affectation, perhaps, and imagine that she had acted in such a way +that she might gain their interest and sympathy. Such a thought sent +the colour flaming to her cheeks; she sat up on the sofa. She would +go to them at once and show them that she was perfectly strong and +well. + +The door opened and Aunt Elizabeth came in, very gently as though +she were going to steal something. She was, Maggie saw now, so +little as to be almost deformed, with a soft pale face, lined and +wrinkled, and blue watery eyes. She wore a black silk wrapper over +her shoulders, and soft black slippers. Alice in Wonderland was one +of the few books that Maggie had read in her childhood; Aunt +Elizabeth reminded her strongly of the White Queen in the second +part of that masterpiece. + +"Oh, you're not asleep, dear," said Aunt Elizabeth. + +"No, I'm not," said Maggie. "I'm perfectly all right. I can't think +what made me behave like that. I've never done such a thing before. +I'm ashamed!" + +"It was very natural," said Aunt Elizabeth. "You should have had +some tea at once. It was my fault. It's late now. Nine o'clock. My +sister suggests bed. Supper in bed. Very nice, I always think, after +a long journey. It will be fine to-morrow, I expect. We've had +beautiful weather until this morning, when it rained for an hour. +Chicken and some pudding. There's a little Australian wine that my +sister keeps in the house for accidents. I liked it myself when I +had it once for severe neuralgia." + +She suddenly, with a half-nervous, half-desperate gesture, put out +her hand and took Maggie's. Her hand was soft like blanc-mange; it +had apparently no bones in it. + +Maggie was touched and grateful. She liked this little shy, +frightened woman. She would do anything to please her. + +"Don't think," she said eagerly, "that I've ever fainted like that +before. I assure you that I've never done anything so silly. You +mustn't think that I'm not strong. I'm strong as a horse--father +always said so. I've come to help you and Aunt Anne in any way I +can. You mustn't think that I'm going to be in the way. I only want +to be useful." + +Aunt Elizabeth started and looked at the door. "I thought I heard +something," she said. They both listened. + +"Perhaps it was the parrot," said Maggie. + +Aunt Elizabeth smiled bravely. + +"There are often noises in an old house like this," she said. The +black cat came towards them, slowly, with immense dignified +indifference. He swung his tail as though to show them that he cared +for no one. He walked to the door and waited; then followed them out +of the room. + +Maggie found that her bedroom was a room at the top of the house, +very white and clean, with a smell of soot and tallow candle that +was new and attractive. There was a large text in bright purple over +the bed--"The Lord cometh; prepare ye the way of the Lord." From the +window one saw roofs, towers, chimneys, a sweeping arc of sky-lights +now spun and sparkled into pathways and out again, driven by the +rumble behind them that never ceased, although muffled by the closed +window. + +They talked together for a little while, standing near the window, +the candle wavering in Aunt Elizabeth's unsteady hand. + +"We thought you'd like this top room. It's quieter than the rest of +the house. Sometimes when the sweep hasn't been the soot tumbles +down the chimney. You mustn't mind that. Thomas will push open the +door and walk in at times. It's his way." + +"Thomas?" said Maggie bewildered. + +"Our cat. He has been with us for many years now. Those who know say +that he might have taken prizes once. I can't tell I'm sure. If you +pull that bell when you want anything Martha will come. She will +call you at half-past seven; prayers are in the dining-room at a +quarter past eight. Sometimes the wind blows through the wall-paper, +but it is only the wind." + +Maggie drew back the curtains that hid the glitter of the lights. + +"Were those great friends of yours, those gentlemen this evening?" + +"The one who wears spectacles, Mr. Magnus--yes, he is a very old +friend. He is devoted to my sister. He writes stories." + +"What, in the papers?" + +"No, in books. Two every year." + +"And the other one?" + +"That is young Mr. Warlock--he is the son of our minister." + +"Does he live near here?" + +"He lives just now with his parents. Of late years he has been +abroad." + +"He doesn't look like the son of a minister," said Maggie. + +"No, I'm afraid--" Aunt Elizabeth suddenly stopped. "His father has +been minister of our chapel for twenty years. He is a great and +wonderful man." + +"Where is the chapel?" + +"Very near at hand. You will see it to-morrow. To-morrow is Sunday." + +There was a long pause. Maggie knew that now was the time when she +should say something friendly and affectionate. She could say +nothing. She stared at her aunt, then at a long mirror that faced +her bed, then at the lighted sky. She felt warmly grateful, eager to +show all the world that she would do her best, that she was ready to +give herself to this new life with all her soul and strength--she +could say nothing. + +They waited. + +At last her aunt said: + +"Good-night, dear Maggie." + +"Good-night, Aunt Elizabeth." + +She stole away, leaving the candle upon the chest of drawers; the +cat followed her, swinging his tail. + +Left alone, Maggie felt the whole sweep of her excitement. She was +exhausted, her body felt as though it had been trampled upon, she +was so tired that she could scarcely drag her clothes from her, but +the exaltation of her spirit was beyond and above all this. Half +undressed she stood before the long mirror. She had never before +possessed a long looking-glass, and now she seemed to see herself as +she really was for the first time. Was she very ugly and +unattractive? Yes, she must be with that stumpy body, those thick +legs and arms, that short nose and large mouth. And she did not know +what to do to herself to make herself attractive. Other girls knew +but she had never had any one who could tell her. Perhaps she would +make girl friends now who would show her. + +But, after all, she did not care. She was herself. People who did +not like her could leave her--yes they could, and she would not stir +a finger to fetch them back. + +Then, deep down in her soul, she knew that she wanted success, a +magnificent life, a great future. Nay more, she expected it. She had +force and strength, and she would compel life to give her what she +wanted. She laughed at herself in the glass. She was happy, almost +triumphant, and for no reason at all. + +She went to her windows and opened them; there came up to her the +tramping progress of the motor-omnibuses. They advanced, like +elephants charging down a jungle, nearer, nearer, nearer. Before the +tramp of one had passed another was advancing, and then upon that +another--ceaselessly, advancing and retreating. + +In her nightdress she leaned out of the window, poised, as it seemed +to her, above a swaying carpet of lights. + +Life seemed to hold every promise in store for her. + +She crossed to her bed, drew the clothes about her and, forgetting +her supper, forgetting all that had happened to her, her journey, +her fainting, the young man, Edward the parrot, she fell into a +slumber as deep, as secure, as death itself. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + +THE CHAPEL + + +Maggie woke next morning to a strange silence. Many were the silent +mornings that had greeted her at St. Dreots, but this was silence +with a difference; it was the silence, she was instantly aware, of +some one whose very soul was noise and tumult. She listened, and the +sudden chirping of some sparrows beyond her window only accentuated +the sense of expectation. She had never, in all her days, been so +conscious of Sunday. + +She was almost afraid to move lest she should break the spell. + +She lay in bed and thought of the preceding evening. Her fainting +fit seemed to her now more than ever unfortunate; it had placed her +at a disadvantage with them all. She could imagine the stout young +man returning to his home and saying: "Their niece has arrived. +Seems a weak little thing. Fainted right off there in the drawing- +room." Or her aunts saying anxiously to one another: "Well, I +didn't know she was as delicate as that. I hope she won't be always +ill," . . . and she wasn't delicate--no one stronger. She had never +fainted before. The silliness of it! + +The next thing that disturbed her was the comfort and arrangement of +everything. Certainly the drawing-room had not been very orderly, +full of old things badly placed, but this bedroom was clean and +tidy, and the supper last night, so neat on its tray with everything +that she could want! She could feel the order and discipline of the +whole house. And she had never, in all her life, been either orderly +or disciplined. She had never been brought up to be so. How could +you be orderly when there were holes in the bedroom ceiling and the +kitchen floor, holes that your father would never trouble to have +mended? + +Her aunts would wish her to help in the house and she would forget +things. There passed before her, in that Sunday quiet, a terrible +procession of the things that she would forget. She knew that she +would not be patient under correction, especially under the +correction of her Aunt Anne. Already she felt in her a rebellion at +her aunt's aloofness and passivity. After all, why should she treat +every one as though she were God? Maggie felt that there was in her +aunt's attitude something sentimental and affected. She hated +sentiment and affectation in any one. She was afraid, too, that Anne +bullied Aunt Elizabeth. Maggie was sorry for Aunt Elizabeth but, +with all the arrogance of the young, a little despised her. Why did +she tremble and start like that? She should stand up for herself and +not mind what her sister said to her. Finally, there was something +about the house for which Maggie could not quite account, some +uneasiness or expectation, as though one knew that there was some +one behind the door and was therefore afraid to open it. It may have +been simply London that was behind it. Maggie was ready to attribute +anything to the influence of that tremendous power, but her own +final impression was that the people in this house had for too long +a time been brooding over something. "It would do my aunts a lot of +good to move somewhere else," she said to herself. "As Aunt Anne +loves the country so much I can't think why she doesn't live there." +There were many things that she was to learn before the end of the +day. + +Her thoughts were interrupted by a little whirr and clatter, which, +thin and distant though it was, penetrated into her room. The whirr +was followed by the voice, clear, self-confident and cheerful, of a +cuckoo. Maggie was in an instant out of bed, into the passage and +standing, in her nightdress, before a high, old cuckoo-clock that +stood at the top of the stairs. The wooden bird, looking down at her +in friendly fashion, "cuckooed" eight times, flapped his wings at +her and disappeared. It is a sufficient witness to Maggie's youth +and inexperience that she was enraptured by this event. It was not +only that she had never seen a cuckoo-clock before; she had, for +that matter, never heard of the existence of such a thing. It gave +her greater happiness than any bare mechanical discovery could have +done. The bird seemed to have come to her, in the friendliest way, +to remove some of the chilly passivity of the house. Her greatest +fear since her arrival had been that this was a house "in which +nothing was ever going to happen," and that "she would never get out +of it." "It will be just as it has been all my life, seeing nothing, +doing nothing--only instead of father it will be the aunts." The +bird seemed to promise her adventure and excitement. To most people +it would have been only a further sign of an old-fashioned household +far behind the times. To Maggie it was thrilling and encouraging. He +would remind her every hour of the day of the possibility of fun in +a world that was full of surprises. She heard suddenly a step behind +her and a dry voice saying: + +"Your hot water, Miss Maggie." + +She turned round, blushing at being caught staring up at a cuckoo- +clock like a baby in her nightdress, to face the wrinkled old woman +who the night before had brought her, with a grudging countenance, +her supper. Maggie had thought then that this old Martha did not +like her and resented the extra work that her stay in the house +involved; she was now more than ever sure of that dislike. + +"I thought I was to be called at half-past seven." + +"Eight on Sundays," said the old woman. "I hope you're better this +morning, miss." + +Maggie felt this to be deeply ironical and flushed. + +"I'm quite well, thank you," she said stiffly. "What time is +breakfast on Sundays?" + +"The prayer-bell rings at a quarter to nine, miss." + +They exchanged no more conversation. + +At a quarter to nine a shrill, jangling bell rang out and Maggie +hurried down the dark staircase. She did not know where the dining- +room was, but by good chance she caught sight of Aunt Elizabeth's +little body moving hurriedly down the passage and hastened after +her. She arrived only just in time. There, standing in a row before +four chairs, their faces red and shining, their hands folded in +front of them, were the domestics; there, with a little high desk in +front of her, on the other side of the long dining-room table was +Aunt Anne; here, near the door, were two chairs obviously intended +for Aunt Elizabeth and Maggie. + +Maggie in her haste pushed the door, and it banged loudly behind +her; in the silent room the noise echoed through the house. It was +followed by a piercing scream from Edward, whom, Maggie concluded, +it had awakened. All this confused her very much and gave her +anything but a religious state of mind. + +What followed resembled very much the ceremonies with which her +father had been accustomed to begin the day, except that her father, +with one eye on the bacon, had gabbled at frantic pace through the +prayers and Aunt Anne read them very slowly and with great beauty. +She read from the Gospel of St. John: "These things I command you, +that ye love one another . . ."; but the clear, sweet tones of her +voice gave no conviction of a love for mankind. + +Maggie looking from that pale remote face to the roughened cheeks +and plump body of the kitchen-maid felt that here there could be no +possible bond. When they knelt down she was conscious, as she had +been since she was a tiny child, of two things--the upturned heels +of the servants' boots and the discomfort to her own knees. These +two facts had always hindered her religious devotions, and they +hindered them now. There had always been to her something +irresistibly comic in those upturned heels, the dull flat surfaces +of these cheap shoes. In the kitchen-maid's there were the signs of +wear; Martha's were new and shining; the house-maid's were smart and +probably creaked abominably. The bodies above them sniffed and +rustled and sighed. The vacant, stupid faces of the shoes were Aunt +Anne's only audience. Maggie wondered what the owners of those shoes +felt about the house. Had they a sense of irritation too or did they +perhaps think about nothing at all save their food, their pay and +their young man or their night out? The pain to her knees pierced +her thoughts; the prayers were very long?--Aunt Anne's beautiful +voice was interminable. + +Breakfast was quiet and silent. Edward, who received apparently a +larger meal on Sundays than at ordinary times, chattered happily to +himself, and Maggie heard him say complacently, "Poor Parrot?--Poor +Parrot. How do you do? How do you do?" + +"Service is at eleven o'clock, dear," said Aunt Anne. "We leave the +house at ten minutes to eleven." + +Maggie, not knowing what to do with the hour in front of her, went +up to her bedroom, found the servant making the bed, came down into +the drawing-room and sat in a dark corner under a large bead mat, +that, nailed to the wall, gave little taps and rustlings as though +it were trying to escape. + +She felt that she should be doing something, but what? She sat +there, straining her ear for sounds. "One always seems to be +expecting some one in this house," she thought. The weather that had +been bright had now changed and little gusts of rain beat upon the +windows. She thought with a sudden strange warmth of Uncle Mathew. +What was he doing? Where was he? How pleasant it would be were he +suddenly to walk into that chilly, dark room. She would not show him +that she was lonely, but she would give him such a welcome as he had +never had from her before. Had he money enough? Was he feeling +perhaps as desolate amongst strangers as she? The rain tickled the +window-panes. Maggie, with a desolation at her heart that she was +too proud to own, sat there and waited. + +She looked back afterwards upon that moment as the last shivering +pause before she made that amazing plunge that was to give her new +life. + +The sound of a little forlorn bell suddenly penetrated the rain. It +was just such a bell as rang every Sunday from chapels across the +Glebeshire moors, and Maggie knew, when Aunt Elizabeth opened the +door and looked in upon her, that the summons was for her. + +"Oh! my dear (a favourite exclamation of Aunt Elizabeth's) and +you're not ready. The bell's begun. The rain's coming down very +hard, I'm afraid. It's only a step from our door. Your things, dear, +as quick as you can." + +The girl ran upstairs and, stayed by some sudden impulse, stood for +a moment before the long mirror. It was as though she were imploring +that familiar casual figure that she saw there not to leave her, the +only friend she had in a world that was suddenly terrifying and +alarming. Her old black dress that had seemed almost smart for the +St. Dreot funeral now appeared most desperately shabby; she knew +that her black hat was anything but attractive. + +"What do I care for them all!" her heart said defiantly. "What do +they matter to me!" + +She marched out of the house behind the aunts with her head in the +air, very conscious of a hole in one of her thin black gloves. + +The street, deserted, danced in the rain; the little bell clanged +with the stupid monotony of its one obstinate idea; the town wore +its customary Sunday air of a stage when the performance is +concluded, the audience vanished and the lights turned down. The +aunts had a solemn air as though they were carrying Maggie as a +sacrifice. All these things were depressing. + +They turned out of their own street into a thin, grey one in which +the puddles sprang and danced against isolated milk-cans and a +desolate pillar-box. The little bell was now loud and strident, and +when they passed into a passage which led into a square, rather +grimy yard, Maggie saw that they had arrived. Before her was a +hideous building, the colour of beef badly cooked, with grey stone +streaks in it here and there and thin, narrow windows of grey glass +with stiff, iron divisions between the glass. The porch to the door +was of the ugliest grey stone with "The Lord Cometh" in big black +letters across the top of it. Just inside the door was a muddy red +mat, and near the mat stood a gentleman in a faded frock-coat and +brown boots, an official apparently. There arrived at the same time +as Maggie and her aunts a number of ladies and gentlemen all hidden +beneath umbrellas. As they stood in the doorway a sudden scurry of +wind and rain drove them all forward so that there was some crush +and confusion in the little passage beyond the door. Waterproofs +steamed; umbrellas were ranged in dripping disorder against the +wall. The official, who talked in a hushed whisper that was drowned +by the creaking of his boots, welcomed them all with the intimacy of +an old acquaintance. "Oh, Miss Hearst--terrible weather--no, she's +not here yet." "Good morning, Mrs. Smith--very glad you're better. +Yes, I spoke to them about the prayer-books. They promised to return +them this morning . . ." and so on. He turned, pushed back a door +and led the way into the chapel. The interior was as ugly as the +outside. The walls were of the coldest grey stone, broken here and +there by the lighter grey of a window. Across the roof were rafters +built of that bright shining wood that belongs intimately to +colonial life, sheep-shearing, apples of an immense size and +brushwood. Two lamps of black iron hung from these rafters. At the +farther end of the chapel was a rail of this same bright wood, and +behind the rail a desk and a chair. In front of the rail was a +harmonium before which was already seated a stout and expectant +lady, evidently eager to begin her duties of the day. The chapel was +not very large and was already nearly filled. The congregation was +sitting in absolute silence, so that the passing of Maggie and her +aunts up the aisle attracted great attention. All eyes were turned +in their direction and Maggie felt that she herself was an object of +very especial interest. + +Aunt Anne walked first and took what was obviously her own regular +seat near the front. Maggie sat between her two aunts. She could not +feel for the moment anything but a startled surprise at the ugliness +of the building. She had entered at different times the Glebeshire +chapels, but their primitive position and need had given them the +spirit of honest sincerity. Here she had expected she did not know +what. Always from those very early days when she had first heard +about her aunts she had had visions of a strange illuminated place +into which God, "riding on a chariot clothed in flames," would one +day come. Even after she had grown up she had still fancied that the +centre of her aunts' strange, fantastic religion must be a strange, +fantastic place. And yet now, as she looked around her, she was not, +to her own surprise, disappointed. She was even satisfied; the +"wonder" was not in the building. Well, then, it must be in +something "inside," something that she had yet to discover. The +chapel had the thrilling quality of a little plain deal box that +carries a jewel. + +She examined then the people around her. Women were in a great +majority, a man scattered forlornly amongst them once and again. She +discovered at once the alert eyes of young Mr. Warlock. He was +seated in the side aisle with a thin, severe-looking woman beside +him. He stared straight in front of him, wriggling sometimes his +broad back as though he were a dog tied by a chain. Some one else +very quickly claimed Maggie's attention; this was a girl who, in the +seat behind Mr. Warlock, was as noticeable in that congregation as a +bird-of-paradise amongst a colony of crows. She was wearing a dress +of light blue silk and a large hat of blue with a grey bird in the +front of it. + +Her hair, beneath the hat, was bright gold, her cheeks were the +brightest pink and her eyes sparkled in a most lovely and +fascinating manner. She was immensely interesting to Maggie, who had +never, in her life, dreamed of anything so dazzling. She was very +restless and animated and self-conscious. There sat at her side a +stout and solemn woman, who was evidently from a strange, almost +ironical likeness her mother. The young lady seemed to regard both +the place and the occasion as the greatest joke in the world. She +flung her eyes from one to another as though inviting some one to +share her merriment. + +Amongst that black-garbed assembly the blue dress shone out as +though it would attract everything to itself. "She's very pretty," +thought Maggie, who was more conscious of her shabby clothes than +ever. But her chief feeling was of surprise that so brilliant a bird +had been able to penetrate into the chapel at all. "She must be a +stranger just come out of curiosity." Then the girl's eyes suddenly +met Maggie's and held them; the brilliant creature smiled and Maggie +smiled in return. She looked afterwards at Aunt Anne, but Aunt Anne, +buried in her book of devotions, had seen nothing. + +Suddenly, after a strange wheeze and muffled scream, the harmonium +began. Every one looked up expectantly; Mr. Warlock, alone, appeared +from a door at the right of the screen and took his place behind the +desk. + +He stood for a moment facing them before he took his place. He was a +man of great size, old now but holding himself absolutely erect. He +was dressed in a plain black gown with a low, white collar and a +white tie. This long gown added to his height, but the width of the +shoulders and neck, and the carriage of his head showed that he was +a man built on a noble scale. His hair was snow-white and he wore a +beard, that was in startling contrast against his black gown. His +cheeks were of high colour, his eyes blue; he was older than Maggie +had expected and must, she thought, be over seventy. His whole +bearing and behaviour was of a man who had enjoyed great physical +health. His expression was mild and simple, dignified but not proud, +utterly unconscious of self, earnest and determined, lacking in +humour perhaps. There was nothing in the least theatrical about him +and yet he conveyed an impression that was startling and dramatic. +His was a figure that would have been noticed anywhere, if only for +its physical health and shining cleanliness. Maggie felt that to +many people there his entrance was a sensation, sought for and +expected by them. So startling was the impression that he made upon +herself that she wondered that the chapel was not crowded by an +excited throng. She liked him at once, felt that she would be at +ease with him as she had never been with anybody in her life. And +yet behind this there was perhaps some subtle sense of +disappointment. He was not mysterious, he did not seem very clever; +he was only an old man, magnificently preserved. There was no fear +nor wonder in her attitude to him. He could not convince her, she +thought, of things that she herself had not seen. + +He knelt and prayed for a moment before his desk, then he rose and, +with his hands resting on the wood before him, said: "Let us offer +thanks to Almighty God that He has kept us in safety and in health +during the past week." They all knelt down. He prayed then, in a +voice that was soft and clear and that hid behind the words a little +roughness of accent that was not unpleasant. His prayer was +extempore, and he addressed God intimately and almost +conversationally. "Thou knowest how we are weak and foolish, our +faults are all known to Thee and our blunders are not hid, therefore +we thank Thee that Thou hast not been impatient with us, but, seeing +that we are but little children in Thy hands, hast deemed the +thunderbolt too heavy for our heads and the lightning too blinding +for our eyes. With humble hearts we thank Thee, and pray that Thou +wilt keep us mindful of Thy coming, that we may be found watching, +with our loins girt and our lamps lit, waiting in prayer for Thy +dreadful day . . ." + +During this prayer Maggie was conscious of a strange excitement. She +knelt with her eyes tightly closed, but through the darkness she +felt as though he were addressing her alone. She seemed to approach +him, to feel his hands upon her shoulders, to hear his voice in her +ears. When she rose at the ending of the prayer it was as though she +had definitely passed through some door into a new room. Then, +rising, she was conscious that the laughing eyes of the young lady +in blue were again trying to hold her own. She refused to look--she +coloured, hanging her head so that her eyes should not be caught. + +For some time she was unaware of the progress of the service. Then +the clear emphasis of his voice caught again her attention. "Our +lesson for to-day," he said, "is from the Fortieth Chapter of +Isaiah." He proceeded to read: + +Comfort ye, comfort ye my people, saith your God. + +Speak ye comfortably to Jerusalem, and cry unto her, that her +warfare is accomplished, that her iniquity is pardoned: for she hath +received of the Lord's hand double for all her sins. + +The voice of him that crieth in the wilderness, Prepare ye the way +of the Lord, make straight in the desert a highway for our God. + +Every valley shall be exalted, and every mountain and hill shall be +made low: and the crooked shall be made straight, and the rough +places plain: + +And the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see +it together: for the mouth of the Lord hath spoken it. + +The voice said, Cry. And he said, What shall I cry? All flesh is +grass, and all the goodliness thereof is as the flower of the field: +. . . + +The grass withereth, the flower fadeth; but the word of our God +shall stand for ever. + +O Zion, that bringest good tidings, get thee up into the high +mountain; 0 Jerusalem, that bringest good tidings, lift up thy voice +with strength; lift it up, be not afraid; say unto the cities of +Judah, Behold your God! + +Behold, the Lord God will come with strong hand, and his arm shall +rule for him; behold, his reward is with him, and his work before +him. + +He shall feed his flock like a shepherd; he shall gather the lambs +with his arm, and carry them in his bosom, and shall gently lead +those that are with young. + +How many times had Maggie heard the reading of those words. They +brought instantly back to her her father's voice, the strange +snuffling hurry with which he hastened to the end, his voice +hesitating a little as his wandering eye caught the misbehaviour of +some small boy in the choir. + +Now the words were charged with a conviction that was neither forced +nor adopted for dramatic effect. It was as though a herald read some +proclamation for his master who was approaching the gates of the +city. The hymns and prayers that followed seemed to have no +importance. The hymns happened on that day to be familiar ones that +Maggie had always known: "As pants the hart for cooling streams," +"Just as I am, without one plea" and + +"Jerusalem the golden." These were sung, of course, slowly, badly +and sentimentally, the harmonium screaming in amazing discords, and +the deep and untuneful voices of some members of the congregation +drowning the ladies and placing a general discord upon everything. +Especially distressing was Aunt Elizabeth, who evidently loved to +sing hymns but had little idea of melody or rhythm, and was +influenced entirely by a copious sentiment which overflowed into her +eyes and trembled at the tips of her fingers. + +All this was as naive and awkward as is always the singing of +English hymns in English churches by English citizens. The chapel, +which had seemed before to be rising to some strange atmosphere of +expectation, slipped back now to its native ugliness and sterility. +The personality was in the man and in the man alone. + +Maggie looked about her, at the faces of the women who surrounded +her. They were grey, strained, ugly in the poor light of the +building. The majority of them seemed to be either servant-girls or +women who had passed the adventurous period of life and had passed +it without adventure. When the time for the sermon arrived Mr. +Warlock prayed, his head bowed, during a moment's silence, then +leaning forward on his desk repeated some of the words of his +earlier reading: + +Prepare ye the way of the Lord, make straight in the desert a +highway for our God. Every valley shall be exalted, and every +mountain and hill shall be made low: and the crooked shall be made +straight, and the rough places plain: . . . say unto the cities of +Judah, Behold your God! . . . + +What followed was practical, eloquent, the preaching of a man who +had through the course of a long life addressed men of all kinds and +in all places. But behind the facility and easy flow of his words +Maggie fancied that she detected some urgent insistence that came +from the man's very heart. She was moved by that as though he were +saying to her personally, "Don't heed these outward words of mine. +But listen to me myself. There is something I must tell you. There +is no time to lose. You must believe me. I will compel your belief. +Follow me and I will show what will transform your life." He +concluded his sermon with these words: + +"And what of our responsibility? We may compare ourselves, I think, +to men who, banded together on some secret service, wait for the +moment when they are to declare themselves and, by that action, +transform the world. Until that moment comes they must lead their +ordinary daily lives, seem as careless of the future as their +fellows, laugh and eat and work and play as though nothing beyond +the business of the day were their concern. But in their hearts is +the responsibility of their secret knowledge. They cannot be as +other men knowing what they do, they cannot be to one another as +they are to other men with the bond of their common duty shared +between them. Much has been given them, much will be demanded of +them; and when the day comes it will not be the events of that day +that will test them but the private history, known only to +themselves and their Master, of the hours that have preceded that +day." + +"I tell you what I have often told you before from this same place, +that beside the history of the spirit the history of the body is +nothing--and that history of the spirit is no easy, tranquil +progress from birth to death, but must rather be, if we are to have +any history at all, a struggle, a wrestling, a contest, bloody, +unceasing, uncertain in its issue from the first hour until the +last. This is no mere warning spoken from the lips only by one who, +from sheer weekly necessity, may seem to you formal and official; it +is as urgent, as deeply from the heart as though it were a summons +from a messenger who has come to you directly from his Master. I beg +of you to consider your responsibility, which is greater than that +of other men. We are brothers bound together by a great expectation, +a great preparation, a great trust. We are in training for a day +when more will be demanded of us than of any other men upon the +earth. That is no light thing. Let us hold ourselves then as souls +upon whom a great charge is laid." + +When he had ended and knelt again to pray Maggie felt instantly the +inevitable reaction. The harmonium quavered and rumbled over the +first bars of some hymn which began with the words, "Cry, sinner, +cry before the altar of the Lord," the man with the brown, creaking +boots walked about with a collection plate, an odour of gas-pipes, +badly heated, penetrated the building, the rain lashed the grey +window-panes. Maggie, looking about her, could not see in the pale, +tired faces of the women who surrounded her the ardent souls of a +glorious band. Their belief in the coming of God had, it seemed, +done very little for them. It might be true that the history of the +soul was of more importance than the history of the body, but common +sense had something to say. + +Her mind went back inevitably to St. Dreot's church, her father, +Ellen the cook. That was what the history of the spirit had been to +her so far. What reason had she to suppose that this was any more +real than that had been? Nevertheless, when at the end of the sermon +she left the building and went once more into the soaking streets +some sense of expectation was with her, so that she hastened into +her aunt's house as though she would find that some strange event +had occurred in her absence. + +Nothing, of course, had occurred. + +During the afternoon the rain ceased to fall and a dim, grey light, +born of an intense silence, enveloped the town. About three o'clock +the aunts went out to some religious gathering and Maggie was left +to herself. She discovered in Aunt Elizabeth's bedroom a bound +volume of Good Words, and with this seated herself by the drawing- +room fire. Soon she slept. + +She was awakened by a consciousness that some one was in the room +and, sitting up, staring through the gloom, heard a movement near +the door, a rustle, a little jingle, a laugh. + +"Is any one there?" said a high, shrill voice. + +Maggie got up. + +"I'm here," she said. + +Some one came forward; it was the girl of the blue dress who had +smiled at Maggie in chapel. She held out her hand--"I hope you don't +think me too awful. My name's Caroline Smith. How do you do?" + +They shook hands. Maggie, still bewildered by sleep, said, +stammering," Won't you sit down? I beg your pardon. My aunts--" + +"Oh, it isn't the aunts I wanted to see," replied Miss Smith, +laughing so that a number of little bracelets jingled most tunefully +together. "I came to see you. We smiled at one another in chapel. It +was your first time, wasn't it? Didn't you think it all awfully +quaint?" + +"Won't you sit down?" said Maggie again, "and I'll ring for the +lamp." + +"Oh! don't ring for the lamp. I like the dusk. And we can make +friends so much better without a lamp. I always say if you want to +know anybody really well, don't have a light." + +She seated herself near the fire, arranging her dress very +carefully, patting her hair beneath her hat, poking her shoes out +from beneath her skirts, then withdrawing them again. "Well, what do +you think of it all?" + +Maggie stared. She did not know what to say. She had never met any +one in the least like this before. + +"I do hope," Miss Smith went on, "that you don't think me forward. I +daresay you do. But I can't bear wasting time. Of course I heard +that you were coming, so then I looked out for you in chapel to-day. +I thought you looked so nice that I said to mother, 'I'll go and see +her this very afternoon.' Of course I've known your aunts for ages. +I'm always in and out here so that it isn't as bad as it seems. +They'll all be back for tea soon and I want to have a talk first." + +"Thank you very much," was all that Maggie could think of to say. + +"You've come to live here, haven't you?" continued Miss Smith. "I'm +so glad. I think you look so nice. You don't mind my saying that, do +you? I always tell people what I think of them and then one knows +where one is. Now, do tell me--I'm simply dying to know--what do you +think of everything?" + +"Well," said Maggie, smiling, "I only arrived here yesterday. It's +rather difficult to say." + +"Oh! I know. I saw Mr. Magnus this morning and he told me that he +met you. He said you were ill. You don't look ill." + +"It was very silly of me," said Maggie, "I don't know what made me +faint. I've never done such a thing before." + +"I used to faint simply heaps of times when I was a kid," said Miss +Smith, "I was always doing it. I had all sorts of doctors. They +thought I'd never grow up. I'm not very strong now really. They say +it's heart, but I always say it can't be that because I've given it +all away." Here Miss Smith laughed immoderately. + +"Weren't they the most terrible set of frumps at chapel this +morning?" + +She did not wait for an answer, but went on: "Mr. Warlock's all +right, of course. I think he's such a fine-looking man, don't you? +Of course he's old now, but his beard's rather attractive I think. +He's a duck, but isn't that harmonium ghastly? I can't think why +they don't buy an organ, they're most awfully rich I know, and do +simply nothing with their money." + +"Why do you go," said Maggie, "if you think it all so dreadful?" + +"Oh! I have to go," said Miss Smith, "to please mother. And one has +to do something on Sunday, and besides one sees one's friends. Did +you notice Martin Warlock, Mr. Warlock's son, you know. He was +sitting quite close to me." + +"He was here yesterday afternoon," said Maggie quietly. + +"Oh, was he really? Now that is interesting. I wonder what he came +for. He scarcely ever comes here. Did you like him?" + +"I didn't speak to him," said Maggie. + +"Of course he's only been here a little time. He's Mr. Warlock's +only son. He's lived for years abroad and then the other day his +aunt died and left him some money so he came home. His father simply +adores him. They say--but of course I don't know. Don't quote me-- +that he's been most awfully wild. Drink, all sorts of things. But of +course they'll say anything of anybody. I think he's got such an +interesting face, don't you?" + +"I don't think," said Maggie, "that you ought to say those things of +any one if you don't know they're true." + +"Oh! what a darling you are!" said Miss Smith. "You're perfectly +right--one oughtn't. But every one does. When you've lived up here a +little while you will too. And what does it matter? You're sure to +hear it sooner or later. But that's right. You keep me straight. I +know I talk far too much. I'm always being told about it. But what +can one do? Life's so funny--one must talk about it. You haven't +seen Miss Avies and Mr. Thurston yet, have you?" + +"No," said Maggie. "Not unless I saw them in Chapel this morning." + +"Ah! they're the ones," said Miss Smith. "No, they weren't there to- +day. They're away on a mission. They make things hum. They quarrel +with Mr. Warlock because they say he isn't noisy enough. Mr. +Thurston's awful and Miss Avies isn't much better. You'll have them +on to you soon enough. But of course I'm not one of the Inside +Ones." + +"Inside Ones?" asked Maggie. + +"Yes, the real ones. They'll be at you after a time and ask you if +you'll join them. The congregation this morning was just anybody who +likes to come. But the real brethren have to swear vows and be +baptized and all sorts of things. But that's only if you believe +God's really coming in a year or two. Of course I don't, although +sometimes it makes one quite creepy--all down one's spine. In case, +after all, He really should come, you know." + +"Are my aunts inside?" asked Maggie. + +"Of course they are. Miss Anne Cardinal's one of the chief of them. +Miss Avies is jealous as anything of her, but your aunt's so quiet +that Miss Avies can't do anything. I just love your aunts. I think +they're sweet. You will be a friend of mine, won't you? I like you +so much. I like your being quiet and telling me when I talk too +much. I sound silly, I know, but it's really mother's fault, as I +always tell her. She never brought me up at all. She likes me to +wear pretty things and doesn't care about anything else. Poor +mother! She's had such a time with father; he's one of the most +serious of all the Brethren and never has time to think about any of +us. Then he's in a bank all the week, where he can't think about God +much because he makes mistakes about figures if he does, so he has +to put it all into Sunday. We will be friends, won't we?" + +It came to Maggie with a strange ironic little pang that this was +the first time that any one had asked for her friendship. + +"Of course," she said. + +Miss Smith's further confidences were interrupted by the aunts and +behind them, to Maggie's great surprise, Mr. Warlock and his son. +The sudden descent of these gentlemen upon the still lingering +echoes of Miss Caroline Smith's critical and explanatory remarks +embarrassed Maggie. Not so Miss Smith. She kissed both the aunts +with an emphasis that they apparently appreciated for they smiled +and Aunt Anne laid her hand affectionately upon the girl's sleeve. +Maggie, watching, felt the strangest little pang of jealousy. That +was the way that she should have behaved, been warm and +demonstrative from the beginning--but she could not. + +Even now she stood back in the shadows of the room, watching them +all with large grave eyes, hoping that they would not notice her. + +With Mr. Warlock and his son also Miss Smith seemed perfectly at +home, chattering, laughing up into young Warlock's eyes, as though +there were some especial understanding between them. Maggie, +nevertheless, fancied that he, young Warlock, was not listening to +her. His eyes wandered. He had that same restlessness of body that +she had before noticed in him, swinging a little on his legs set +apart, his hands clasped behind his thick broad back. He had some +compelling interest for her. He had had that, she now realised, +since the first moment that she had seen him. It might be that the +things that that girl had told her about him increased her interest +and, perhaps her sympathy? But it was his strange detached air of +observation that held her--as though he were a being from some other +planet watching them all, liking them, but bearing no kind of +relation to them except that of a cheerful observer--it was this +that attracted her. She liked his thick, rough untidy hair, the +healthy red brown of his cheeks, his light blue eyes, his air of +vigour and bodily health. + +As she waited she was startled into consciousness by a voice in her +ear. She turned to find the elder Mr. Warlock beside her. + +"You will forgive my speaking to you, Miss Cardinal. I saw you at +our Chapel this morning." + +His great height towered above her short clumsy figure; he seemed to +peer down at her from above his snowy beard as though he were the +inhabitant of some other world. His voice was of an extreme +kindliness and his eyes, when she looked up at him, shone with +friendliness. She found herself, to her own surprise, talking to him +with great ease. He was perfectly simple, human and unaffected. He +asked her about her country. + +"I spend my days in longing to get back to my own place--and perhaps +I shall never see it again. I was born in Wiltshire--Salisbury +Plain. My great-grandfather, my grandfather, my father, they all +were ministers of our Chapel there before me. They had no thought in +their day of London. I have always missed that space, the quiet. I +shall always miss it. Towns are not friendly to me." + +She told him about St. Dreots, a little about her father. + +"Ah, you're lucky!" he said. "You'll return many times before you +die--and you'll find no change there. Those places do not change as +towns do." + +They were standing apart from the others near the window. He +suddenly put his hand on her arm, smiling at her. + +"My dear," he said. "You don't mind me saying 'My dear,' but an old +man has his privileges--will you come and see us whenever you care +to? My wife will be so glad. I know that at first one can be lonely +in this great place. Just come in when you please." + +He took her hand for a moment and then turned back to Aunt Anne, who +was now pouring out tea at a little table by the fire. + +Martin Warlock, as his father moved away, came across to her, She +had known that he would do that as though something had been +arranged between them. When he came to her, however, he stood there +before her and had nothing to say. She also had nothing to say. His +eyes searched her face, then he broke out abruptly. + +"Are you better?" + +"I'm all right," she answered him brusquely. "Please don't say +anything about yesterday. It was an idiotic thing to do." + +"That's what I came about to-day--to see how you were," he answered +her, his eyes laughing at her. "I should never have dreamed of +coming otherwise, you know. I saw you in chapel this morning so I +guessed you were all right, but it seemed such bad luck fainting +right off the minute you got here." + +"I've never fainted in my life before," she answered. + +"No, you don't look the sort of girl who'd faint. But I suppose +you've had a rotten time with your father and all." + +His eyes still searched for hers. She determined that she would not +look at him; her heart was beating strangely and, although she did +not look, she could in some sub-conscious way see the rough toss of +his hair against his forehead; she could smell the stuff of his +coat. But she would not look up. + +"You're going to live here, aren't you?" + +"Yes," she said. + +"I've only just come back," he went on. + +"I know," she said. + +"Oh! of course; that girl," jerking his head in the direction of the +tea-table and laughing. "She told you. She's been here this +afternoon, hasn't she? She chatters like anything. Don't you believe +half she says." + +There was another pause. The voices at the tea-table seemed to come +from very far away. + +Then he said roughly, moving a very little nearer to her: + +"I'm glad you've come." + +At that she raised her eyes, her cheeks flushed. She looked him full +in the face, her head up. Her heart thundered in her breast. She +felt as though she were at the beginning of some tremendous +adventure--an adventure enthralling, magnificent--and perilous. + + + + +PART II + +THE CHARIOT OF FIRE + + +CHAPTER I + +THE WARLOCKS + + +There is beyond question, in human nature, such a thing as an +inherited consciousness of God, and this consciousness, if inherited +through many generations, may defy apparent reason, all progress of +vaunted civilisations, and even, it may be suggested, the actual +challenge of death itself. + +This consciousness of God had been quite simply the foundation of +Mr. Warlock's history. In the middle of the eighteenth century it +expressed itself in the formula of John Wesley's revival; the John +Wesley of that day preached up and down the length and breadth of +Westmoreland, Cumberland, Northumberland, Durham, and being a +fighter, a preacher and a simple-minded human being at one and the +same time, received a large following and died full of years and +honours. + +It was somewhere about 1830 that this John's grandson, James +Warlock, Martin's grandfather, broke from the main body and led his +little flock on to the wide spaces of Salisbury Plain. James +Warlock, unlike his father and grandfather, was a little sickly man +with a narrow chest, no limbs to speak of and a sharp pale face. +Martin had a faded daguerreotype of him set against the background +of the old Wiltshire kitchen, his black clothes hung upon him like a +disguise, his eyes burning even upon that faded picture with the +fire of his spirit. For James Warlock was a mystic, a visionary, a +prophet. He walked and talked with God; in no jesting spirit it was +said that he knew God's plans and could turn the world into a +blazing coal so soon as he pleased. It was because he knew with +certainty that God would, in person, soon, descend upon the earth +that he separated from the main body and led his little band down +into Wiltshire. Here on the broad gleaming Plain they prepared for +God's coming. Named now the Kingscote Brethren after their new +abode, they built a Chapel, sat down and waited. Then in 1840 the +prophet declared that the Coming was not yet, that it would be in +the next generation, but that their preparations must not be +relaxed. He himself prepared by taking to himself a wife, a calm +untroubled countrywoman of the place, that she might give him a son +whom he might prepare, in due course, for his great destiny. John, +father of Martin, was born, a large-limbed, smiling infant, with the +tranquillity of his mother as well as something of the mysticism of +his father. + +Upon him, as upon his ancestors, this consciousness of God had most +absolutely descended. Never for a moment did he question the facts +that his father told to him. He grew into a giant of health and +strength, and those who, in those old days, saw them tell that it +was a strange picture to watch the little wizened man, walking with +odd emotional gestures, with little hops and leaps and swinging of +the arms beside the firm long stride of the young man towering above +him. + +When young John was twenty-three years of age his father was found +dead under a tree upon a summer's evening. His expression was of a +man challenging some new and startling discovery; he had found +perhaps new visions to confront his gaze. They buried him in +Kingscote and his son reigned in his stead. + +But they were approaching new and modern times. These old days, of +simple faith and superstition were passing never to return. There +were new elements in the Kingscote company of souls and these +elements demanded freer play both of thought and action. They argued +that, as to them alone out of all the world the time and manner of +God's coming was known, they should influence with their activities +some wider sphere than this Wiltshire village. + +John Warlock clung with all his strength to the old world that he +knew, the world that gave him leisure and quiet for contemplation. +He had no wish to bring in converts, to stir England into a frenzy +of terror and anticipation. God gave him no command to spread his +beliefs; even his father, fanatic though he had been, had cherished +his own small company of saints as souls to whom these things, +hidden deliberately from the outside world, had especially been +entrusted. + +So long as he could he resisted; then when he was about forty, +somewhere around 1880, the Kingscote Brethren moved to London. In +this year, 1907, John Warlock was sixty-seven and the Kingscote +Brethren had had their Chapel in Solomon's Place, behind Garrick +Street, for twenty-seven years. In 1880 John Warlock had married +Amelia, daughter of Francis Stephens, merchant. In 1881 a daughter, +Amy, was born to them; in 1883, Martin; they had no other children. +Martin was at the time of Maggie's arrival in London twenty-four +years of age. + +Upon a certain fine evening, a fortnight after Martin Warlock's +first meeting with Maggie, he arrived at the door of his house in +Garrick Street, and having forgotten his latch-key, was compelled to +ring the old screaming bell that had long survived its respectable +reputable days. The Warlocks had lived during the last ten years in +an upper part above a curiosity shop four doors from the Garrick +Club in Garrick Street. There was a house-door that abutted on to +the shop-door and, passing through it, you stumbled along a little +dark passage like a rabbit warren, up some crooked stairs, and found +yourself in the Warlock country without ever troubling Mr. Spencer, +the stout, hearty, but inartistic owner of the curiosity shop. + +On the present occasion, after pulling the bell, Martin stared down +the street as though somewhere in the dim golden light of its +farthest recesses he would find an answer to a question that he was +asking. The broad sturdy strength of his body, the easy good-temper +of his expression spoke of a life lived physically rather than +mentally. And yet this was only half true. Martin Warlock should at +this time have been a quite normal young man with normal desires, +normal passions, normal instincts. Such he would undoubtedly have +been had he not had his early environment of egotism, mystery and +clap-trap--had he, also, not developed through his childhood and +youth his passionate devotion to his father. The religious +ceremonies of his young days had made him self-conscious and +introspective and, although during his years abroad he had felt on +many occasions that he was completely freed from his early bondage, +scenes, thoughts and longings would recur and remind him that he was +celebrating his liberty too soon. The licences that to most men in +their first youth are incidental and easily forgotten engraved +themselves upon Martin's reluctant soul because of that religious +sense that had been driven in upon him at the very hour of his +birth. He could not sin and forget. He sinned and was remorseful, +was impatient at his remorse, sinned again to rid himself of it and +was more remorseful still. The main impulse of his life at this time +was his self-distrust. He fancied that by returning home he might +regain confidence. He longed to rid himself of the conviction that +he was "set aside" by some fate or other, call it God or not as you +please. He thought that he hurt all those whom he loved when his +only longing was to do them good. He used suddenly to leave his +friends because he thought that he was doing them harm. It was as +though he heard some Power saying to him: "I marked you out for my +own in the beginning and you can't escape me. You may struggle as +you like. Until you surrender everything shall turn to dust in your +hands." He came back to England determined to assert his +independence. + +He gazed now at the placidity of Garrick Street with the intensity +of some challenging "Stand and Deliver!" All that the street had to +give for the moment was a bishop and an actor mounting the steps of +the Garrick Club, an old lady with a black bonnet and a milk-jug, a +young man in a hurry and a failure selling bootlaces. None of them +could be expected to offer reassurance to Martin--none of these +noticed him--but an intelligent observer, had such a stranger to +Garrick Street been present, might have found that gaze of interest. +Martin's physical solidity could not entirely veil the worried +uncertain glance that flashed for a moment and then, with a little +reassuring sigh, was gone. + +The door opened, a girl looked for a moment into the street, he +passed inside. Having stumbled up the dark stairs, pushed back their +private entrance, hung up his coat in the little hall, with a +deliberate effort he shook off the suspicions that had, during the +last moments, troubled him and prepared to meet his mother and +sister. + +Because he had a happy, easy and affectionate temperament absence +always gilded his friends with gifts and qualities that their +presence only too often denied. His years abroad had given him a +picture of his mother and sister that the few weeks of his return +had already dimmed and obscured. His mother's weekly letters had, +during ten long years, built up an image of her as the dearest old +lady in the world. He had always, since a child, seen her in a +detached way--his deep and permanent relations had been with his +father--but those letters, of which he had now a deep and carefully +cherished pile, gave him a most charming picture of her. They had +not been clever nor deep nor indeed very interesting, but they had +been affectionate and tender with all the gentleness of the figure +that he remembered sitting in its lace cap beside the fire. + +After three weeks of home life he was compelled to confess that he +did not in the least understand his mother. His intuitions about +people were not in fact of a very penetrating character. + +His mother appeared to all her world as a "sweet old lady," but even +Martin could already perceive that was not in the least what she +really was. He had seen her old hands tremble with suppressed temper +on the very day after his arrival; he had seen her old lips white +with anger because the maid had brought her the wrong shawl. Old +ladies must of course have their fancies, but his mother had some +fixed and fierce purpose in her life that was quite beyond his +powers of penetration. It might of course have something to do with +her attachment to his father. Attached Martin could see that she +was, but at the same time completely and eternally outside her +husband's spiritual life. That might have been perhaps in the first +place by her own desire--she did not want "to be bothered with all +that nonsense." But certainly all these years with him had worked +upon her: she was not perhaps so sure now that it was all +"nonsense." She wanted, it might be, a closer alliance with him, +which she could not have because she had once rejected the chance of +it. Martin did not know; he was aware that there was a great deal +going on in the house that he did not fathom. Amy, his sister, knew. +There was an alliance between his mother and his sister deep and +strong, as he could see--he did not yet know that it was founded +very largely on dislike and fear of himself. + +How fantastic these theories of fire and passion must seem, he +amused himself by considering, to any one who knew his mother only +from the outside. She was sitting to-day as always in her little +pink and white chintz drawing-room, a bright fire burning and a +canary singing in a cage beside the window. The rest of the house +was ugly and strangely uninhabited as though the Warlocks had merely +pitched their tents for a night and were moving forward to-morrow, +but this little room, close, smelling of musk and sweet biscuits (a +silver box with lemon-shaped biscuits in it stood on a little table +near the old lady), with its pretty pink curtains, its canary, and +its heavy and softly closing door, was like a place enclosed, +dedicated to the world, and ruled by a remorseless spirit of +comfort. + +Mrs. Warlock was only sixty years of age, but she had, a number of +years ago, declared herself an invalid, and now never, unless she +drove on a very fine afternoon, left the house. Whether she were +truly an invalid nobody knew; she presented certainly a most healthy +appearance with her shell-pink cheeks, her snow-white hair, her firm +bosom rising and falling with such gentle regularity beneath the +tight and shining black silk that covered it, her clear bright eyes +like shining glass. She always sat in a deep arm-chair covered with +the chintz of the curtains and filled with plump pillows of pink +silk. A white filmy shawl was spread over her knees, at her throat +was a little bright coquettish blue bow that added, amazingly, to +the innocent charm of her old age. On her white hair, crinkled and +arranged as though it were some ornament, not quite a wig but still +apart from the rest of her body, she wore a lace cap. She was fond +of knitting; she made warm woollen comforters and underclothing for +the children of the poor. She was immensely fond of conversation, +being of an inquisitive nature. But above all was she fond of +eating. This covetousness of food had grown on her as her years had +increased. The thought of foods of various kinds filled many hours +of her day, and the desire for pleasant things to eat was the motive +of many of her most deliberate actions. She cherished warmly and +secretly this little lust of hers. None of the family was aware of +the grip that the desire had upon her nor of the speed with which +the desire was growing. She did not ask directly for the things that +she liked, but manoeuvred with little plots and intrigues to obtain +them. The cook in the Warlock household had neither art nor science +at her disposal, but as it happened old Mrs. Warlock lusted after +very simple things. She loved rice-pudding; her heart beat fast in +her breast when she thought of the brown crinkly skin of the rich +warm milk of a true rice-pudding; also she loved hot buttered toast, +very buttery so that it soaked your fingers; also beef-steak pudding +with gravy rich and dark and its white covering thick and heavy; she +also loved hot and sweet tea and the little cakes that Amy sometimes +bought, red and yellow and pink, held in white paper--also plum- +pudding, which, alas! only came at Christmastime and wedding-cake, +which scarcely ever came at all. + +This vice, of which she was almost triumphantly conscious as though +it were a proof of her enduring vitality, she clutched eagerly to +herself. She did not wish that any human being should perceive it. +Of her husband she was not afraid--it would never possibly occur to +him that food was of importance to any one; Amy might discover what +she pleased, she was in strong alliance with her mother and would +never betray her. + +Her fear was of Martin. She feared very deeply his influence upon +her husband. During Martin's absence she and Amy had managed very +successfully to have the house as they wished it; John Warlock, the +master, had been too deeply occupied with the affairs of the soul to +be concerned also with the affairs of the body. + +She had, she believed, exercised an increasing influence over him. +She had always loved him with a fierce and selfish love, but now, +when he was nearly seventy, and to both of them only a few years of +earthly ambition could remain, she desired, with all the urgent +ferocity of a human being through whose fingers the last sands of +his opportunity are slipping, to seize and hold and have him +entirely hers. He had always eluded her; although he had once +certainly loved her with, at any rate, a semblance of earthly +passion, his spiritual life had always come between them, holding +him from her, helping him to escape when he pleased, tantalising, +sometimes maddening too. She was certainly now not so ready to +dismiss that spiritual life as once she had been. She was herself an +old heathen; for herself she believed in nothing but her earthly +appetites and desires, but for him and for others there might be +something in it, . . . and perhaps some day some dreadful thing +would occur . . . a chariot of Fire descend upon the Chapel and some +sort of a fierce and hostile God deliver judgment; she only hoped +that she would be dead before then. + +Meanwhile she and Amy had, undoubtedly, during these last years, +increased their influence over him. He was not aware of it, but as +he was growing now older and weaker--he had had trouble with his +heart--he inevitably depended more upon them. The old lady began to +count upon her triumph. Then came Martin's return. + +She had forgotten Martin. It is true that she had written to him +every week during his long absence, but her letters had been all +part of the "dear old lady" habit which was put on by her just as an +actress prepares herself, nightly, for a character in which she +knows she is the greatest possible success. "Thank you very much, +Mrs. Smith . . . No, we've not heard from Martin now for three +weeks. Careless boy! I always write myself every week so that he may +have at any rate one little word from home . . ." + +She had never felt that she had any real share in his life; he had +always belonged to his father; nor was she a woman who cared about +children. Martin had long ago become to her simply an opportunity +for further decoration. Since his return it had been quite another +affair. In one moment she had seen her power over her husband +shrivel and disappear. Martin was home again. Martin must be here, +Martin must be there; Martin must see this, Martin must do this. She +had seen before in earlier days the force of her husband's passion +when it was roused. There was something now in his reception of +their son that terrified her. She had at once perceived that Amy was +as deeply moved as she. The girl, plain, awkward, silent, morose, +had always adored her father, but she had never known how to +approach him. She was not clever, she had not been able to enter +into his life although she would have done anything that he desired +of her. What she had suffered during those early years when, as a +little ugly girl, she had watched her brother, accepted, received +into the Brotherhood, praised for his wisdom, his intimacy with God, +his marvellous saintly promise, praised for these things when she +had known all his weaknesses, how he had slipped away to a music- +hall when he was only fourteen and smoked and drank there, how he +had laughed at Mr. Thurston's dropping of his "h's" or at Miss +Avies' prayer meetings! No one ever knew what in those years she had +thought of her brother. Then, after Martin had flung it all away and +escaped abroad, she had begun, slowly, painfully, but with dogged +persistence, to make herself indispensable to her father; Martin she +had put out of her mind. He would never return, or, at least, the +interval of his departure should have been severe enough to separate +him for ever from his father . . . + +In a moment's glance, in a clasp of the hand, in a flash of the eye, +she had seen that love leap up in her father's heart as strong as +ever it had been. Every day of Martin's residence in the house had +added fire to that love. She was a good woman; she struggled hard to +beat down her jealousy. She prayed. She lay for hours at night +struggling with her sins. If Martin had been worthy, if he had shown +love in return, but, from the bottom of her soul, as the days +increased she despised him--despised him for his light heart, his +care of worldly things, his utter lack of comprehension of their +father, his scorn, even now but badly concealed, of all the +sanctities that she had in reverence. + +Therefore she drew near to her mother and the two of them watched +and waited . . . + +His mother was knitting. She lifted to him her pink wrinkled face +and, her spectacles balanced on the end of her nose, smiled the +smile of the dearest old lady in the world. + +"Well, dear, and have you had a pleasant day?" + +"All right, mother, thank you. Funny thing; met a man in the street, +hadn't seen for five years. Saw him last in Rio--Funny thing. Well, +we lunched together. Not a bad fellow--Seen a thing or two, he has." + +Mrs. Warlock counted her stitches. "Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen . . . +How nice for you, dear. What was his name?" + +"Thompson . . . I say," Martin suddenly raised his head as though he +heard something, "where's Amy?" + +"Changing. She's been paying a call on the Miss Cardinals. Thought +it would be polite because of the new niece.--Six, seven, eight and +nine . . ." + +"What did she think of her?" + +"Of whom, dear?" + +"Of the niece." + +"Oh, I don't think she liked her very much. She said that she was +plain and silent--and looked cross, Amy thought." + +"Oh yes, Amy would." His face, as was his way when he was vexed, +flushed very slowly, the deeper red rising through the red-brown +until, ceasing in the middle of his forehead, it left a white line +beneath his hair. "She isn't cross a bit." + +"I don't know, dear. It isn't my opinion. I only tell you what Amy +said. People here don't seem to like her. Mrs. Smith was telling me +yesterday that she's so difficult to talk to and seems to know +nothing about anything, poor girl." + +"Mrs. Smith!" He swung his body on his hips indignantly. "A lot she +knows about anything! I hate that woman and her chattering +daughter." + +"Well, dear, I don't know, I'm sure; Mrs. Smith always seems to me +very kind." + +He looked at her as though he had suddenly remembered something. + +"I say--is it true what Amy says, that I woke you up this morning +when I went out by banging my door?" + +"I'm sure you didn't.--Amy shouldn't say such things. And if you did +what does it matter? I sleep so badly that half an hour more or less +makes very little difference." + +"Well, she says so--" He went on, dropping his voice: "I say, +mother, what's the matter with Amy? Why's she so sick with me? I +haven't done anything to offend her, have I?" + +"Of course not. What a silly boy you are, Martin! Nine, ten, eleven +. . . There! that's enough for this evening. I'll finish it in +another day. You mustn't mind Amy, Martin. She isn't always very +well." + +The door opened and Amy came in. She was a tall gaunt woman who +looked a great deal older than her brother. She did not make the +best of herself, brushing her thin black hair straight back from her +bony forehead. She had a habit of half closing her eyes when she +peered at some one as though she could not see. She should, long +ago, have worn spectacles, but from some strange half-conscious +vanity had always refused to do so. Every year her sight grew worse. +She was wearing now a dress of black silk, very badly made, cut to +display her long skinny neck and bony shoulders. She wore her +clothes as though she struggled between a disdain for such vanities +and a desire to appear attractive. Her manner of twisting her +eyelids and wrinkling her nose gave her a peevish expression, but, +behind that, there was a hint of pathos, a half-seen glimpse of a +soul that desired friendship and affection. She was very tall and +there was something masculine in the long angularity of her limbs. +She offered a strange contrast to the broad and ruddy Martin. There +was, however, something in the eyes of each--some sudden surprised +almost visionary flash that came and went that showed them to be the +children of the same father. To Mrs. Warlock they bore no +resemblance whatever. Amy stopped when she saw her brother as though +she had not expected him to be there. + +"Well, Martin," she said--then came forward and sat in a chair +opposite her mother. + +"Mr. Thurston's coming to suppar," she said. + +Martin frowned. "Oh, hang it, what for?" he cried. + +"He's taking me to Miss Aries' Bible meeting," Amy answered coldly. +"What a baby you are about people, Martin. I should have thought all +your living abroad so much would have made you understanding. But +you're like the rest. You must have every one cut to the same +pattern." + +Martin looked up for a moment as though he would answer angrily; +then he controlled himself and said, laughing: "I suppose I have my +prejudices like every one else. I daresay Thurston's a very good +sort of fellow, but we don't like one another, and there's an end of +it, Everybody can't like everybody, Amy--why, even you don't like +every one." + +"No, I don't," she answered shortly. + +She looked for an instant at her mother. Martin caught the glance +that passed between them, and suddenly the discomfort of which he +had been aware as he stood, half an hour before, in the street, +returned to him with redoubled force. What was the matter with +everybody? What had he done? + +"Well, I'll go and change," he said. + +"Dinner will be ready in ten minutes, dear," said his mother. + +"I'll be in time all right," he said. + +At the door he almost ran into Mr. Thurston. This gentleman had been +described, on some earlier occasion, by an unfriendly observer as +"the Suburban Savonarola." He was tall and extremely thin with a +bony pointed face that was in some lights grey and in others white. +He had the excited staring eyes of a fanatic, and his hair now very +scanty, was plastered over his head in black shining streaks. He +wore a rather faded black suit, a white low collar and a white bow +tie. He had a habit, at moments of stress, of cracking his fingers. +He had a very pronounced cockney accent when he was excited, at +other times he struggled against this with some success. + +He passed from brooding silences into sudden bursts of declamation +with such abruptness that strangers thought him very eloquent. When +he was excited the colour ran into his nose as though he had been +drinking, and often his ears were red. His history was simple. The +son of a small draper in Streatham, he had at an early age joined +himself to an American Revivalist called Harper. When after some six +years of successful enterprise Mr. Harper had been imprisoned for +forgery, young William Thurston had attached himself to a Christian +Science Chapel in Hoxton. Then, somewhere about 1897, he had met +Miss Avies at a Revivalist Meeting in the Albert Hall and, +fascinated by her ardent spirit, transferred his services to the +Kingscote Brethren. + +He had now risen to a position of great importance in the Chapel; it +was known that he disagreed profoundly with his leader on some vital +questions, and it was thought that he might at a later date +definitely secede and conduct a party of his own. + +Certainly he had exceptional energies and gifts of exhortation and +invective not to be despised. Martin politely wished him "Good +evening" and escaped to his room. + +As he changed his clothes he tried to translate into definite facts +his vague discomfort. One, he hated that swine Thurston. Two, Amy +was vexed with him (What strange impossible creatures women were!). +Third--and by far the most important of them all--his father wanted +to talk to him. He knew very well that this talk had been preparing +for him ever since his return from abroad. He dreaded it. Oh! he +dreaded it most horribly! + +He loved his father but with a love that had in it elements of fear, +timidity, every possible sort of awkwardness. Moreover he was +helpless. Ever since that first day when as a tiny child of four or +five he had awakened to behold that figure, enormous in a long +night-shirt, summoning God in the middle of the night with a candle +flickering fantastic shadows on to the wall behind them, Martin had +been weak as putty in his father's hands. Against other men he could +stand up; against that strange company of fears, affections, +superstitions, shadowy terrors, dim expectations that his father +presented to him he could do nothing. + +Well--that conversation had to come some time. He must show that he +was a man now, moulded by the world with his own beliefs, purposes, +resolves. But if he did not love him, how much easier it would be! + +When he went downstairs he found the old man in the little pink +drawing-room--he looked tired and worn. Martin remembered with alarm +the things that he had heard recently about his father's heart. He +glanced up and the older man's hand fastened on his shoulder; they +stood there side by side. After a few minutes they all went in to +supper. + +Mr. Thurston's nose was flushed with the success of the mission from +which he had just returned. He had been one of a number whose aim it +had been during the preceding week to bring light and happiness into +the lives of the inhabitants of Putney. They had been obviously +appreciated, as the collection for the week had amounted to between +seventy and eighty pounds. A proper share of this fine result Mr. +Thurston naturally appropriated to his own efforts. His long +tapering fingers were not so clean as they might have been, but this +did not prevent him from waving them in the air and pointing them at +imaginary Putney citizens whom he evoked in support of his +statements. + +"We 'ad a reelly thumpin' meeting on Thursday--Town Hall--One for +the women in the small 'all hand one for the men in the Main Hall. +Almost no opposition you might say, and when it came to the Hymn +singing it fairly took the roof off. A lot of 'em stopped +afterwards--one lad of eighteen or so is coming over to us 'ere. +Butcher's apprentice. Says 'e's felt the Lord pressing him a long +way back but the flesh held him. Might work him up into a very +useful lad with the Lord's help. Thank you, Mrs. Warlock, I will try +a bit more of that cold beef if you don't mind. Pretty place, +Putney. Ever been there, Mr. Warlock? Ah, you should go--" + +Amy Warlock listened with the greatest interest; otherwise, it must +be confessed, Mr. Thurston's audience was somewhat inattentive. Mr. +Warlock's mind was obviously elsewhere; he passed his hand through +his beard, his eyes staring at the table-cloth. Mr. Thurston, +noticing this, tried another topic. + +"What 'ave you heard, Mrs. Warlock, about the new Miss Cardinal? I +'aven't seen her yet myself." + +Mrs. Warlock, who had just given herself a little piece of beef, +some potato and some spinach, and was arranging these delicacies +with the greatest care upon her plate, just smiled without raising +her eyes. Amy answered-- + +"I've seen her. I was there this afternoon. I can't say that I found +her very interesting. Plain-ugly in fact. She never opened her mouth +all the afternoon. Caroline Smith tells me that she knows nothing at +all, seen nothing, been nowhere. Bad-tempered I should think." + +"Dear, dear," said Mr. Thurston with a gratified sigh, "is it so +reelly?" + +Martin looked across at his sister indignantly. "Trust one woman +about another," he said. "Just because she doesn't chatter like a +magpie you concluded she's got nothing to say. It's even conceivable +that she found you dull, Amy." + +Amy looked at him with a strange penetrating glance that in some +undefined way increased his irritation. "It's quite possible," she +said quietly. "But I don't think even you, Martin, can call her +handsome. As to her intelligence, she never gave me a chance of +judging." + +"I've been there several times," said Martin hotly. "I like her +immensely." He felt as soon as he had spoken that it had been a +foolish thing to say. He saw Mr. Thurston smile. In the pause that +followed he felt as though he had with a gesture of the hand flung a +stone into a pool of chatter and scandal whose ripples might spread +far beyond his control. At that moment he hated his sister. + +"I didn't know you knew her so well, dear," said his mother. + +"I don't know her," he said, "I've only seen her three times. But +she ought to be given her chance. It can't be much fun for her +coming here where she knows no one--after her father suddenly dying. +I believe she was all alone with him." + +He had expected his father to defend her. He remembered that he had +apparently liked her. But his father said nothing. There was an +awkward and uncomfortable pause. After supper Mr. Thurston rubbed +his hands, helped Amy Warlock into her cloak, said to the company in +general: + +"Good night. Should be a very full meeting to-night . . . Well, well +. . . Thank you for your kindness, Mrs. Warlock, I'm sure." + +The door was closed, Mrs. Warlock retired into her bedroom; the +house was left to Martin and his father. + +Mr. Warlock's room was hideous. It opened, somewhat ironically, out +of Mrs. Warlock's pink drawing-room. A huge and exceedingly ugly +American roll-top desk took up much of the room. There were +bookshelves into which books had been piled. Commentaries on the +Bible, volumes of sermons, pamphlets, tattered copies of old +religious magazines. A bare carpet displayed holes and rents. The +fireplace was grim with dirty pieces of paper and untidy shavings. +In the midst of this disorder there hung over the mantelpiece, +against the faded grey wall-paper, a fine copy of Raphael's +"Transfiguration." Mr. Warlock lighted a candle and the flame +flickered with changing colours upon the picture's surface. It had +been given to John Warlock many years before by an old lady who +heard him preach and had been, for a week, converted, but on his +demand that she should give her wealth to the poor and fling aside +her passion for Musical Comedy, left him with indignation. The +picture had remained; it hung there now crooked on its cord. + +John Warlock was unconscious of the dust and disorder that +surrounded him. His own passion for personal cleanliness sprang from +the early days with his father, to whom bodily cleanliness had been +part of a fanatical mysticism. Partly also by reason of that early +training, sloth, drunkenness, immorality, had no power over him. And +of the whole actual world that surrounded him he was very little +conscious except that he hated towns and longed always for air and +space. + +So that the windows were open one room was to him as another. + +He had often, during his work with the members of his community, +been conscious of his ignorance of the impulses and powers that went +up to make the ordinary sensual physical life of the normal man. His +own troubles, trials, failures were so utterly of another kind that +in this other world his imagination refused to aid him. This had +often deeply distressed him and made him timid and shy in his +dealings with men and women. It was this, more than anything else, +that held him back from the ambition to proselytise. How could he go +forth and challenge men's souls when he could not understand nor +feel their difficulties? More and more as his years advanced had he +retired into himself, into his own mystical world of communion with +a God who drew ever nearer and nearer to him. He humbled himself +before men; he did not believe himself better than they because he +had not yielded to their temptations; but he could not help them; +his tongue was tied; he was a man cut off from his fellows and he +knew it. + +He had never felt so impatient of his impotence as he did to-night. +For ten years he had been waiting for this interview with his son, +and now that it was come he was timid and afraid as though he had +been opposed by a stranger. He had always known that Martin would +return. It had been his one worldly ambition and prayer to have him +at his side again. When he had thought and dreamt of the time that +was coming, he had thought that it would be simple enough to win the +boy back to the old allegiance and faith to which he had once been +bound. Meanwhile the boy had grown into a man; here was a new Martin +deep in experiences, desires, ambitions of which his father could +have no perception. Even in the moment that he was aware of the +possibility of losing his son he was aware also of the deep almost +fanatical resolve to keep him, to hold him at all costs. + +This was to be the test of his whole earthly life. He seemed, as he +sat there, looking across at his boy, to challenge God Himself to +take him from him. It was as though he said: + +"This reward at least I have a right to ask. I demand it . . ." + +Martin, on his side, was conscious of a profound discomfort. He had, +increasingly as the years had passed, wished to take life easily and +pleasantly. Suddenly now another world rose up before him. Yes, +another world. He was not fool enough to dismiss it simply because +it did not resemble his own. Moreover it had been once his, and this +was increasingly borne in upon him. But it all seemed to him now +incredibly old, childish and even fantastic, as though here, in the +middle of London, he had suddenly stepped into a little wood with a +witch, a cottage and a boiling cauldron. Such things could not +frighten, of course--he was no longer a child--and yet because he +had once been frightened some impression of alarm and dismay hovered +over him. + +During all his normal years abroad he had forgotten the power of +superstition, of dreams and omens; he knew now, as he faced his +father, that the power was real enough. + +They talked for a little while of ordinary things; the candle flame +jumped and fell, the shavings rustled strangely in the fireplace, +the "Transfiguration" swung a little on its cord, the colour still +lingering at its heart as the rest of the room moved restlessly +under the ebb and flow of black shadows. Then the candle suddenly +blew out. + +"A lamp will be better," said Mr. Warlock. + +He left the room and Martin sat there, in the darkness, haunted by +he knew not what anticipations. The light was brought, they drew +closer together, sitting in the little glossy pool, the room pitch +dark around them. + +"Well, Martin," at last Mr. Warlock said, "I want to hear so many +things. Our first time together alone." + +"There isn't very much," Martin tried to speak naturally and +carelessly. "I wrote about most things in my letters. Pretty rotten +letters I'm afraid." He laughed. + +"And now--what do you intend to do now?" + +"Oh, I don't know--Look around for a bit." + +There was another long pause. Then Mr. Warlock began again. "When I +ask about your life, my boy, I don't mean where you've lived, how +you've earned your living--I do know all that--you've been very good +about writing. But your real life, what you've been thinking about +things, how you feel about everything . . ." + +"Well, father--I don't know. One hadn't much time for thinking, you +know. No one did much thinking in Rio. When I was in the Bermudas +there was a fellow . . ." + +"Yes, but tell me about yourself." + +Then, with a desperate effort, he broke out: + +"Father, you'll be badly disappointed in me. I've been feeling it +coming all the time. I can't help it. I'm just like any one else. I +want to have a good time. One's only young once. I'm awfully sorry. +I want to please you in any way I can, but--but--it's all gone--all +that early part. It's simply one's childhood that's finished with." + +"And it can't come back ?" his father said quietly. + +"Never!" Martin's voice was almost a cry as though he were defying +something. + +"We are very weak against God's will," his father said, still +quietly as though it were not he that was speaking but some voice in +the shadow behind him. "You are not your own master, Martin." + +"I am my own master," Martin answered passionately. "I have been my +own master for ten years. I've not done anything very fine with my +life, I know. I'm just like any one else--but I've found my feet. I +can look after myself against anybody and I'm independent--of every +one and of everything." + +His father drew a little closer to him. + +"Of course," he said, "I was not so foolish as to expect that you +would come back to us just as you left us. I know that you must have +your own life--and be free--so much as any of us are free at +all . . ." Then after a little pause. "What are your plans? What are +you going to do?" + +"Well," answered Martin, hesitating, "I haven't exactly settled, you +know. I might take a small share in some business, go into the City. +Then at other times I feel I shouldn't like being cooped up in a +town after the life I've led. Sometimes, this last month, I've felt +I couldn't breathe. It was though, are you, all the chimneys were +going to tumble in. When you're out on a field you know where you +are, don't you? So I've thought it would be nice to have a little +farm somewhere in the South, Devonshire or Glebeshire . . . And then +I'd marry of course, a girl who'd like that kind of life and +wouldn't find it dull. There'd be plenty of work--a healthy life for +children right away from these towns . . . That's my sort of idea, +father, but of course one doesn't know . . ." + +Martin trailed off into inconsequent words. It was as though his +father were waiting for him to commit himself and would then +suddenly leap upon him with "There! Now, you've betrayed yourself. +I've caught you--" and he had simply nothing to betray, nothing to +conceal. + +But anything was better than these pauses during which the threats +and anticipations piled up and up, making a monstrous figure out of +exactly nothing at all. + +It was not enough to tell himself that between every father and son +there were restraints and hesitations, a division cleft by the +remembrance of the time when one had commanded and the other obeyed. +There were other elements here--for one the element of an old +affection that had once been at the very root of the boy's soul and +was now in the strangest way creeping back to him, as an old +familiar, but forgotten form might creep out of the dark and sit at +his feet and clasp his knees. + +"Well," said John Warlock. "That's very pleasant. You must feel very +grateful to your aunt Rachel, Martin; she's given you the +opportunity of doing what you like with your life. She spoke to me +about it before she died." + +"She spoke to you about it?" + +"Yes. She told me that she did it because she wanted to bring you +back to me. She knew of my love for you. We often talked of you +together. She was a faithful servant of God. She believed that God +meant to bring you, through her, back into His arms." + +"I might not have come," Martin said with a sudden anger that +surprised himself. "She made no conditions. I might have gone on +with my life there abroad. I am free to lead my own life where and +how I please." + +"Quite free." His father answered gently. "But she knew that you +would come. Of course you are your own master, Martin--" + +"No, but it must be quite clear," Martin cried, the excitement +rising in him as he spoke. He leaned forward almost touching his +father's chair. "I'm not bound to any one by this money. It was +awfully jolly of Aunt Rachel. I'll never forget her--but I'm free. I +haven't got to say that I believe things when I don't, or that I +think things that she thought just because she did . . . I don't +want to hurt you, father, but you know that it must have seemed to +me pretty odd coming back after all these years and finding you, all +in the same place, doing the same things, believing in the same +things--just like years ago. I've seen the world a bit, I can tell +you--Russia, China, Japan, America, North and South, India. You +believe as far as you can see. What are you to think when, in every +country that you come to, you see people believing in different +things? They can't all be right, you know." + +His father said nothing. + +"But each thinks he's right--and each hates the other. Then, when I +came back and saw a fellow like that man Thurston preaching and +laying down the law, well, it seemed odd enough that any one could +be taken in by it. I hope I don't hurt you, father . . . only that's +what you want, isn't it . . . to have it out quite plainly? . . ." + +His father, still very gently and hesitating as though he found it +difficult to catch the words that he wished (his voice had still the +remoteness of some one speaking, who was far from them both), said: + +"You'll think it odd, Martin, when you know how often I have to +preach and speak in public, that I should find it hard to talk--but +I never, with any man alone, could find words easily. I know so +little. It is God's punishment for some selfish nervousness and +shyness in me, that even now when I am an old man I cannot speak as +one man to another. There was once, I remember, a young man who had +heard me preach and was moved by my words and begged to see me in +private. He came one evening; he was tempted to commit a terrible +sin. He depended upon me to save him and I could say nothing. I +struggled, I prayed, but it was incredible to me that any man could +be tempted to such a thing. I spoke only conventional words that +meant nothing. He went away from me, and his lost soul is now upon +me and will always be . . . but, Martin, what I would say beyond +everything is--do not let us separate. Be free as you must be free, +as you should be free--but stay with me--remain with me. I am an old +man; I have longed for you as I think no other father can ever have +longed for his son. They tell me that I cannot live many more years. +God chooses His time. Be with me, Martin, for a little while even +though I may seem old to you and foolish. Perhaps things will come +back to you that you have long forgotten. You were once pledged and +it was a vow that is not easily removed--but it is enough for the +present if you will be with me a little, give me some of your time-- +give the old days a chance to come back." He laid his hand upon his +son's. + +The sudden touch of the dry, hot, trembling skin filled Martin's +heart with the strangest confusion of affection, embarrassment and +some familiar pathos. In just that way ten years before he had felt +his father's hand and had thought: "How old he's getting! . . . How +I shall miss him! . . . I hope nothing happens to him!" In the very +balance of his father's sentences and the deliberate choice of words +there had been something old-fashioned and remote from all the life +and scramble of Martin's recent years. Now he took his father's hand +in his own strong grasp and said gruffly: + +"That's all right, father . . . I'm not going while you want +me . . . You and I . . . always . . . it's just the same now." + +But even as he spoke he felt as though he were giving some pledge +that was to involve him in far more than he could see before him. +Then, with a happy sense that the sentimental part of the +conversation was over, he began to talk about all kinds of things. +He let himself go and even, after a while, began to feel the whole +thing really jolly and pleasant. His father wanted waking up. He had +been here so long, with all these awful frumps, brooding over one +idea, never getting away from this Religion. + +Martin began to imagine himself very cleverly leading his father +into a normal natural life, taking him to see things, making him +laugh; it would do his health a world of good. + +Then, quite suddenly, the old man said: + +"And what do you remember, Martin, of the old days here, the days +when you were quite small, when we lived in Mason Street?" + +What did Martin remember? He remembered a good deal. He was +surprised when he began to think . . . "Did he remember . . ." his +father suggested a scene, a day--yes, he remembered that. His father +continued, as though it had been for his own pleasure. + +The scenes, the hours returned with a vividness and actuality that +thronged the room. + +He could see Mason Street with its grocer's shop at the corner, its +Baths and Public Library, the sudden little black dips into the +areas as the houses followed one another, the lamp-post opposite +their window that had always excited him because it leaned inwards a +little as though it would presently tumble. He remembered the fat +short cook with the pink cotton dress who wheezed and blew so when +she had to climb the stairs. He remembered the rooms that would seem +bare enough to him now, he supposed, but were then filled with +exciting possibilities--a little round brown table, his mother's +work-box with mother-of-pearl shells upon the cover, a stuffed bird +with bright blue feathers under a glass case, a screen with coloured +pictures of battles and horses and elephants casted upon it. He +remembered the exact sound that the tinkling bell made when it +summoned them to meals, he remembered the especial smell of beef and +carpet that was the dining-room, he remembered a little door of +coloured glass on the first landing, a cupboard that had in it sugar +and apples, a room full of old books piled high all about the floor +upon the dry and dusty boards . . . a thousand other things came +crowding around him. + +Then, as his father's voice continued, out from the background there +came his own figure, a small, pale, excited boy in short trousers. + +He was immensely excited--that was the principal thing. It was +evening, the house seemed to swim in candlelight and smoke through +which things could be seen only dimly. + +Something wonderful was about to happen to him. He was in a state of +glory, very close to God, so close that he could almost see Him +sitting with His long white beard in the middle of a cloud, watching +Martin with interest and affection. He was pleased with Martin and +Martin was pleased with himself. At the same time as his pleasure he +was aware that the stuff of his new black trousers tickled his knees +and that he was hungry. + +He saw his small sister Amy for a moment and expressed quite +effectively by a smile and nod of the head his immeasurable +superiority to her . . . + +They, he and his father, drove in a cab to the Chapel. Of what +followed then he was now less aware. He remembered that he was in a +small room with two men, that they all took off their clothes (he +remembered that one man, very stout and red, looked funny without +his clothes), that they put on long white night-shirts, that his was +too long for him and that he tripped over it, that they all three +walked down the centre of the Chapel, which was filled with eyes, +mouths and boots, and that he was very conscious of his toe-nails, +which had never been exposed in public before, that they came to a +round stone place filled with water and into this after the two men +he was dipped, that he didn't scream from the coldness, of the water +although he wanted to, that he was wrapped in a blanket and finally +carried home in an ecstasy of triumph. + +What happiness followed! The vitality of it swept down upon him now, +so that he seemed never to have lived since then. He was the chosen +of God and every one knew it. What a little prig and yet how simple +it had all been, without any consciousness of insincerity or acting +on his part. God had chosen him and there he was, for ever and ever +safe and happy. + +It was not only that he was assured that when the moment arrived he +would have, in Heaven, a "good time"--it was that he was greatly +exalted, so that he gave his twopence a week pocket-money to his +school-fellows, never pulled Amy's hair, never teased his mother's +canary. He had been aware, young though he was, of another life. He +prayed and prayed, he went to an endless succession of services and +meetings. There was Mr. Bates, one of the leading brethren then, who +loved him and spoilt him . . . above all, through and beyond it all, +there was his father, who adored him and whom he adored. + +That adoration--of God, of his father, of life itself! Was it +possible that a small boy, normal and ordinary enough in other ways, +could feel so intensely such passions? + +The dark room was crowding him with figures and scenes. A whole +world that he had thought dead and withered was beating--urgently, +insistently, upon his consciousness. + +In another instant he did not know what surrender, what +acknowledgement he might have made. It seemed to him that nothing in +life was worth while save to receive again, in some fashion, that +vitality that he had once known. + +The door was flung open; a stream of light struck the dark; the +shadows, memories, fled, helter-skelter, like crackling smoke into +the air. + +Amy stood in the doorway, blinking at him, scowling. He knew, for +some undefined reason, that he could not meet his father's eyes. He +jumped up and walked to the window. + + + + +CHAPTER II + +EXPECTATION + + +Maggie developed marvellously during her first weeks in London. It +could not truthfully be said that her aunts gave her great +opportunity for development; so far as they were concerned she might +as well have been back in the green seclusion of St. Dreots. + +It is true that she accompanied her Aunt Elizabeth upon several +shopping expeditions, and on one hazardous afternoon they penetrated +the tangled undergrowth of Harrods' Stores; on all these occasions +Maggie was too deeply occupied with the personal safety and +happiness of her aunt to have leisure for many observations. + +Aunt Elizabeth always started upon her shopping expeditions with the +conviction that something terrible was about to happen, and the +expectation of this overwhelming catastrophe paralysed her nerves. +Maggie wondered how it could have been with her when she had +ventured forth alone. She would stand in the middle of the street +hesitating as to the right omnibus for her to take, she was often +uncertain of the direction in which she should go. She would wave +her umbrella at an omnibus, and then when it began to slacken in +answer to her appeal, would discover that it was not the one that +she needed, and would wave her umbrella furiously once more. Then +when at last she had mounted the vehicle she would flood the +conductor with a stream of little questions, darting her eyes +angrily at all her neighbours as though they were gathered there +together to murder her at the earliest opportunity. She would be +desperately confused when asked to pay for her ticket, would be +unable to find her purse, and then when she discovered it would +scatter its contents upon the ground. In such an agony would she be +at the threatened passing of her destination that she would spring +up at every pause of the omnibus, striking her nearest neighbour's +eye or nose with her umbrella, apologising nervously, and then, +because she thought she had been too forward with a stranger, +staring fiercely about her and daring any one to speak to her. Upon +the day that she visited Harrods' she spent the greater part of her +time in the lift because she always wished to be somewhere where she +was not, and because it always went up when she wished it to go down +and down when she wished it to go up. Maggie, upon this eventful +occasion, did her best, but she also was bewildered, and wondered +how any of the attendants found their way home at night. Before the +end of the afternoon Aunt Elizabeth was not far from tears. "It +isn't cutlery we want. I told the man that it was saucepans. They +pay us no attention at all. You aren't any help to me, Maggie." They +arrived in a room filled with performing gramophones. This was the +final blow. Aunt Elizabeth, trembling all over, refused either to +advance or retreat. "Will you please," said Maggie very firmly to a +beautifully clothed young man with hair like a looking-glass, "show +us the way to the street?" He very kindly showed them, and it was +not until they were in the homeward omnibus that Aunt Elizabeth +discovered that she had bought nothing at all. + +Nevertheless, although Maggie collected but little interesting +detail from these occasions, she did gather a fine general +impression of whirling movement and adventure. One day she would +plunge into it--meanwhile it was better that she should move slowly +and assemble gradual impressions. The solid caution that was mingled +in her nature with passionate feeling and enthusiasm taught her +admirable wisdom. Aunt Anne, it seemed, never moved beyond the small +radius of her home and the Chapel. She attended continually Bible- +meetings, prayer-meetings, Chapel services. She had one or two +intimate friends, a simple and devout old maid called Miss Pyncheon, +Mr. Magnus, whom Maggie had seen on the day of her arrival, Mr. +Thurston, to whom Maggie had taken an instant dislike, and Amy +Warlock. She visited these people and they visited her; for the rest +she seemed to take no exercise, and her declared love for the +country did not lead her into the Parks. She was more silent, if +possible, than she had been at St. Dreots, and read to herself a +great deal in the dark and melancholy drawing-room. Although she +talked very little to Maggie, the girl fancied that her eye was +always upon her. There was a strange attitude of watchfulness in her +silent withdrawal from her scene as though she had retired simply +because she could see the better from a distance. + +She liked Maggie to read the Bible to her, and for an hour of every +evening Maggie did this. For some reason the girl greatly disliked +this hour and dreaded its approach. It was perhaps because it seemed +to bring before her the figure of her father, the words as they fell +from her lips seemed to be repeated by him as he stood behind her. +Nothing was more unexpected by her than the way that those last days +at St. Dreots crowded about her. They should surely have been killed +by the colours and interests of this new life. It appeared that they +were only accentuated by them. Especially did she see that night +when she had watched beside her father's dead body . . . she saw the +stirring of the beard, the shape of the feet beneath the sheet, the +flicker of the candle. Apart from this one hour of the day, however, +she was happy, excited, expectant. What it was that she expected she +did not exactly know, but there were so many things that life might +now do for her. One thing that very evidently it did not intend to +do for her was to make her tidy, careful, and a good manager. Old +Martha, the Cardinal servant, was her sworn enemy, and, indeed, with +reason. It seemed that Maggie could not remember the things that she +was told: lighted lamps were left long after they should have been +extinguished, one night the bathroom was drowned in water by a +running tap, her clothes were not mended, she was never punctual at +meal-times. And yet no one could call her a dreamy child. She could, +about things that interested her, be remarkably sharp and +penetrating. She had a swift and often successful intuition about +characters; facts and details about places or people she never +forgot. She had a hard, severe, entirely masculine sense of +independence, an ironic contempt for sentimentality, a warm, ardent +loyalty and simplicity in friendship. Her carelessness in all the +details of life sprang from her long muddled years at St. Dreots, +the lack of a mother's guidance and education, the careless +selfishness of her father's disregard of her. She struggled, poor +child, passionately to improve herself. She sat for hours in her +room working at her clothes, trying to mend her stockings, the holes +in her blouses, the rip of the braid at the bottom of her skirt. She +waited listening for the cuckoo to call that she might be in exact +time for luncheon or dinner, and then, as she listened, some thought +would occur to her, and, although she did not dream, her definite +tracking of her idea would lead her to forget all time. Soon there +would be Martha's knock on the door and her surly ill-tempered +voice: + +"Quarter of an hour they've been sitting at luncheon, Miss." + +And her clothes! The aunts had said that she must buy what was +necessary, and she had gone with Aunt Elizabeth to choose all the +right things. They had, between them, bought all the wrong ones. +Maggie had no idea of whether or no something suited her; a dress, a +hat that would look charming upon any one else looked terrible upon +her; she did not know what was the matter, but nothing became her! + +Her new friend, Caroline Smith, laughing and chattering, tried to +help her. Caroline had very definite ideas about dress, and indeed +spent the majority of her waking hours in contemplation of that +subject. But she had never, she declared, been, in all her life, so +puzzled. She was perfectly frank. + +"But it looks AWFUL, Maggie dear, and yesterday in the shop it +didn't seem so bad, although that old pig wouldn't let us have it +the way we wanted. It's just as it is with poor mother, who gets +fatter and fatter, diet herself as she may, so that she can wear +nothing at all now that looks right, and is only really comfortable +in her night-dress. Of course you're not FAT, Maggie darling, but +it's your figure--everything's either too long or too short for you. +You don't mind my speaking so frankly, do you? I always say one's +either a friend or not, and if one's a friend why then be as rude as +you please. What's friendship for?" + +They were, in fact, the greatest possible friends. Maggie had never +possessed a girl-friend before. She had, in the first days of the +acquaintance, been shy and very silent--she had been afraid of going +too far. But soon she had seen that she could not go too far and +could not say too much. She had discovered then a multitude of new +happinesses. + +There was nothing, she found, too small, too unimportant to claim +Caroline's interest. Caroline wished to know everything, and soon +Maggie disclosed to her many things that she had told to no other +human being in her life before. It could not honestly be said that +Caroline had many wise comments to make on Maggie's experiences. Her +attitude was one of surprised excitement. She was amazed by the most +ordinary incidents and conversations. She found Maggie's life quite +incredible. + +"You must stop me, Maggie, if I hurt your feelings. But +really! . . . Why, if poor father had treated me like that I'd +have gone straight out of the house and never come back. I would +indeed . . . Well, here you are now, dear, and we must just see each +other as often as ever we can!" + +They made a strange contrast, Maggie so plain in her black dress +with her hair that always looked as though it had been cut short +like a boy's, her strong rough movements, and Caroline, so neat and +shining and entirely feminine that her only business in the world +seemed to be to fascinate, beguile and bewilder the opposite sex. +Whatever the aunts may have thought of this new friendship, they +said nothing. Caroline had her way with them as with every one else. +Maggie wondered often as to Aunt Anne's, real thoughts. But Aunt +Anne only smiled her dim cold smile, gave her cold hand into the +girl's warm one and said, "Good afternoon, Caroline. I hope your +father and mother are well." "They're dears, you know," Caroline +said to Maggie; "I do admire your Aunt Anne; she keeps to herself +so. I wish I could keep to myself, but I never was able to. Poor +mother used to say when I was quite little, 'You'll only make +yourself cheap, Carrie, if you go on like that. Don't make yourself +cheap, dear.' But what I say is, one's only young once and the +people who don't want one needn't have one." + +Nevertheless there were, even in these very early days, directions +into which Maggie did not follow her new friend. Young as she was in +many things, in some ways she was very old indeed. She had been +trained in another school from Caroline; she felt from the very +first that upon certain questions her lovely friend was +inexperienced, foolish and dangerously reckless. On the question of +"men," for instance, Maggie, with clear knowledge of her father and +her uncle, refused to follow Caroline's light and easy excursions. +Caroline was disappointed; she had a great deal to say on the +subject and could speak, she assured Maggie, from a vast variety of +experience: "Men are all the same. What I say is, show them you +don't care 'that' about them and they'll come after you. Not that I +care whether they do or no. Only it's fun the way they go on. You +just try, Maggie." + +But Maggie had her own thoughts. They were not imparted to her +friend. Nothing indeed appeared to her more odd than that Caroline +should be so wise in some things and so foolish in others. She did +not know that it was her own strange upbringing that gave her +independent estimates and judgments. + +The second influence that, during these first weeks, developed her +soul and body was, strangely enough, her aunt's elderly friend, Mr. +Magnus. If Caroline introduced her to affairs of the world, Mr. +Magnus introduced her to affairs of the brain and spirit. + +She had never before known any one who might be called "clever." Her +father was not, Uncle Mathew was not; no one in St. Dreots had been +clever. Mr. Magnus, of course, was "clever" because he wrote books, +two a year. + +But to be an author, was not a claim to Maggie's admiration. As has +been said before, she did not care for reading, and considered that +the writing of books was a second-rate affair. The things that Mr. +Magnus might have done with his life if he had not spent it in +writing books! She regarded him with the kind indulgence of an elder +who watches a child brick-building. He very quickly discovered her +attitude and it amused him. They became the most excellent friends +over it. She on her side very quickly discovered the true reason of +his coming so often to their house; he loved Aunt Anne. At its first +appearance this discovery was so strange and odd that Maggie refused +to indulge it. Love seemed so far from Aunt Anne. She greeted Mr. +Magnus from the chill distance whence she greeted the rest of the +world--she gave him no more than she gave any one else--But Mr. +Magnus did not seem to desire more. He waited patiently, a slightly +ironical and self-contemptuous worshipper at a shrine that very +seldom opened its doors, and never admitted him to its altar. It was +this irony that Maggie liked in him; she regarded herself in the +same way. Their friendship was founded on a mutual detachment. It +prospered exceedingly. + +Maggie soon discovered that Mr. Magnus was very happy to sit in +their house even though Aunt Anne was not present. His attitude +seemed to be that the atmosphere that she left behind her was enough +for him and that he could not, in justice, expect any more. Before +Maggie's arrival he had had but a slender excuse for his continual +presence. He could not sit in the empty drawing-room surveying the +large and ominous portrait of the Cardinal childhood, quite alone +save for Thomas, without seeming a very considerable kind of fool. +And to appear that in the eyes of Aunt Anne, who already regarded +mankind in general with pity, would be a mistake. + +Now that Maggie was here he might come so often as he pleased. Many +was the dark afternoon through the long February and March months +that they sat together in the dim drawing-room, Maggie straining her +eyes over an attempted reform of some garment, Mr. Magnus talking in +his mild ironical voice with his large moon-like spectacles fixed +upon nothing in particular. + +Mr. Magnus did all the talking. Maggie fancied that, all his life, +he had persisted in the same gentle humorous fashion without any +especial attention as to the wisdom, agreement or even existence of +his audience. She fancied that all men who wrote books did that. +They had to talk to "clear their ideas." She raised her eyes +sometimes and looked at him as he sat there. His shabby, hapless +appearance always appealed to her. She knew that he was, in reality, +anything but hapless, but his clothes never fitted him, and it was +impossible for him to escape from the Quixotic embarrassments of his +thin hair, his high cheek-bones, his large spectacles. His smile, +however, gave him his character; when he smiled--and he was always +smiling--you saw a man independent, proud, wise and gentle. He was +not a fool, Mr. Magnus, although he did love Aunt Anne. + +To a great deal that he said Maggie paid but little attention; it +was, she felt, not intended for her. She had, in all her relations +with him, to struggle against the initial disadvantage that she +regarded all men who wrote books with pity. She was not so stupid as +not to realise that there were a great many fine books in the world +and that one was the better for reading them, but, just because +there were, already, so many fine ones, why write more that would +almost certainly be not so fine? He tried to explain, to her that +some men were compelled to write and could not help themselves. + +"I wrote my first book when I was nineteen. One morning I just began +to write, and then it was very easy. Then everything else was easy. +The first publisher to whom I sent it accepted it. It was published +and had quite a success. I thought I was made for life. Anything +seemed possible to one. After all, so far as one's possibilities +went one was on a level with any one--Shakespeare, Dante, any one +you like. One might do anything. . . . I published a book a year, +after that, for ten years--ten years ten books, and then awoke to +the fact that I was nothing at all and would never be anything--that +I would never write like Shakespeare, and, a matter of equal +importance, would never sell like Mrs. Henry Wood. Not that I wished +to write like any one else. I had a great idea of keeping to my own +individuality, but I saw quite clearly that what I had in myself-- +all of it--was no real importance to any one. I might so well have +been a butcher or baker for all that it mattered. I saw that I was +one of those unfortunate people--there are many of them--just in +between the artists and the shopkeepers. I was an artist all right, +but not a good enough one to count; had I been a shopkeeper I might +have sold my goods." + +"Well, then, here's your question, Miss Cardinal. Why on earth did I +go on writing? . . . Simply because I couldn't help myself. Writing +was the only thing in the world that gave me happiness. I thought +too that there might be people, here and there, unknown to me who +cared for what I did. Not many of course--I soon discovered that +outside the small library set in London no one had ever heard of me. +When I was younger I had fancied that that to me fiery blazing +advertisement: "New Novel by William Magnus, author of . . ." must +cause men to stop in the street, exclaim, rush home to tell their +wives, 'Do you know Magnus' new novel is out?'--now I realised that +by nine out of every ten men and five out of every ten women the +literary page in the paper is turned over with exactly the same +impatience with which I turn over the betting columns. Anyway, why +not? . . . perfectly right. And then by this time I'd seen my old +books, often enough, lying scattered amongst dusty piles in second- +hand shops marked, 'All this lot 6d.' Hundreds and hundreds of six- +shilling novels, dirty, degraded, ashamed . . . I'd ask, sometimes, +when I was very young, for my own works. 'What's the name? What? +Magnus?--No, don't stock him. No demand. We could get you a copy, +sir . . . ' There it is. Why not laugh at it? I was doing perhaps +the most useless thing in the world. A commonplace little water- +colour, hung on a wall, can give happiness to heaps of people; a +poor piece of music can do a thousand things, good and bad, but an +unsuccessful novel--twenty unsuccessful novels! A whole row, with +the same history awaiting their successors . . . 'We welcome a new +novel by Mr. William Magnus, who our readers will remember wrote +that clever story . . . The present work seems to us at least the +equal of any that have preceded it.' . . . A fortnight's +advertisement--Dead silence. Some one in the Club, 'I see you've +written another book, old man. You do turn 'em out.' A letter from a +Press Agency who has never heard of one's name before, 'A little +sheaf of thin miserable cuttings.' . . . The Sixpenny Lot . . . Ouf! +And still I go on and shall go on until I die. Perhaps after all I'm +more justified than any of them. I'm stripped of all reasons save +the pleasure, the thrill, the torment, the hopes, the despairs of +the work itself. I've got nothing else out of it and shall get +nothing . . . and therefore I'm justified. Now do you understand a +little, Miss Cardinal?" + +She half understood. She understood that he was compelled to do it +just as some men are compelled to go to race meetings and just as +Uncle Mathew was compelled to drink. + +But she nevertheless thought it a dreadful pity that he was unable +to stop and interest himself in something else. Then he could see it +so plainly and yet go on! She admired and at the same time pitied +him. + +It seemed, this private history of Mr. Magnus, at first sight so far +from Maggie's immediate concerns, her new life, her aunts, the +Chapel and the Chapel world. It was only afterwards, when she looked +back, that she was able to see that all these private affairs of +private people radiated inwards, like the spokes of a wheel, towards +the mysterious inner circle--that inner circle of which she was +already dimly aware, and of which she was soon to feel the heat and +light. She was, meanwhile, so far impressed by Mr. Magnus' +confidences that she borrowed one of his novels from Caroline, who +confided to her that she herself thought it the dullest and most +tiresome of works. "To be honest, I only read a bit of it--I don't +know what it's about. I think it's downright silly." + +This book bore the mysterious title of "Dredinger." It was concerned +apparently with the experiences of a young man who, buying an empty +house in Bloomsbury, discovered a pool of water in the cellar. The +young man was called Dredinger, which seemed to Maggie an unnatural +kind of name. He had an irritating habit of never finishing his +sentences, and the people he knew answered him in the same +inconclusive fashion. The pool in the cellar naturally annoyed him, +but he did nothing very practical about it, allowed it to remain +there, and discussed it with a Professor of Chemistry. Beyond this +Maggie could not penetrate. The young man was apparently in love +with a lady much older than himself, who wore pince-nez, but it was +an arid kind of love in which the young man discovered motives and +symptoms with the same dexterous surprise with which he discovered +newts and tadpoles in the cellar-pond. Maggie bravely attacked Mr. +Magnus. + +"Why didn't he have men in to clear up the pond and lay a new +floor?" she asked. + +"That was just the point," said Mr. Magnus. "He couldn't." + +"Why couldn't he?" + +"Weakness of character and waiting to see what would happen." + +"He talked too much," she answered decisively. "But are there houses +in London with ponds in them ?" + +"Lots," said Mr. Magnus. "Only the owners of the houses don't know +it. There is a big pond in the Chapel. That's what Thurston came out +of." + +This was beyond Maggie altogether. An agreeable thing, however, +about Mr. Magnus was that he did not mind when you disliked his +work. He seemed to expect that you would not like it. He was +certainly a very unconceited man. + +A more important and more interesting theme was Mr. Magnus' reason +for being where he was. What was he doing here? What led him to the +Chapel doors, he being in no way a religious man? + +"It was like this," he told her. "I was living in Golders Green, and +suddenly one morning I was tired of the country that wasn't country, +and the butcher boy and the postman. So I moved as far into the +centre of things as I could and took a room in St. Martin's Lane +close at hand here. Then one evening I was wandering about, a +desolate Sunday evening when the town is given over to cats. I +suddenly came across the Chapel. I like going into London churches +by chance, there's always something interesting, something you +wouldn't expect. The Chapel simply astonished me. I couldn't imagine +what they were all about, it wasn't the ordinary London +congregation, it was almost the ordinary London service and yet not +quite; there was an air of expectation and even excitement which is +most unusual in a London church. Then there was Warlock. Of course +one could see at once that he was an extraordinary man, a kind of +prophet all on his own; he was as far away from that congregation as +Columbus was from his crew when he first sighted the Indies." + +"I've met one or two prophets in my time, and their concern has +always been with their audience first, themselves second and their +vision last. Warlock is the other way round. He should have been a +hermit, not the leader of a community. Well, it interested me. I +came again and again . . . I'm going to stay on now until the end." + +"The end?" asked Maggie. + +"The end of myself or the Chapel, whichever comes first. I wrote a +story once--a very bad one--about some merchants--why merchants I +don't know--who were flung on a desert island. It was all jungle and +desolation, and then suddenly they came upon a little white Temple. +It doesn't matter what happened afterwards. I've myself forgotten +most of it, but I remember that the sailors used the Temple in +different ways to keep their hopes and expectations alive. Their +expectations that one day a ship would come and save them . . . and +so far as I remember they became imaginative about the Temple, and +fancied that the Unknown God of it would help them to regain their +private affairs: one of them wanted to get back to his girl, another +to his favourite pub, another to his money-making, another to his +collection of miniatures. And they used to sit and look at the +Temple day after day and expect something to happen. When the ship +came at last they wouldn't go into it because they couldn't bear to +think that something should happen at last and they not be there to +see it. Oh yes, one of them went back, I remember. But his actual +meeting with his girl was so disappointing in comparison with his +long expectation of it in front of the Temple that he took the next +boat back to the island . . . but he never found it again. He +travelled everywhere and died, a disappointed man, at sea." + +Mr. Magnus was fond of telling little stories, obscure and +pointless, and Maggie supposed that it was a literary habit. On this +occasion he continued to talk quite naturally for his own +satisfaction. "Yes, one can make oneself believe in anything. I have +believed in all sorts of things. In England, of course, people have +believed in nothing except that things will always be as they always +have been--a useful belief considering that things have never been +as they always were. In the old days, when the Boer War hadn't +interfered with tradition, it must have seemed to any one who wasn't +a young man pretty hopeless, but now I don't know. Imagination's +breaking in . . . Warlock's a prophet. I've got fascinated, sitting +round this Chapel, as badly as any of them. Yes, one can be led into +belief of anything." + +"And what do you believe in, Mr. Magnus?" asked Maggie. + +"Well, not in myself anyway, nor Thurston, nor Miss Avies . . . But +in your Aunt perhaps, and Warlock. The only thing I'm sure of is +that there's something there, but what it is of course I can't tell +you, and I don't suppose I shall ever know. The story of Sir +Galahad, Miss Cardinal--it seems mid-Victorian to us now--but it's a +fine story and true enough." + +Maggie, who knew nothing of mid-Victorianism, was silent. + +He ended with: "Mind you decide for yourself. That's the great thing +in life. Don't you believe anything that any one tells you. See for +yourself. And if there's something of great value, don't think the +less of it because the people who admire it aren't worth very much. +Why should they be? And possibly after all it's only themselves +they're admiring . . . There's a fearful lot of nonsense and humbug +in this thing, but there's something real too . . ." + +He changed his note, suddenly addressing himself intently to her as +though he had a message to deliver. + +"Don't think me impertinent. But your Aunt Anne. See as much of her +as you can. She's devoted to you, Miss Cardinal. You mayn't have +seen it--she's a reserved woman and very shy of her feelings, but +she's spoken to me . . . I hope I'm not interfering to say this, but +perhaps at first you don't understand her. She loves you, you're the +first human being I do believe that she's ever loved." + +What was there then in Maggie that started up in rebellion at this +unexpected declaration? She had been sitting there, tranquil, +soothed with a happy sense that her new life was developing securely +for her in the way that she would have it. Suddenly she was alert, +suspicious, hostile. + +"What has she said to you?" she asked quickly, frowning up at him +and drawing back as though she were afraid of him. He was startled +at the change in her. + +"Said?" he repeated, stammering a little. "Why only . . . Nothing +. . . except that she cared for you and hoped that you would be +happy. She was afraid that it would all be strange for you at first +. . . Perhaps I have been interfering . . ." + +"No," Maggie interrupted quickly. "Not you. Only I must lead my own +life. I must, mustn't I? I don't want to be selfish, but I can begin +for myself now. I have a little money of my own--and I MUST make my +own way. I don't want to be selfish," she repeated, "but I must be +free. I don't understand Aunt Anne. She never seems to care for me. +I want to do everything for her I can, but I don't want to be under +any one ever any more." + +She was so young when she said this that he was suddenly moved to an +affectionate fatherly tenderness--but he knew her now too well to +show it. + +"No, you mustn't be selfish," he answered her almost drily. "We +can't lead our lives quite alone, you know--every step we take we +affect some one somewhere. Your aunt doesn't want your liberty--she +wants your affection." + +"She wants to make me religious," Maggie brought out, staring at Mr. +Magnus. + +"Ah, if you see that, you don't understand her," he answered. "How +should you--yet? She cares so deeply for her religion that she +wishes naturally any one whom she loves to share it with her. But if +you don't--" + +"If you don't?" cried Maggie, springing up from her seat and facing +him. + +"I'm sure she would wish to influence no one," he continued gravely. +"You've seen for yourself how apart her life is. She is too +conscious of the necessity for her own liberty--" + +"It isn't liberty, it's slavery," Maggie caught him up passionately. +"Do you suppose I haven't watched all these weeks? What does her +religion do but shut her off from everything and everybody? Is she +kind to Aunt Elizabeth? No, she isn't, and you know it. Would she +care if we were all of us buried in the ruins of this house to- +morrow? Not for a single moment. And it's her religion. I hate +religion. I hate it! . . . and since I've been in this house I've +hated it more and more. You don't know what it was like with father. +I don't think of it now or talk of it, but I know what it made of +HIM. And now it's the same here, only it takes them in a different +way. But it's the same in the end--no one who's religious cares for +any one. And they'd make the same of me. Aunt Anne would--the same +as she's made of Aunt Elizabeth. They haven't said much yet, but +they're waiting for the right moment, and then they'll spring it +upon me. It's in the house, it's in the rooms, it's in the very +furniture. It's as though father had come back and was driving me +into it. And I want to be free, I want to lead my own life, to make +it myself. I don't want to think about God or Heaven or Hell. I +don't care whether I'm good or bad. . . . What's the use of my being +here in London and never seeing anything. I'll go into a shop or +something and work my fingers to the bone. They SHAN'T catch me. +They SHAN'T . . . If Uncle Mathew were here . . ." + +She broke off suddenly, breathless, staring at Mr. Magnus as though +she had not been aware until now that he was in the room. To say +that her outburst astonished him was to put it very mildly indeed. +She had always been so quiet and restrained; she had seemed so happy +and tranquil. + +He blushed, pushed his spectacles with his fingers, then finally +stammered: + +"I'd no idea--that--that you hated it so much." + +She was quiet and composed again. "I don't hate it," she answered +very calmly. "Only they shan't tie me--no one shall. And in the +house it's as though some one were watching behind every door. It +used to be just the same at home. When people think a lot about +religion something seems to get into a place. Why, truly, Mr. +Magnus, I've wondered once or twice lately, in spite of myself, +whether they mayn't be right after all and God's going to come in a +chariot and set the world on fire." + +"It sounds silly, but when you see the way Aunt Anne and Mr. Warlock +believe things it almost makes them true." + +Maggie finally added: "You mustn't think me selfish. I'm very very +grateful for all their kindness. I'm very happy. It's all splendid +compared with what life used to be at home--but I fancy sometimes +that the aunts think I'm just going to settle down here for ever and +be like them--and I'm not--I'm afraid of Aunt Anne." + +"Afraid of her?" said Mr. Magnus. "Ah, you mustn't be that." + +"She has some plan in her head. I know she has--" + +"No plan is set except for your good," said Mr. Magnus. + +"I don't want any one to bother about my good," answered Maggie. "I +can look after that for myself." + +This little conversation revealed Maggie to Mr. Magnus in an +entirely new light. He had thought her, until now, a good simple +girl, entirely ignorant of life and eager to be taught. The sudden +discovery of her independence distressed him. He left the house that +afternoon with many new points to consider. + +Meanwhile Maggie had kept from him the true root of the matter. She +had said nothing of Martin Warlock. She had said nothing, even to +herself, about him, and yet the consciousness of her meeting with +him was always with her as a fire smoulders in the hold of a ship, +burning stealthily through the thick heart of the place, dim and +concealed, to burst suddenly, with a touch of the wind, into shining +flame. + +It was after her talk to Mr. Magnus that she suddenly saw that +Martin Warlock was always in her thoughts, and then, because she was +Maggie and had never been deceitful to herself or to any one else, +she faced the fact and considered it. She knew that she was ignorant +of the world and of life, that she knew nothing about men and, +although she had many times fancied to herself what love must be +like, she did not tell herself now that it was love that had come to +her. + +She saw him as a desirable companion; she thought that he would make +a most interesting friend; she would like to make her experiences of +life with him at her side. She would be free and he would be free, +but they would exchange confidences. + +And then because she was very simple and had learnt nothing of the +difference between the things that decent girls might do and the +things they might not she began to consider the easiest way of +meeting him. She intended to go to him simply as one human being to +another and tell him that she liked him and hoped that they would +often see one another. There were no confused issues nor questions +of propriety before Maggie. Certainly she was aware that men took +advantage of girls' weakness--but that was, as in the case of Uncle +Mathew, when they had drunk too much--and it was the fault of the +girls, too, for not looking after themselves. Maggie felt that she +could look after herself anywhere. She was more afraid, by far, of +her Aunt Anne than of any man. + +It happened on the very day after that conversation with Mr. Magnus +that Aunt Anne said at luncheon: + +"I think, Maggie dear, if you don't mind, that you and I will pay a +call on Mrs. Warlock this afternoon. You have not been there yet. +To-day will be a very good opportunity." + +Maggie's mind flew at once to her clothes. She had been with +Caroline Smith to that young lady's dressmaker, a thin and sharp- +faced woman whose black dress gleamed with innumerable pins. Maggie +had been pinched and measured, pulled in here and pulled out there. +Then there had been afternoons when she had been "fitted" under +Caroline's humorous and critical eye. Finally the dress had been +delivered, only two days ago, in a long card-board box; it waited +now for the great occasion. + +The great occasion had, in the guise of the Warlock family, surely +arrived. Maggie's heart beat as she went up to her room. When at +last she was wearing the dress, standing before her mirror, her +cheeks were red and her hands shook a little. + +The dress was very fine--simple of course and quite plain, but +elegant as no dress of Maggie's had ever been elegant. There surely +could not anywhere be a more perfect black dress, and yet, as Maggie +gazed, she was aware that there was something not quite right. She +was always straightforward with herself; yes, the thing that was not +quite right was her own stupid shape. Her figure was too square, her +back was too short, her hands too large. She had a moment of acute +disgust with herself so that she could have torn the dress from her +and rushed into her old obscure and dingy black again. Of what use +to dress her up? She would always look wrong, always be awkward and +ungainly . . . tears of disappointment gathered slowly in her eyes. +Then her pride reasserted itself; she raised her head proudly and +laughed at her anxious gaze. There was still her new hat. She took +it from the bed and put it on, sticking big pins into it, moving +back from the mirror, then forward again, turning her back, standing +on her toes, suddenly bowing to herself and waving her hand. + +She was caught thus, laughing into the mirror, by old Martha, who +pushed her sour face through the door and said: "They've been +waiting this long time for you, Miss." + +"All right, Martha," Maggie answered sharply, annoyed that she +should be found, posturing and bowing, by the woman. "Why didn't you +knock?" + +"I did knock, Miss. You were that occupied you didn't hear me." The +old woman was grinning. + +Maggie went downstairs, her heart still beating, her cheeks still +flushed. She did hope that Aunt Anne would be pleased. Aunt Anne, +although she never said anything about clothes, must, of course, +notice such things, and if she loved Maggie as Mr. Magnus said she +did, then she would "show her approval." The girl stood for a moment +on the bottom step of the staircase looking at her aunt who was +waiting for her in the little dark hall. + +"Well, dear--I'm waiting," she said. + +The burning eyes of Thomas the cat watched from the deep shadows. + +"I'm so sorry. I was dressing," said Maggie. + +Her aunt said nothing more and they left the house. + +Maggie, as always when she walked with Aunt Anne, was aware that +they made a strange couple, she so short and the other so tall, she +with her sturdy masculine walk, her aunt with her awkward halting +movement. They went in silence. + +Maggie longed for a word of approval; a short sentence such as "How +nice you're looking, Maggie," or "I like your dress, Maggie," or +"That's a new dress, dear--I like it," would be enough. After that +Maggie felt that she could face a multitude of wild and savage +Warlocks, that she could walk into the Warlock drawing-room with a +fine brave carriage, above all, that she would feel a sudden warm +affection for her aunt that would make all their future life +together easy. + +But Aunt Anne said nothing. She looked exactly as she had looked +upon her first appearance at St. Dreots, so thin and tall, with her +pale tapering face and her eyes staring before her as though they +saw nothing. + +Maggie, as they turned up into Garrick Street, said: + +"I hope you like my new dress, aunt." + +Aunt Anne turned to her for a moment, smiled gently and then +vaguely, as though her mind were elsewhere, answered: + +"I liked your old dress better, dear." + +Maggie's face flamed; her temper flared into her eyes. For a moment +she had wild thoughts of breaking into open rebellion. She hated her +dress, she hated London, above all, she hated Aunt Anne. That lady's +happy unconsciousness that anything had occurred drove the girl into +furious irritation. Well, it was hopeless then, Mr. Magnus could say +what he pleased, her aunt did not care for her--she would not mind +did she fall dead in the street before her. The words in Maggie's +mind were: "You don't look at me. I'm not a human being to you at +all. But I won't live with you. I'll go my own way. You can't keep +me if you never speak to me nor think of me." But in some dark +fashion that strange impassivity held her. Aunt Anne had her +power . . . + +They climbed the dim crooked staircase behind the antiquary's wall. +They rang the Warlock bell and were admitted. Maggie did not know +what it was that she had expected, but it was certainly not the +pink, warm room of Mrs. Warlock. + +The heavy softly closing door hemmed them in, the silent carpet +folded about their steps; the canary twittered, the fire spurted and +crackled. But at once the girl's heart went out to old Mrs. Warlock; +she looked so charming in her white cap and blue bow, her eyes were +raised so gently to Maggie's face and her little hand was so soft +and warm. + +The meeting between Anne Cardinal and Mrs. Warlock was very +gracious. Aunt Anne gravely pressed the old lady's hand, looked at +her with her grave distant eyes, then very carefully and delicately +sat down. + +Amy Warlock came in; Maggie had met her before and disliked her. +Conversation dealt decently and carefully with the weather, the +canary and Maggie's discovery of London. Maggie was compelled to +confess that she was afraid that she had not discovered London at +all. She felt Amy Warlock's sharp eyes upon them all and, as always +when she was in company that was, she thought, suspicious of her, +she became hot and uncomfortable, she frowned and spoke in short, +almost hostile, sentences. + +"They're laughing at my new clothes," she thought, "I wish I'd worn +my old ones . . . and anyway these hurt me." She sat up very +stiffly, her hands on her lap, her eyes staring at the little bright +water-colour on the wall opposite. Mrs. Warlock, like a trickling, +dancing brook, continued her talk: + +"Of course there's the country. I was brought up as a girl just +outside Salisbury . . . So many, many years ago--I always tell my +boy that I'm such an old woman now that I don't belong to his world +at all. Just to sit here and see the younger generation go past. +Don't regret your youth, Miss Cardinal. You'll want it back again +one day. I said to Martin only yesterday . . ." + +Neither Aunt Anne nor Amy Warlock had anything to say, so that quite +suddenly on the entrance of tea, conversation dropped. They all sat +there and looked at one another. There was a large silver tray with +silver tea-things upon it and a fat swelling china dish that held +hot buttered toast. There was a standing wicker pyramid containing +bread and butter, plates of little yellow and red cakes, shortbread +and very heavy plum cake black with currants. + +Mrs. Warlock had ceased all conversation, her eyes were fixed upon +the preparations for tea. The door opened and John Warlock and his +son came in. + +Maggie's eyes lighted when she saw Martin Warlock. She behaved as +she might have done had she been in her own room at St. Dreots. She +sprang up from her chair and stood there, smiling, waiting for him. +First his father shook hands with her, then Martin came and stood +beside her, laughing. + +His face was flushed and he seemed excited about something, but she +felt nothing save her pleasure at meeting him, and it was only when +he had moved on to her aunt that she was conscious once more of Amy +Warlock's eyes, and wondered whether she had behaved badly in +jumping up to meet him. + +As she considered this her anger and her confusion at her anger +increased. She saw that Martin was talking to her aunt and did not +look at her. Perhaps he also had thought her forward; of course that +horrid sister of his would think everything that she did wrong. But +did he? Surely he understood. She wanted to ask him and then wanted +to go home and leave them all. She saw that her teacup was trembling +in her hand. She steadied it upon her knee and then her knee began +to quiver, and all the time Amy Warlock watched her. She thought +then that she must assert herself and show that she was not confused +nor timid, so she began in a high-strained voice to talk to Mrs. +Warlock. She told Mrs. Warlock that she found Harrods' a confusing +place, that she had not yet visited Westminster Abbey, that her +health was quite good, that she had no brothers and no sisters, that +she could not play the piano, and that she was afraid that she never +read books. + +It was after the last of these interesting statements that she was +suddenly aware of the sound of her own voice, as though it had been +a brazen gong beating stridently in the vastness of a deserted +Cathedral. She saw the old lady take two pieces of buttered toast +from the china dish, hold them tenderly in her hand and fling them a +swift, bird-like glance before she devoured them; during that +moment's vision Maggie discovered what so many people of vaster +experience both of life and of Mrs. Warlock had never discovered; +namely, that the old lady cared more for her food than her company. +Maggie was suddenly less afraid of the whole family. She looked up +then at Martin as though she thus would prove her new courage and, +he glancing across at the same moment, they smiled. He left his +father's side and, coming over to her, sat down close to her. He +dropped his voice in speaking to her. + +"I've been wanting to see you," he said. + +"Why?" she asked him. + +"Well," he answered, smiling at her as though he wanted to tell her +something privately. "I feel as though we'd got a lot to tell one +another . . . I'm a stranger here really quite as much as you." + +"No, you're not," she said. "You can't be so MUCH a stranger +anywhere because you've been all over the world and are ready for +anything." + +"And you?" + +"I don't seem to manage the simplest things. Aunt Elizabeth and I +get lost the moment we move outside the door . . . Do you like my +dress?" she asked him. + +"Why!" he said, obviously startled by such a question. "It's--it's +splendid!" + +"No, you know it isn't," she answered quickly, dropping her voice +into a confidential statement. "It's all wrong. I thought you'd know +why as you've been everywhere. Caroline Smith helped me to choose +it, and it looked all right until I wore it. It's me . . . I'm +hopeless to fit. Caroline says so. I don't care about clothes--if +only I looked just like anybody else I'd never bother again--but +it's so tiresome to have taken so much trouble and then for it to be +all wrong." + +Martin was then aware of many things--that this was a strange +unusual girl, that she reassured him as to her interest, her +vitality, her sincerity as no girl had ever done before, that his +sister was aware of their intimate conversation and that she +resented it, and that he must see this girl again and as soon as +possible. He was as liable as any young man in the world to the most +sudden and most violent enthusiasms, but they had been enthusiasms +for a pretty face, for a sensual appeal, for a sentimental moment. +Here there was no prettiness, no sensuality, no sentiment. There was +something so new that he felt like Cortez upon his peak in Darien. + +"It's all right," he reassured her urgently. "It's all right. I +promise you it is. The great thing is to look yourself. And you'll +never be the least like any one else." He meant that to be the first +open declaration of his own particular discovery of her, but he was +aware that his sentence could have more than one interpretation. +Uncomfortably conscious then of his sister's regard of them, he +looked up and said: + +"Amy, Miss Cardinal's been telling me how confusing London is to +her. You've got as good an idea of London as any one in the world. +You should take her to one or two places and show her things." + +Amy Warlock, every line of her stiff body firing at them both her +hostility, answered: + +"Oh, I don't think Miss Cardinal would care for me as a guide. _I_ +shouldn't be able to show her interesting things. We have scarcely, +I should fancy, enough in common. Miss Cardinal's interests are, I +imagine, very different from my own." + +The tone, the words, fell into the sudden silence like a lighted +match into water. Maggie, her head erect, her voice, in spite of +herself, trembling a little, answered: + +"Why, Miss Warlock, I shouldn't think of troubling you. It's very +kind of your brother, but one must make one's discoveries for +oneself, mustn't one? . . . I am already beginning to find my way +about." + +After that the tea-party fell into complete disruption. Maggie, +although she did not look, could feel Martin's anger like a flame +beside her. She was aware that Aunt Anne and Mr. Warlock were, like +some beings from another world, distant from the general confusion. +Her one passionate desire was to get up and leave the place; to her +intense relief she heard Aunt Anne's clear voice: + +"I think, Mrs. Warlock, we must be turning homewards. Shall I send +you those papers about the Perteway's Mission? . . . Such splendid +work. I think it would interest you." + +It was as though a hole had suddenly opened in the floor of the neat +little drawing-room and they were all hurrying to leave without, if +possible, tumbling into it. There was a general shaking of hands. + +Mrs. Warlock said kindly to Maggie: + +"Do come soon again, dear. It does an old lady good to see young +faces." + +Martin was near the door. He almost crushed Maggie's hand in his: "I +must see you--soon," he whispered. + +Free from the house Maggie and her aunt walked home in complete +silence. Maggie's heart was a confusion of rage, surprise, +loneliness and pride. No one had ever behaved like that to her +before. And what had she done? What was there about her that people +hated? . . . Why? . . . Why? She felt as though, in some way, it had +all been Aunt Anne's fault. Why did not Aunt Anne speak? Well, if +they all hated her she would go on her own way. She did not care. + +But alone in her room, her face, indignant, proud, quivering, +surprising her in the long mirror by its strangeness, and causing +her to feel, because it did not seem to belong to her, more lonely +than ever, she burst out: + +"I can't stand it. I CAN'T stand it. I'll get away . . . so soon as +ever I can!" + + + + +CHAPTER III + +MAGGIE AND MARTIN + + +That moment in her bedroom altered for Maggie the course of all her +future life. She had never before been, consciously, a rebel; she +had, only a week before, almost acquiesced in the thought that she +would remain in her aunts' house for the rest of her days; now Mr. +Magnus, the Warlocks, and her new dress had combined to fire her +determination. She saw, quite suddenly, that she must escape at the +first possible moment. + +The house that had been until now the refuge into which she had +escaped became the jumping-off place for her new adventure. + +Until now the things in the house had been there to receive her as +one of themselves; from this moment they were there to prevent, if +possible, her release. She felt everything instantly hostile. They +all--Thomas the cat, Edward the parrot, the very sofas and chairs +and cushions--were determined not to let her go. + +She saw, more than ever before, that her aunts were preparing some +religious trap for her. They were very quiet about it; they did not +urge her or bully her, but the subtle, silent influence went on so +that the very stair-carpet, the very scuttles that held the coal, +became secret messengers to hale her into the chapel and shut her in +there for ever. After her first visit there the chapel became a +nightmare to her--because, at once, she had felt its power. She had +known--she had always known and it had not needed Mr. Magnus to tell +her--that there was something in this religion--yes, even in the +wretched dirt and disorder of her father's soul--but with that +realisation that there was indeed something, had come also the +resolved conviction that life could not be happy, simple, successful +unless one broke from that power utterly, refused its dictates, gave +no hearing to its messages, surrendered nothing--absolutely nothing- +-to its influence. Had not some one said to her once, or was it not +in her little red A Kempis, that "once caught one might never escape +again"? + +She would prove that, in her own struggle and independence, to be +untrue. The chapel should not have her, nor her father's ghost, nor +the dim half-visualised thoughts and memories that rose like dark +shadows in her soul and vanished again. She would believe in nothing +save what she could see, listen to nothing that was not clear and +simple before her. She was mistress of her own soul. + +She did not, in this fashion, think things out for herself. To +herself she simply expressed it that she was going to lead her own +life, to earn her own living, to fight for herself; and that the +sooner she escaped this gloomy, damp, and ill-tempered house the +better. She would never say her prayers again; she would never read +the Bible again to herself or any one else; she would never kneel on +those hard chapel kneelers again; she would never listen to Mr. +Warlock's sermons again--once she had escaped. + +Meanwhile she said nothing at all to herself about Martin Warlock, +who was really at the root of the whole matter. + +She began at once to take steps. Two years before this a lady had +paid, with her sister, a short visit to St. Dreots and had taken a +great liking to Maggie. They had made friends, and this lady, a Miss +Katherine Trenchard, had begged Maggie to let her know if she came +to London and needed help or advice. Miss Trenchard divided her life +between London and a place called Garth in Roselands in Glebeshire, +and Maggie did not know where she would be now--but, after some +little hesitation, she wrote a letter, speaking of the death of her +father and of her desire to find some work in London, and directed +it to Garth. + +Now of course she must post it herself--no allowing it to lie on the +hall-table with old Martha to finger it and the aunts to speculate +upon it and finally challenge her with its destiny. + +On a bright evening when the house was as dark as a shut box and an +early star, frightened at its irregular and lonely appearance, +suddenly flashed like a curl of a golden whip across the sky, Maggie +slipped out of the house. She realised, with a triumphant and +determined nod of her head, that she had never been out alone in +London before--a ridiculous and shameful fact! She knew that there +was a pillar-box just round the corner, but because she had a hat +upon her head and shoes upon her feet she thought that she might as +well post it in the Strand, an EXCITING river of tempestuous sound +into which she had as yet scarcely penetrated. She slipped out of +the front door, then waited a moment, looking back at the silent +house. No one stirred in their street; the noise of the Strand came +up to her like wind beyond a valley. She must have felt, in that +instant, that she was making some plunge into hazardous waters and +she must have hesitated as to whether she would not spring back into +the quiet house, lock and bolt the door, and never go out again. +But, after that one glance, she went forward. + +She had never before in her life been on any errand alone, and at +this evening hour the Strand was very full. She stood still clinging +to the safe privacy of her own street and peering over into the +blaze and quiver of the tumult. In the Strand end of her own street +there were several dramatic agencies, a second-hand book and print +shop with piles of dirty music in the barrow outside the window, a +little restaurant with cold beef, an ancient chicken, hard-boiled +eggs and sponge cakes under glass domes in the window; everywhere +about her were dim doors, glimpses of twisting stairs, dusty windows +and figures flitting up and down, in and out as though they were +marionettes pulled by invisible strings to fulfil some figure. + +These were all in the dusk of the side-street; a large draper's with +shirts and collars and grinning wax boys in sailor suits caught with +its front windows the Strand lamps. It was beside the shop that +Maggie stood for an instant hesitating. She could see no pillar-box; +she could see nothing save the streams of human beings, slipping +like water between the banks of houses. + +She hesitated, clinging to the draper's shop; then, suddenly +catching sight of the pillar-box a few yards down the street, she +let herself go, had a momentary sensation of swimming in a sea +desperately crowded with other bodies, fought against the fierce +gaze of lights that beat straight upon her eyes, found the box, +slipped in the letter, and then, almost at once, was back in her +quiet quarters again. + +She turned and, her heart beating, hurried home. The house door was +still ajar. She pushed it back, slipped inside, caught her breath +and listened. Then she closed the door softly behind her, and with +that little act of attempted secrecy realised that she was now a +rebel, that things could never be, for her, the same again as they +had been a quarter of an hour ago. That glittering crowd, the lamps, +the smells, the sounds, had concentrated themselves into a little +fiery charm that held her heart within a flaming circle. She felt +the most audacious creature in the world--and also the most +ignorant. Not helpless--no, never helpless--but so ignorant that all +her life that had seemed to her, a quarter of an hour ago, so +tensely crowded with events and crises was now empty and barren like +the old straw-smelling cab at home. She did not want to offend her +aunts and hurt their feelings, but she was a living, breathing, +independent creature and she must go her own way. Neither they nor +their chapel should stop her--no, not the chapel nor any one in it. + +She was standing, motionless, in the dark cold hall, wondering +whether any one had heard her enter, when she was suddenly conscious +of two eyes that watched her--two steady fiery eyes suspended as it +seemed in mid air. She realised that it was the cat. The cat hated +her and she hated it. She had not realised that before, but now with +the illumination of the lighted street behind her she realised it. +The cat was the spirit of the chapel watching her, spying upon her +tc see that she did not escape. The cat knew that she had posted her +letter and to whom she had posted it. She advanced to the bottom of +the stair and said: "Brr. You horrid thing! I hate you!" and +instantly the two fiery eyes had vanished, but now in their place +the whole house seemed to be watching, so silent and attentive was +it--and the odour of damp biscuits and wet umbrellas seemed to be +everywhere. + +Just then old Martha came out with a lamp in her hand, and standing +upon a chair, lit the great ugly gas over the middle of the door. + +"Why, Miss Maggie," she said in her soft, surprised whisper, looking +as she always did, beyond the girl, into darkness. + +"I've been out," said Maggie, defiantly. + +"Not all alone, miss?" + +"All alone," said Maggie. "Why not? I can look after myself." + +"Well, there's your uncle waiting in the drawing-room--just come," +said the old woman, climbing down from the chair with that silent +imperturbable discontent that always frightened Maggie. + +"Uncle Mathew! Here! in this house!" Maggie, even in the moment of +her first astonishment, was amazed at her own delight. That she +should ever feel THAT about Uncle Mathew! Truly it showed how +unhappy she had been, and she ran upstairs, two steps at a time, and +pushed back the drawing-room door. + +"Uncle Mathew!" she cried. + +Then at the sight of him she stood where she was. The man who faced +her, with all his old confusion of nervousness and uneasy geniality, +was, indeed, Uncle Mathew, but Uncle Mathew glorified, shabbily +glorified and at the same time a little abashed as though she had +caught him in the act of laying a mine that would blow up the whole +house. He was wearing finer clothes than she had ever seen him in +before--a frock coat, quite new but fitting him badly, so that it +was buttoned too tightly across his stomach and loose across the +back. He had a white flower in his button-hole, and a rather soiled +white handkerchief protruded from his breast-pocket. One leg of his +dark grey trousers had been creased in two places, and there were +little spots of blood on his high white collar because he had cut +himself shaving. His complexion was of the same old suppressed +purple, but his little eyes were bright and shining and active; they +danced towards Maggie. His scanty locks had been carefully brushed +over his bald head, and his hands, although they were still puffed +and swollen, were whiter than Maggie had ever seen them. + +But it was in the end his attitude of confused defiance that made +her pause. What had he been doing, or what did he intend to do? He +was prosperous, she could see, and knowing him as she did, she was +afraid of his prosperity. She had never in her life realised so +clearly as she did now that he was a wicked old man--and still she +was glad to see him. He was an odd enough creature in that room, and +that, she was aware, pleased her. + +"Well, my dear," he said very genially, as though they met again +after an hour's parting, "how are you? I'm very glad to see you-- +looking so well too. And quite smart. Your aunts dressed you up. I +thought I must look at you. I'm staying just round the corner, and +my first thought was 'I wonder how she's getting on in all that tom- +foolery. You bet she's keeping her head.' And so you are. One can +see at a glance." + +She went up to him, kissed him, and smelt whisky and some scent that +had geraniums in it. He put his arm round her, with his old unsteady +gesture, and held her to him for a moment, then patted her back with +his large, soft hand. + +"Your aunt's a long time. I've been waiting half an hour." + +"They've been to some meeting." She stood looking at him with her +fine steady gaze that had always made him afraid of her, and did so, +to his own surprise, again now. He had thought that his clothes +would have saved him from that; his fingers felt at his button-hole. +Looking at him she said: + +"Uncle, I want to get away--out of this--at once. No, they aren't +horrid to me. Every one's been very kind. But I'm afraid of it all-- +of never getting out of it--and I want to be independent . . ." She +stopped with a little breathless gasp because she heard the hall- +door close. "Ah, they're here! Don't tell them anything. We'll talk +afterwards . . ." + +His eyes glittered with satisfaction. "I knew you would, my dear. +I knew you wouldn't be able to stand it . . . I'll get you out of +it . . . Trust me!" + +The door opened and Aunt Anne came in. She had been prepared by +Martha for her visitor, and she came forward to him now with the +dignity and kindly patronage of some lady abbess receiving the +miscreant and boorish yokel of a neighbouring village. And yet how +fine she was! As Maggie watched her, she thought of what she would +give to have some of that self-command and dignity and decision. Was +it her religion that gave her that? Or only her own self- +satisfaction? No; there was something behind Aunt Anne, something +stronger than she, something that Mr. Warlock also knew . . . and it +was this something that Uncle Mathew met with his own hostility as +he looked up now at his sister and greeted her: + +"Why, Mathew! You never told us. I would have hurried back, and now +Elizabeth, I'm afraid, has gone on to see some friends. She will be +so disappointed. But at least you've had Maggie to entertain you." + +A quick glance was exchanged between uncle and niece. + +"Yes," he said, "we've had a talk, Anne, thank you. And it doesn't +matter about Elizabeth, because I'm staying close here in Henrietta +Street, and I'll be in again if I may. I just looked in to ask +whether Maggie might come and have dinner with me at my little place +to-night. It's a most respectable place--I'll come and fetch her, of +course, and bring her back afterwards." + +Of course Aunt Anne could not refuse, but oh! how Maggie saw that +she wanted to! The battle that followed was silent. Uncle Mathew's +eyes narrowed themselves to fiery malicious points; he dropped them +and moved his feet restlessly on the soft carpet. + +"Quite respectable!" he repeated. + +Aunt Anne smiled gently. "Why, of course, Mathew. I know you'll look +after Maggie. It will be a change for her. She's been having rather +a dull time here, I'm afraid." + +Then there was silence. Maggie wanted to speak, but the words would +not come, and she had the curious sensation that even if she did +find them no one would hear them. + +Then Uncle Mathew suddenly said good-bye, stumbled over his boots by +the door, shot out, "Seven o'clock, Maggie"--and was gone. + +"Well, that will be nice for you, Maggie," said Anne, looking at +her. + +"Yes," said Maggie. "You don't mind, do you?" + +"No dear, of course not." + +"What do you want me to do?" Maggie broke out desperately. "I know +I'm not satisfying you and yet you won't say anything. Do tell me-- +and I'll try--anything--almost anything . . ." + +Then the sudden memory of her own posted letter silenced her. Was +that readiness to do "anything"? Had that not been rebellion? And +had she not asked Uncle Mathew to help her to escape? The +consciousness of her dishonesty coloured her cheek with crimson. +Then Aunt Anne, very tenderly, put her hand on her shoulder. + +"Will you really do anything--for me, Maggie--for me?" Her voice was +gentle and her eyes had tears in them. "If you will--there are +things very close to my heart--" + +Maggie turned away, trembling. She hung her head, then with a sudden +movement walked to the door. + +"You must tell me," she said, "what you want. I'll try--I don't +understand." + +Then as though she was aware that she was fighting the whole room +which had already almost entrapped her and that the fight was too +much for her, she went. + +When she came to her own room and thought about her invitation she +wished, with a sudden change of mood, that she had a pretty frock or +two. She would have loved to have been grand to-night, and now the +best that she could do was to add her coral necklace and a little +gold brooch that years ago her father had given her, to the black +dress that she was already wearing. She realised, with a strange +little pang of loneliness, that she had not had one evening's fun +since her arrival in London--no, not one--and she would not have +captured to-night had Aunt Anne been able to prevent it. + +Then as her mind returned back to her uncle she felt with a throb of +excited anticipation that perhaps after all this evening was to +prove the turning-point of her life. Her little escape into the +streets, her posting of the letter, had been followed so immediately +by Uncle Mathew's visit, and now this invitation! + +"No one can keep me if I want to go," and the old cuckoo-clock +outside seemed to tick in reply: + +"Can no one keep her if she wants to go?" + +She finished her preparations; as she fastened the coral necklace +round her neck the face of Martin Warlock was suddenly before her. +He had been perhaps at her elbow all day. + +"I like him and I think he likes me," she said to the mirror. "I've +got one friend," and her thought still further was that even if he +didn't like her he couldn't prevent her liking him. + +She went down to the drawing-room and found Uncle Mathew, alone, +waiting for her. + +"Here I am, Maggie," he said. "And let's get out of this as quick as +we can." + +"I must go and say good-night to the aunts," she said. + +She went upstairs to Aunt Anne's bedroom. Entering it was always to +her like passing into a shadowed church after the hot sunshine--the +long, thin room with high slender windows, the long hard bed, of the +most perfect whiteness and neatness, the heavy black-framed picture +of "The Ascension" over the bed, and the utter stillness broken by +no sound of clock or bell--even the fire seemed frozen into a glassy +purity in the grate. + +Her aunt was sitting, as so often Maggie found her, in a stiff- +backed chair, her hands folded on her lap, staring in front of her. +Her eyes were like the open eyes of a dead woman; it was as though, +with a great effort of almost desperate concentration, she were +driving her vision against some obstinate world of opposition, and +the whole of life had meanwhile stayed to watch the issue. + +A thin pale light from some street lamp lay, a faintly golden +shadow, across the white ceiling. + +Maggie stood by the door. + +"I've come to say good-night, aunt." + +"Ah, Maggie dear, is that you?" The pale oval face turned towards +her. + +"You won't be very late, will you?" + +"Hadn't I better have a key, not to bother Martha?" + +"Oh, Martha won't have gone to bed." + +Maggie felt as though her whole evening would be spoilt did she know +that Martha was waiting for her at the end of it. + +"Oh, but it will be such a pity--" + +"Martha will let you in, dear. Come and kiss me; I hope that you'll +enjoy yourself." + +And then the strangest thing happened. Maggie bent down. She felt a +tear upon her cheek and then the thin strong arms held her, for an +instant, in an almost threatening embrace. + +"Good-night, dear aunt," she said; but, outside the room, she had to +stand for a moment in the dark passage to regain her control; her +heart was beating with wild unreasoning terror. Although she had +brushed her cheek with her hand the cold touch of the tears still +lingered there. + +Outside the house they were free. It looked so close and dark behind +them that Maggie shivered a little and put her arm through her +uncle's. + +"That's all right," he said, patting her hand. "We're going to enjoy +ourselves." + +She looked up and saw Martin Warlock facing her. The unexpected +meeting held both of them silent for a moment. To her it seemed that +he had risen out of the very stones of the pavement, at her bidding, +to make her evening wonderful. He looked so strong, so square, so +solid after the phantom imaginations of the house that she had left, +that the sight of him was a step straight into the heart of comfort +and reassurance. + +"I was just coming," he said, looking at her, "to leave a note for +Miss Cardinal--from my father--" + +"She's in," Maggie said. + +"Oh, it wasn't to bother her--only to leave the note. About some +meeting, I think." + +"We're just going out. This is my uncle--Mr. Warlock." + +The two men shook hands. + +Mathew Cardinal smiled. His eyes closed, his greeting had an urgency +in it as though he had suddenly made some discovery that gratified +and amused him. "Very glad to meet you--very glad, indeed, sir. Any +friend of my niece's. I know your father, sir; know him and admire +him." + +They all turned down the street together. Uncle Mathew talked, and +then, quite suddenly, stopping under a lamp-post as though within +the circle of light his charm were stronger, he said: + +"I suppose, Mr. Warlock, you wouldn't do me the great, the extreme, +honour of dining with myself and my niece at my humble little inn +to-night? A little sudden--I hope you'll forgive the discourtesy-- +but knowing your father--" + +Martin looked straight into Maggie's eyes. + +"Oh, please do!" she said, her heart beating, as it seemed, against +her eyes so that she dropped them. + +"Well--" he hesitated. "It's very good of you, Mr. Cardinal--very +kind. As a matter of fact I was going to dine alone to-night--just a +chop, you know, somewhere--if it's really not inconvenient I'll be +delighted--" + +They walked on together. + +As they passed into Garrick Street, she knew that she had never in +all her life been so glad to be with any one, that she had never so +completely trusted any one, that she would like to be with him +often, to look after him, perhaps, and to be looked after by him. + +Her feeling for him was almost sexless, because she had never +thought, as most girls do, of love and the intrigue and coquetry of +love. She was so simple as to be shameless, and at once, if he had +asked her then in the street to marry him she would have said yes +without hesitation or fear, or any analysis. She would like to look +after him as well as herself--there were things she was sure that +she could do for him--and she would be no burden to him because she +intended, in any case, to lead her own life. She would simply lead +it with a companion instead of without one. + +He must have felt as he walked with her this trust and simplicity. +She was certainly the most extraordinary girl whom he had ever met, +and he'd met a number . . . + +He could believe every word she said; he had never known any one so +direct and simple and honest, and yet with that she was not a fool, +as most honest girls were. No, she was not a fool. He would have +given anything to be as sure of himself . . . + +She was plain--but then was she? As they passed beneath the light of +a street lamp his heart gave a sudden beat. Her face was so GOOD, +her eyes so true, her mouth so strong. She was like a boy, rather-- +and, of course, she was dressed badly. But he wanted to look after +her. He was sure that she knew so little of the world and would be +so easily deceived . . .But who was he to look after any one? + +He knew that she would trust him utterly, and trust him not only +because she was ignorant of the world, but also because she was +herself so true. At the thought of this trust his heart suddenly +warmed, partly with shame and partly with pride. + +They walked very happily along laughing and talking. They turned +into Henrietta Street, misty with lamps that were dim in a thin +evening fog, and at the corner of the street, facing the Square, was +Uncle Mathew's hotel. It was a place for the use, in the main, of +commercial gentlemen, and it was said by eager searchers after local +colour, to have retained a great deal of the Dickens spirit. In the +hall there was a stout gentleman with a red nose, a soiled waiter, a +desolate palm and a large-bosomed lady all rings and black silk, in +a kind of wooden cage. Down the stairs came a dim vapour that smelt +of beef, whisky and tobacco, and in the distance was the regular +click of billiard-balls and the brazen muffled tones of a +gramophone. Uncle Mathew seemed perfectly at home here, and it was +strange to Maggie that he should be so nervous with Aunt Anne, his +own sister, when he could be so happily familiar with the powdered +lady in the black silk. + +"We're to have dinner in a private room upstairs," said Uncle Mathew +in a voice that was casual and at the same time important. He led +the way up the stairs. + +Maggie had read in some old bound volume at home a very gruesome +account of the "Life and Misdeeds of Mr. Palmer, the Rugeley +Poisoner." The impression that still remained with her was of a man +standing in the shadowy hall of just such an hotel as this, and +pouring poison into a glass which he held up against the light. This +picture had been vividly with her during her childhood, and she felt +that this must have been the very hotel where those fearful deeds +occurred, and that the ghost of Mr. Palmer's friend must, at this +very moment, be writhing in an upstairs bedroom--"writhing," as she +so fearfully remembered, bent "like a hoop." + +However, these reminiscences did not in the least terrify her; she +welcomed their definite outlines in contrast with the shadowy +possibilities of her aunts' house. And she had Martin Warlock . . . +She had never been so happy in all her life. + +A dismal little waiter with a very soiled shirt and a black tie +under his ear, guided them down into a dark passage and flung open +the door of a sitting-room. This room was dark and sizzling with +strange noises; a gas-jet burning low was hissing, some papers +rustled in the breeze from the half-opened window, and a fire, +overburdened with the weight of black coal, made frantic little +spurts of resistance. + +A white cloth was laid on the table, and there were glasses and +knives and forks. A highly-coloured portrait of her late Majesty +Queen Victoria confronted a long-legged horse desperately winning a +race in which he had apparently no competitors. There was a wall- +paper of imitation marble and a broken-down book-case with some torn +paper editions languishing upon it. Beyond the open window there was +a purple haze and a yellow mist--also a bell rang and carts rattled +over the cobbles. The waiter shut out these sights and sounds, gave +the tablecloth a stroke with his dirty hand, and left the room. + +They continued their cheerful conversation, Martin laughing at +nothing at all, and Maggie smiling, and Uncle Mathew stroking his +mouth and sharpening his eyes and standing, in his uneasy fashion, +first on one leg and then on the other. Maggie realised that her +uncle was trying to be most especially pleasant to young Warlock. +She wondered why; she also remembered what he had said to her about +Martin's father . . . No, he had changed. She could not follow his +motives as she had once been able to do. Then he had simply been a +foolish, drunken, but kindly-intentioned old man. + +Then Mr. Warlock on his side seemed to like her uncle. That was an +extraordinary thing. Or was he only being friendly because he was +happy? No, she remembered his face as he had joined them that +evening. He had not been happy then. She liked him the more because +she knew that he needed help . . . The meal, produced at last by the +poor little waiter, was very merry. The food was not wonderful--the +thick pea-soup was cold, the sole bones and skin, the roast beef +tepid and the apple-tart heavy. The men drank whiskies and sodas, +and Maggie noticed that her uncle drank very little. And then (with +apologies to Maggie) they smoked cigars, and she sat before the +dismal fire in an old armchair with a hole in it. + +Martin Warlock talked in a most delightful way about his travels, +and Uncle Mathew asked him questions that were not, after all, so +stupid. What had happened to him? Had Maggie always undervalued him, +or was it that he was sober now and clear-headed? His fat round +thighs seemed stronger, his hands seemed cleaner, the veins in his +face were not so purple. She remembered the night when he had come +into her room. She had been able to manage him then. Would she be +able to manage him now? + +After dinner he grew very restless. His eyes wandered to the door, +then to his watch, then to his companions; he smiled uneasily, +pulling his moustache; then--jumping to his feet, tried to speak +with an easy self-confidence. + +"I must leave you for a quarter of an hour . . . A matter of +business, only in this hotel. Downstairs. Yes. A friend of mine and +a little matter. Urgent. I'm sure you'll forgive me." + +For a moment Maggie was frightened. She was here in a strange hotel +in a strange room with a man whom she scarcely knew. Then she looked +up into young Warlock's face and was reassured. She could trust him. + +He stood with his arm on the shabby, dusty mantelpiece, looking down +upon her with his good-natured kindly smile, so kindly that she felt +that he was younger than she and needed protection in a world that +was filled with designing Uncle Mathews and mysterious Aunt Annes +and horrible Miss Warlocks. + +He, on his side, as he looked down at her, was surprised at his own +excitement. His heart was beating, his hand trembling--before this +plain, ordinary, unattractive girl! Unattractive physically--but not +uninteresting. One of the most interesting human beings whom he had +ever met, simply because she was utterly unlike any one else. He +felt shame before her, because he knew that she would believe every +word that he said. In that she was simple, but "he would be bothered +if she was simple in anything else." She had made up her mind--he +knew it as well as though she had told him--to trust him absolutely, +and he knew well enough how little he was to be trusted. And because +of that faith and because of that trust he felt that she was more +reliable than he could have believed that changing fickle human +being would ever be. How secure he might feel with her! + +Then, as he thought that, he realised how troubled he was about his +life at home during the last weeks. Amy hated him, his mother hid +herself from him, and his father's love frightened him. Already he +had found himself telling lies to avoid the chapel services and the +meetings with Thurston and the rest. His father's love for him had +something terrible in it, and, although he returned it, he could not +live up to that fire and heat. + +No; he saw that he would not be able to remain for long at home. On +the other hand, go back to the old wandering life he would not. He +had had enough of that and its rotten carelessness and shabbiness. +What a girl this would be to settle down with somewhere! So strange +that she would be always interesting, so faithful that she would be +always there! Nor was he entirely selfish. Her childishness, her +ignorance, appealed to him for protection. She had no one but those +old aunts to care for her, she was poor and rebellious and ignorant. +Warlock was kind-hearted beyond the normal charity of man--much of +his weakness came from that very kindness. + +As he saw which way he was going he tried to pull himself back. He +could not protect her--he had the best of reasons for knowing why. +He could do her nothing but harm . . . and yet he went on. + +He took a chair close to her and sat down. He, who had known in his +time many women, could see how happy she was. That happiness excited +him. Suddenly he held her hand. She did not remove it. + +"Look here," he began, and he was surprised at the hoarseness of his +voice, "your uncle will be back in a moment, and we never have a +chance of being alone. I've wanted to talk to you ever since I first +saw you." + +He felt her hand move in his. That stir was so helpless that he +suddenly determined to be honest. + +"I think you'll trust me, won't you?" he asked. + +"Yes," she said. + +"Well, you mustn't," he went on hurriedly, his eyes on the door. +"I'm not worse, I suppose, than other men, but all the same I'm not +to be trusted. And when I say I'm not to be trusted I mean that I +myself don't know whether I'll keep my word from one minute to +another. I'm sure you don't know very much about men. I could see it +at once from the way you spoke." + +She looked up, her clear, unconfused, unquestioning eyes facing him. + +"I knew my father well," she said. "We were quite alone for years +together. And then Uncle Mathew--" + +"Oh, your father, your uncle," he answered quickly. "They don't +count. What I mean is that you mustn't think men are scoundrels just +because they act badly. I swear that nine out of ten of them never +mean to do any harm." + +"And they think they're speaking the truth at the time. But anything +'does' for them and then they're in a mess, and all they think about +is how to get out of it. Then it's every man for himself . . ." + +Maggie shook her head. + +"I've always known that I'd have to manage for myself," she said. +"I've never expected any one to do anything for me, so I'm not +likely to be disappointed now." + +He moved a little closer to her and held her hand more firmly; even +as he did so something in his heart reproached him, but now the +reproach was very far away, like an echo of some earlier voice. + +"Do you know you're a wonderful girl?" he said. "I knew you were +from the first moment I saw you. You're the most independent person +I've ever known. You can't guess how I admire that! And all the same +you're not happy, are you? You want to get out of it, don't you?" + +She thought for a little while before she nodded her head. + +"I suppose as a fact." she said, "I do. If you want to know--and you +mustn't tell anybody--I've posted a letter to a lady whom I met once +who told me if ever I wanted anything to write to her. I've asked +her for some work. I've got three hundred pounds of my own. It isn't +very much, I know, but I could start on it . . . I don't want to do +wrong to my aunts, who are very kind to me, but I'm not happy there. +It wouldn't be true to say I'm happy. You see," she dropped her +voice a little, "they want to make me religious, and I've had so +much of that with father already. I feel as though they were +pressing me into it somehow, and that I should wake up one morning +and find I should never escape again. There's so much goes on that I +don't understand. And it isn't only the chapel. Aunt Anne's very +quiet, but she makes you feel quite helpless sometimes. And perhaps +one will get more and more helpless the longer one stays. I don't +want to be helpless ever--nor religious!" she ended. + +"Why, that's just my position," he continued eagerly. "I came home +as happily as anything. I'd almost forgotten all that had been when +I was a boy, how I was baptized and thought I belonged to God and +was so proud and stuck up. That all seems nonsense when you're +roughing it with other men who think about nothing but the day's +work. Then I came home meaning to settle down. I wanted to see my +governor too. I've always cared for him more than any one else in +the world . . . but I tell you now I simply don't know what's going +on at home. They want to catch me in a trap. That's what it feels +like. To make me what I was as a kid. It's strange, but there's more +in it than you'd think. You wouldn't believe the number of times +I've thought of my young days since I've been home. It's as though +some one was always shoving them up in front of my face. All I want, +you know, is to be jolly. To let other people alone and be let alone +myself. I wouldn't do any one any harm in the world--I wouldn't +really. But it's as though father wanted me to believe all the +things he believes, so that he could believe them more himself. +Perhaps it's the same with your aunt . . ." Then he added, "But +they're sick people. That explains a lot." + +"Sick?" asked Maggie. + +"Yes. My governor's got heart--awfully bad. He might go off at any +moment if he had a shock. And your aunt--don't you know?" + +"No," said Maggie. + +"Cancer. They all say so. I thought you'd have known." + +"Oh!" Maggie drew in her breath. She shuddered. "Poor Aunt Anne! Oh, +poor Aunt Anne! I didn't know." + +She felt a sudden rush of confused emotion. A love for her aunt, +desire to help her, and at the same time shrinking as though she saw +the whole house which had been, from the first, unhappy to her was +now diseased and evil and rotten. The hot life in her body told her +against her moral will that she must escape, and her soul, moving in +her and speaking to her, told her that now, more than ever, she must +stay. + +"Oh, poor, poor Aunt Anne," she said again. + +He moved and put his arm around her. He had meant it simply as a +movement of sympathy and protection, but when he felt the warmth of +her body against his, when he realised how she went to him at once +with the confidence and simplicity of a child, when he felt the hot +irregular beat of her heart, his own heart leapt, his arm was +strengthened like a barrier of iron against the world. + +He had one moment of desperate resistance, a voice of protest +calling to him far, far away. His hand touched her neck; he raised +her face to his and kissed her, once gently, kindly, then, +passionately again and again. + +She shivered a little, as though surrendering something to him, then +lay quite still in his arms. + +"Maggie! Maggie!" he whispered. + +Then she raised her head and herself kissed him. + +There was a noise on the door. They separated; the door opened and +in the sudden light a figure was visible holding a glass. + +For a blind instant Maggie, returning from her other world, thought +it the figure of Mr. Palmer of Rugeley. + +It was, of course, Uncle Mathew. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + +MR. CRASHAW + + +Uncle Mathew saw Maggie back to her door, kissed her and left her. +On their way home he did not once mention Martin Warlock to her. + +He left her as he heard the bolt turn in the door, hurrying away as +though he did not want to be seen. Maggie went in to find old Martha +with her crabbed face watching her sourly. But she did not care, +nothing could touch her now. Even the old woman, cross with waiting +by the fading kitchen fire, noticed the light in the girl's eyes. +She had always thought the girl hard and ungracious, but now that +face was soft, and the mouth smiling over its secret thoughts, and +the eyes sleepy with happiness. + +Maggie could have said: "I'm wild with joy, Martha. I know what love +is. I had never thought that it could be like this. Be kind to me +because it's the greatest night of my life." + +Martha said: "There's some milk hotted for you, Miss, and some +biscuits. There on the table by the stairs." + +"Oh, I don't want anything, Martha, thank you!" + +"Your aunt said you was to have it." + +Maggie drank it down, Martha watching her. Then she went upstairs +softly, as though her joy might awaken the whole house. She lay +wide-eyed on her bed for hours, then fell into a heavy sleep, deep, +without dreams. + +When, in the quieter light of the morning, she considered the event, +she had no doubts nor hesitations. She loved Martin and Martin loved +her. Soon Martin would marry her and they would go away. Her aunt +would be sorry of course, and his father, perhaps, would be angry, +but the sorrow and anger would be only for a little while. Then +Martin and she would live happily together always--happily because +they were both sensible people, and her own standard of fidelity and +trust was, she supposed, also his. She did not think very deeply +about what he had said to her; it only meant that he wanted to +escape from his family, a desire in which she could completely +sympathise. She had loved him, as she now saw, from the first moment +of meeting, and she would love him always. She would never be alone +again, and although Martin had told her that he was weak, and she +knew something about men, she was aware that their love for one +another would be a thing apart, constant, unfaltering, eternal. She +had read no modern fiction; she knew nothing about psychology: she +was absolutely happy . . . + +And then in that very first day she discovered that life was not +quite so simple. In the first place, she wanted Martin desperately +and he did not come; and although she had at once a thousand +sensible reasons for the impossibility of his coming, nevertheless +strange new troubles and suspicions that she had never known before +rose in her heart. She had only kissed him once; he had only held +her in his arms for a few moments . . .She waited, looking from +behind the drawing-room curtains out into the street. How could he +let the whole day go by? He was prevented, perhaps, by that horrible +sister of his. When the dusk came and the muffin-man went ringing +his bell down the street she felt exhausted as though she had been +running for miles . . . + +Then with sudden guilty realisation of the absorption that had held +her all day she wondered how much her aunt had noticed. + +During the afternoon when she had been watching the streets from +behind the curtain Aunt Elizabeth had sat sewing, Thomas the cat +lumped before the fire, the whole room bathed in afternoon silence. +Maggie had watched as though hypnotized by the street itself, +marking the long squares of light, the pools of shadow, the lamp- +posts, the public-house at the corner, the little grocer's shop with +cases of oranges piled outside the door, the windows on the second +floor of the dressmaker's, through which you could see a dummy- +figure and a young woman with a pale face and shiny black hair, who +came and glanced out once and again, as though to reassure herself +that the gay world was still there. + +The people, the horses and carts, the cabs went on their way. +Often it seemed that this figure must be Martin's--now this--now +this . . . And on every occasion Maggie's heart rose in her breast, +hammered at her eyes, then sank again. Over and over she told to +herself every incident of yesterday's meeting. Always it ended in +that same wonderful climax when she was caught to his breast and +felt his hand at her neck and then his mouth upon hers. She could +still feel against her skin the rough warm stuff of his coat and the +soft roughness of his cheek and the stiff roughness of his hair. She +could still feel how his mouth had just touched hers and then +suddenly gripped it as though it would never let it go; then she had +been absorbed by him, into his very heart, so that still now she +felt as though with his strong arms and his hard firm body he was +around her and about her. + +Oh, she loved him! she loved him! but why did he not come? Had he +been able only to pass down the street and smile up to her window as +he went that would have been something. It would at least have +reassured her that yesterday was not a dream, an invention, and that +he was still there and thought of her and cared for her . . . + +She pulled herself together. At the sound of the muffin-man's bell +she came back into her proper world. She would be patient; as she +had once resolved outside Borhedden Farm, so now she swore that she +would owe nothing to any man. + +If she should love Martin Warlock it would not be for anything that +she expected to get from him, but only for the love that she had it +in her to give. If good came of it, well, if not, she was still her +own master. + +But more than ever now was it impossible to be open with her aunts. +How strange it was that from the very beginning there had been +concealments between Aunt Anne and herself. Perhaps if they had been +open to one another at the first all would have been well. Now it +was too late. + +Tea came in, and, with tea, Aunt Anne. It was the first time that +day that Maggie had seen her, and now, conscious of the news that +Martin had given her, she felt a movement of sympathy, of pity and +affection. Aunt Anne had been in her room all day, and she seemed as +she walked slowly to the fire to be of a finer pallor, a more +slender body than ever. Maggie felt as though she could see the +firelight through her body, and with that came also the conviction +that Aunt Anne knew everything, knew about Martin and the posted +letter and the thoughts of escape. Maggie herself was tired with the +trial of her waiting day, she was exhausted and was beating, with +all her resolve, against a disappointment that hammered with a +thundering noise, somewhere far away in the recesses of her soul. So +they all drew around the fire and had their tea. + +Aunt Anne, leaning back in her chair, her beautiful hands stretched +out on the arms, a fine white shawl spread on her knees, asked +Maggie about last night. + +"I hope you enjoyed yourself, dear." "Very much, Aunt Anne. Uncle +Mathew was very kind." + +"What did you do?" + +Maggie flushed. It was deceit and lies now all the time, and oh! how +she hated lies! But she went on: + +"Do you know, Aunt Anne, I think Uncle Mathew is so changed. He's +younger and everything. He talked quite differently last night, +about his business and all that he's doing. He's got his money in +malt now, he says." + +"Whose money?" asked Aunt Anne. + +"His own, he says. I never knew he had any. But he says yes, it's in +malt. It's not a nice hotel, though, where he lives." + +"Not nice, dear?" + +"No, I didn't like it. But it's only for men really of course." + +"I think he'd better take you somewhere else next time. I'll speak +to him. By the way, Maggie dear, Martha tells me you went out +yesterday afternoon all alone--into the Strand. I think it would be +better if you were to tell us." + +Maggie's cheeks were hot. She set back her shoulders. + +"How does Martha know?" she asked quickly. "I only went for a +moment--only for a little walk. But I'm grown up, Aunt Anne. Surely +I can go out by myself if . . ." she stopped, looking away from them +into the fire. + +"It isn't that, dear," Aunt Anne said very gently. "It's only that +you've been so little a time in London that you can't know your way +about yet. And London's a strange place. It might be unpleasant for +you alone. I'd rather that you told us first." + +Then Maggie delivered her challenge. + +"But, aunt, I won't be always here. I'm going off to earn my living +soon, aren't I?" + +Aunt Elizabeth drew her breath in sharply. Aunt Anne said quietly: + +"You are free, dear, quite free. But whilst I am not quite myself--I +don't want to be selfish, dear--but you are a great comfort to us, +and when I am stronger certainly you shall go . . . even now if you +wish, of course . . . but my illness." + +Even as she spoke--and it was the first time that she had ever +mentioned her illness--she caught at her breast and pressed her hand +there as though she were in great pain. Maggie sprang to her side. +She caught the girl's hand with hers and held her. Maggie could feel +her swift agonized breathing. Then with a little sigh the moment had +passed. Maggie still knelt there looking up into her aunt's face. + +Martha's voice was heard at the door. + +"Mr. Martin Warlock, Miss. Could you see him? . . ." + +"Yes, Martha," said Aunt Anne, her voice calm and controlled. "Ask +him to come up." + +She had abandoned so completely any idea that he might still come +that she could not now feel that it was he. She withdrew from her +aunt's side and stood in the shadow against the wall. + +Although her heart beat wildly her whole mind was bent upon +composure, upon showing nothing to her aunts, and on behaving to him +as though she scarcely knew him, but so soon as he entered the room +some voice cried in her: "He is mine! He is mine!" She did not stir +from her wall, but her eyes fastened upon him and then did not move. +He was wearing the same clothes as yesterday; his tie was different, +it had been black and now it was dark blue. He looked quiet and +self-possessed and at his ease. His rough stiff hair was carelessly +brushed as always; good-humour shone from his eyes, he smiled, his +walk had the sturdy broad strength of a man who is absolutely sure +of himself but is not conceited. He seemed to have no trouble in the +world. + +He greeted the aunts, then shook hands with Maggie. He gave her one +glance and she, suddenly feeling that that glance had not the things +in it that she had wanted, was frightened, her confidence left her, +she felt that if she did not have a word alone with him she would +die. + +He sat down near Aunt Anne. + +"No, thank you, I won't have any tea," he said. "We're dining very +early to-night because Father and Amy have a meeting right away over +Golders Green way somewhere. It's really on a message from him that +I came." + +He did not look at her, placed like a square shadow against the +dusky wall. He sat, leaning forward a little, his red-brown hand on +his knee, his leg bulging under the cloth of his trouser, his neck +struggling behind his collar--but his smile was pleasant and easy, +he seemed perfectly at home. + +"My father wonders whether you will mind some friends of Miss Avies +sitting with you in your pew to-morrow evening. She has especially +asked--two of them . . . ladies, I believe. But it seems that there +will be something of a crowd, and as your pew is always half empty-- +He would not have asked except that there seems nowhere else." + +Aunt Anne graciously assented. + +"But, of course, Mr. Warlock, Maggie will be going with us, but +still there will be room. Mr. Crashaw is going to speak after all, I +hear. I was afraid that he would have been too ill." + +Martin laughed. "He is staying with us, you know, and already he is +preparing himself. He's about the oldest human being I've ever seen. +He must be a hundred." + +"He's a great saint," said Aunt Anne. + +"He's always in a terrible temper though," said Martin. "He mutters +to himself--and he eats nothing. His room is next to mine, and he +walked up and down all night talking. I don't know how he keeps +alive." + +Perhaps Aunt Anne thought Martin's tone irreverent. She relapsed +into herself and seemed suddenly, with a spiritual wave of the hand, +to have dismissed the whole company. + +Martin took his leave. He barely touched Maggie's hand, but his eyes +leapt upon hers with all the fire of a greeting too long delayed. +His lips did not move, but she heard the whisper "Soon!" Then he was +gone. + +Soon! She felt as though she could not wait another instant but must +immediately run after him, follow him into the street, and make +clear his plans both for himself and her. + +Then, continuing her struggle of the long day, she beat into herself +endurance; she was in a new world, in a world with roads and cities, +mountains, rivers, seas and forests that had to be traversed by her, +to be learnt and remembered and conquered, and for the success of +this she must have her own spirit absolutely aloof and firm and +brave. She loved him. That must be enough for her, and meanwhile she +need not lose her common sense and vision of everyday life . . .But +meanwhile it hurt. She was now twice as lonely as she had been +before because she did not know what he intended to do, and always +with her now there was something strange and unknown that might at +any moment be stronger than she. + +But by next morning she had conquered herself. She would see him at +Chapel that night and perhaps have a word with him, and so already +she had arrived at her now lover's calendar of dates and seasons. +There was the time before she would see him and the time after--no +other time than that. + +The trouble that weighed upon her most heavily was her deceitfulness +to the aunts. Fifty times that day she was on the edge of speaking +and telling them all, but she was held back by the vagueness of her +relations to Martin. Were they engaged? Did he even love her? He had +only kissed her. He had said nothing. No, she must wait, but with +this definite sense of her wickedness weighing upon her--not +wickedness to herself, for that she cared nothing, but wickedness to +them--she tried, on this day, to be a pattern member of the +household, going softly everywhere that she was told, closing doors +behind her, being punctual and careful. Unhappily it was a day of +misfortune, it was one of Aunt Anne's more worldly hours and she +thought that she would spend it in training Maggie. Very good--but +Maggie dropped a glass into which flowers were to have been put, she +shook her pen when she was addressing some envelopes so that some +drops of ink were scattered upon the carpet, and, in her haste to be +punctual, she banged her bedroom door so loudly that Aunt Anne was +waked from her afternoon nap. + +A scene followed. Aunt Anne showed herself very human, like any +other aunt justly exasperated by any other niece. + +"I sometimes despair of you, Maggie. You will not think of others. I +don't wish to be hard or unjust, but selfishness is the name of your +greatest weakness." + +Maggie, standing with her hands behind her, a spot of ink on her +nose and her short hair ruffled, was hard and unrepentant. + +"You must send me away," she said; "I'm not a success here. You +don't like me." + +Aunt Anne looked at Maggie with eyes that were clear and cold like +deep unfriendly waters. "You mustn't say that. We love you, but you +have very much to learn. To-night I shall speak to Miss Avies and +arrange that you go to have a talk with her sometimes. She is a wise +woman who knows many things. My sister and I are not strong enough +to deal with you, and we are weakened perhaps by our love for you." + +"I don't want to go to-night," Maggie said, then she burst out: "Oh, +can't I lead an ordinary life like other girls--be free and find +things out for myself, not only go by what older people tell me-- +earn my living and be free? I've never lived an ordinary life. Life +with Father wasn't fair, and now--" + +Aunt Anne put out her arm and drew her towards her. "Poor +Maggie . . . Aren't you unfair to us? Do you suppose really that we +don't love you? Do you think that I don't understand? You shall be +free, afterwards, if you wish--perfectly free--but you must have the +opportunity of learning what this life is first, what the love of +God is, what the companionship of Him is. If after you have seen you +still reject it, we will not try to keep you. But it is God's will +that you stay with us for a time." + +"How do you know that it is God's will?" asked Maggie, melted +nevertheless, as she always was by any sign of affection. + +"He has told me," Aunt Anne answered, and then closed her eyes. + +Maggie went away with a sensation of being tracked by some stealthy +mysterious force that was creeping ever closer and closer upon her, +that she could only feel but not see. For instance, she might have +said that she would not go to Chapel to-night, and she might have +taken her stand upon that. And yet she could not say that. Of course +she must go because she must see Martin, but even if she had known +that he would not be there she would have gone. Was it curiosity? +Was it reminiscence? Was it superstition? Was it cowardice? Was it +loneliness? All these things, perhaps, and yet something more than +they . . . + +All through the afternoon of the lovely November day she anticipated +that evening's services as though it were in some way to be a +climax. She knew that it was to be for all of them an especial +affair. She had heard during the last days much discussion of old +Mr. Crashaw. He was an old man with, apparently, a wonderful history +of conversions behind him. His conversions had been, it seemed, of +the forcible kind, seizing people by the neck and shoving them in; +he was a fierce and militant kind of saint; he believed, it seemed, +in damnation and eternal hell fire, and could make you believe in +them too; his accent was on the tortures rather than the triumphs of +religion. + +But Maggie had other thoughts, in this, outside Mr. Crashaw. She had +never lost the force of that first meeting with Mr. Warlock; she had +avoided him simply because she was afraid lest he should influence +her too much, but now after her friendship with Martin she felt that +she could never meet old Mr. Warlock frankly again. What he would +say to her if he knew that she meant to take his son away from him +she knew well enough. On every side there was trouble and +difficulty. She could not see a friend anywhere unless it was +Caroline, whom she did not completely trust, and Mr. Magnus, whom +her deception of her aunt would, she knew, most deeply distress. +Meanwhile she was being pushed forward more and more into the +especial religious atmosphere of the house, the Chapel and the +Chapel sect. Of no use to tell herself that this was only a tiny +fragment of the whole world, that there, only five yards away from +her, in the Strand, was a life that swept past the Chapel and its +worshippers with the utmost, completest indifference. She had always +this feeling that she was caught, that she could only escape by a +desperate violent effort that would hurt others and perhaps be, for +herself, a lasting reproach. She wanted so simple a thing . . . to +be always with Martin, working, with all this confusing, baffling, +mysterious religion behind her; this simple thing seemed incredibly +difficult of attainment. + +Nevertheless, when they started that evening for the Chapel she +felt, in spite of herself, a strange almost pleasurable excitement. +There was, in that plain, ugly building some force that could not be +denied. Was it the force of the worshippers' belief? Was it the +force of some outside power that watched ironically the efforts of +those poor human beings to discover it? Was it the love of a father +for his children? No, there was very little love in this creed--no +more than there had been in her father's creed before. As she walked +along between her aunts her brain was a curious jumble of religion, +Martin, and how she was ever going to learn to be tidy and punctual. + +"Well, I won't care," was the resolution with which she always +brought to an end her discussions and misgivings. "I'm myself. +Nobody can touch me unless I let them." + +It was a most lovely evening, very pale and clear with an orange +light in the sky like the reflection of some far distant towering +fire. The air was still and the rumble of the town scarcely +penetrated into their street; they could hear the ugly voice of the +little Chapel bell jangling in the heart of the houses, there was a +scent of chrysanthemums from somewhere and a very faint suggestion +of snow--even before they reached the Chapel door a few flakes +lazily began to fall. + +Maggie was thinking now only of Martin. There was a gas-lamp already +lighted in the Chapel doorway, and this blinded her eyes. She had +hoped that he would be there, waiting, so that he might have a word +with her before they went in, but when they were all gathered +together under the porch she saw with a throb of disappointment that +he was not there. She saw no one whom she knew, but it struck her at +once that here was a gathering quite different from that of the +first time that she had come to the Chapel. There seemed to be more +of the servant class; rather they were older women with serious rapt +expressions and very silent. There were men too, to-night, four or +five gathered together inside the passage, standing gravely, without +a word, not moving, like statues. Maggie was frightened. She felt +like a spy in an enemy's camp, and a spy waiting for an inevitable +detection, with no hope of securing any news. As she went up the +aisle behind her aunts her eyes searched for Martin. She could not +see him. Their seat was close to the front, and already seated in it +were the austere Miss Avies and two lady friends. + +Maggie was maliciously pleased to observe that Miss Avies had not +expected these additions to her number and was now in danger of an +uncomfortable squashing; there was, indeed, a polite little struggle +between Miss Avies and Aunt Anne as to who should have the corner +with a wooden arm upon which to rest. Miss Avies' two friends, +huddled and frightened like fledglings suddenly surprised by a +cuckoo, stirred Maggie's sympathy. She disliked Miss Avies from the +very first moment. Miss Avies had a pale, thin, pointed face with no +eyebrows, grey eyes dim and short-sighted, and fair colourless hair +brushed straight back under a hard, ugly black hat. + +At the same time she was nervous, emotional, restless; something +about her was always moving--her lips, her hands, her shoulders, her +eyes. She was fierce and hostile and ineffectual, one felt, so long +as she was by herself. Maggie did not, of course, notice all this at +the time, but in after years she always looked back on the pale, +thin, highly-strung Miss Avies as the motive of most of the events +that followed this particular evening. It was as though she felt +that Miss Avies' weight, not enough in itself to effect any result, +when thrown into the balance just turned everything in one +direction. It had that result, at any rate, upon Maggie herself. + +She soon lost, however, consideration of Miss Avies in the wider +observation of the Chapel and its congregation. It was, as it had +been on the occasion of her first visit to it, stuffy, smelling of +gas and brick and painted wood, ugly in its bareness and +unresponsiveness--and, nevertheless, exciting. The interior of the +building had the air of one who has watched some most unusual +happenings and expects very shortly to watch them again. Even the +harmonium seemed to prick up its wooden ears in anticipation. And +to-night the congregation thrilled also with breathless expectation. +As Maggie looked round upon them she could see that they were +throbbing with the anticipation of some almost sensuous delight. By +now they had filled the Chapel to its utmost limits, but there was +not one human being there who did not seem to have the appearance of +having been especially selected from other less interesting human +beings. It was not that the forces that surrounded her were +especially interesting, but she felt that all of them had taken on +some especial dramatic character from the occasion. Such +personalities as Aunt Anne and Miss Avies were in any case vivid and +dramatic, but to-night Aunt Elizabeth and the placidly rotund Mrs. +Smith, who was sitting in the front row with her mouth open, and +simple little Miss Pyncheon, Aunt Anne's friend, were remarkable and +exceptional. + +Then suddenly Maggie caught sight of Martin. He was sitting in the +extreme right next the wall; his ill-tempered sister was next to +him. Maggie could only see his head and shoulders, but she realised +at once that he had been, for a long time, trying to catch her eye. +He smiled at her an intimate peculiar smile that sent the blood +flooding to her face and made her heart beat with happiness. At the +moment of her smiling she realised that Miss Avies' dim eye was upon +her. What right had Miss Avies to watch over her? She set back her +shoulders, sat up stiffly, and tried to look as old as she might-- +that was not, unhappily, very old. That smile exchanged with Martin +had made her happy for ever. Miss Avies was of less than no +importance at all . . . + +The little bell ceased its jangling, the harmonium began a quavering +prelude, and from a door at the back, behind the little platform and +desk, three men entered: first Mr. Thurston; then a little crooked +man who must, Maggie knew, be Mr. Crashaw; finally, in magnificent +contrast, Mr. Warlock. A quiver of emotion passed over the Chapel-- +there was then a hushed expectant pause. + +"Brothers and sisters, let us pray," said Mr. Thurston. + +Maggie had not seen him before; she wondered what strange chance had +led him and Mr. Warlock to work together. In every movement of the +body, in every tone of the voice, Thurston showed the professional +actor--his thoughts were all upon himself and the effect that he was +making. So calculated was he in his attitude that his eyes betrayed +him, having in their gleam other thoughts, other intentions very far +away from his immediate business in the Chapel. Maggie, watching +him, wondered what those thoughts were. His voice was ugly, as were +all his movements; his sharp actor's face, with the long rather +dirty black hair, the hooked nose, the long dirty fingers which +moved in and out as though they worked of themselves--all these +things were false and unmoving. But behind his harsh voice, gross +accent and melodramatic tone there was some power, the power of a +man ambitious, ruthless, scornful, self-confident. He did not care a +snap of his fingers for his congregation, he laughed at their +beliefs, he made use of their credulity. + +"Oh God," he prayed, his voice now shrill and quivering and just out +of tune, so that it jarred every nerve in Maggie's body, "Thou seest +what we are, miserable sinners not worthy of Thy care or goodness, +sunk deep in the mire of evil living and evil 'abits, nevertheless, +oh God, we, knowing Thy loving 'eart towards Thy sinful servants, do +pray Thee that Thou wilt give us Thy blessing before we leave this +Thy 'ouse this night; a new contrite 'eart is what we beg of Thee, +that we may go out into this evil world taught by Thee to search out +our ways and improve our thoughts, caring for nothing but Thee, +following in Thy footsteps and making ready for Thy immediate +Coming, which will be in Thine own good time and according to Thy +will." + +"This we pray for the sake of Thy dear Son, our Lord Jesus Christ, +who died for our sins upon the bloody Cross." + +"Amen." + +From between her hands Maggie watched those two strange eyes +wandering about the Chapel, picking up here a person, there a +person, wondering over this, wondering over that, and always, in the +end, concerned not about these things at all but about some other +more ultimate loneliness, fear or expectation, something that set +him apart and made him, as are all men in the final recesses of +their spirit, as lonely as though he were by himself on a desert +island. + +The thrill of anticipation faded through the Chapel as Thurston +continued his prayer. He had not to-night, at any rate, power over +his audience--the thing that they were waiting for was something +that he could not satisfy. A restlessness was abroad; coughing broke +out once, twice, then everywhere; chairs creaked, sighs could be +heard, some one moved to the door. Thurston seemed to realise his +failure; with a sudden snap of impatience he brought prayer to an +end and rose to his feet. + +"We will sing," he said, "No. 341. 'Bathed in the blood of the +Lamb.'" + +The singing of the hymn roused the excitement of the congregation to +even more than its earlier pitch. The tune was a moving one, +beginning very softly, beseeching God to listen, then, more +confident, rising to a high note of appeal: + +By all Thy sores and bloody pain Come down and heal our sins again; + +falling, after that, to a note of confidence and security in the +last refrain: + +By the blood, by the blood, by the blood of the Lamb We beseech +Thee-- + +In spite of the crudity of the words and the simplicity of the tune +Maggie had tears in her eyes. The whole Chapel was singing now, +singing as though the sins of the world could be redeemed only by +the force and power of this especial moment. Maggie was caught up +with the rest. She found herself singing parts of the second verse, +then in the third she was carried away, had forgotten herself, her +surroundings, even Martin. There was something real in this, +something beyond the ugliness of the Chapel and its congregation. +She remembered what Mr. Magnus had said: "If there's something of +great value, don't think the less of it because the people, +including yourself, who admire it, aren't worth very much. Why +should they be?" + +She looked for a moment at Aunt Anne and saw her in an ecstasy, +singing in her cracked tuneless voice, a smile about her lips and in +her eyes, that gazed far, far beyond that Chapel. Maggie felt the +approach of tears; she stopped singing--softly the refrain of the +last verse came: + +By the blood, by the blood, by the blood of the Lamb We beseech +Thee! + +The hymn over, Mr. Warlock read the Bible and then offered up a long +extempore prayer. Strangely enough Mr. Warlock brought Maggie back +to reality--strangely because, on an earlier occasion, he had done +exactly the opposite. She realised at once that he was not happy to- +night. Before, he had been himself caught up into the mood that held +the Chapel; to-night he was fighting against a mood that was then +outside him, a mood with which he did not sympathise and in which he +could not believe. + +She saw that he was unhappy, he spoke slowly, without the +spontaneity and force that he had used before; once he made a long +pause and you could feel throughout the Chapel a wave of nervous +apprehension, as though every one were waiting to see whether he +would fight his way through or not. Maggie felt her earlier emotion +sentimental and false, it was as though he had said to her: "But +that's not the true thing; that's cheap sham emotion. That's what +they're trying to turn our great reality into. I'm fighting them and +you must help me." + +He was fighting them. She could imagine Mr. Thurston's scornful +lip, hidden now by his hands. As Mr. Warlock went on with his +dignified sentences, his restraint and his reverence, she could +fancy how Thurston was saying to himself: "But what's the good of +this? It's blood and thunder we want. The old feller's getting past +his work. He must go." + +But it was Mr. Warlock's reality of which she was afraid. As he +continued his prayer she felt all her old terror return, that terror +that she had known on the night her father died, during the hours +that she had watched beside his dead body, at the moment when she +had first arrived at the house in London, during her first visit to +the Chapel, when she had said good-night to her aunt before going +out with Uncle Mathew . . . And now Mr. Warlock was sweeping her +still farther inside. The intensity of his belief forced hers. There +was something real in this power of God, and you could not finish +with it simply by disregarding it. She felt, as she had felt so +often lately, that some one was suddenly going to rise and demand +some oath or promise from her that she, in her panic, would give her +word and then would be caught for ever. + +"By the love of Thy dear Son, Our Lord Jesus Christ, and by the +promise of Thy second coming, we beseech Thee" . . . finished Mr. +Warlock. + +During all this time the atmosphere of the Chapel had been growing +hotter and hotter and closer and closer. It had always its air of +being buried deep under ground, bathed in a kind of sunken heat that +found its voice in the gas that hissed and sizzled overhead; near +the door was a long rail on which coats might be hung, and now these +garments could be seen, swaying a little to and fro, like corpses of +condemned men. + +The bare ugliness of the building with its stone walls, its rows of +wooden seats, its grey windows, its iron-hung gas-lamps, its ugly +desk and platform, was veiled now in a thin steaming heat that rose +mistily above the heads of the kneeling congregation and seemed to +hide strange shapes and shadows in its shifting depths. Every one +was swimming in an uncertain world; the unreality grew with the +heat. Maggie herself, at the end of Mr. Warlock's prayer, felt that +her test of a real solid and unimaginative world was leaving her. +She was expectant like the rest, as ready to believe anything at +all. + +Out of the mist rose Mr. Crashaw. This was a little old man with a +crabbed face and a body that seemed to have endured infernal +twistings in some Inquisitioner's torture-chamber. Maggie learnt +afterwards that he had suffered for many years from intolerable +rheumatism, but to-night the contortions and windings of the body +with which he climbed up onto the platform, and then the grimaces +that he made as his large round head peered over the top of the +desk, might have struck any less solemn assemblage as farcical. He +wore an old shiny black frock coat and a white rather grimy tie +fastened in a sharp little bow. His face was lined like a map, his +cheeks seamed and furrowed, his forehead a wilderness of marks, his +scanty hair brushed straight back so that the top of his forehead +seemed unnaturally shiny and bald; his hands, with which he clutched +the side of his desk, were brown and wrinkled and grasping like a +monkey's. His eyes were the eyes of a fanatic, but they were not +steady and speculative like Warlock's or glowing and distant like +Aunt Anne's, but rather angry and restless and pugnacious; they were +the eyes of a madman, but of a madman who can yet calculate upon and +arrange his position in the world. He was mad for his own purposes, +and could, for these same purposes, bind his madness to its proper +bounds. + +He seemed to Maggie at first rather pathetic with his little twisted +body and his large round head. Very soon it was emotions quite other +than pity that she was feeling. She saw at once that he was a +practised preacher, and she who had, with the exception of Mr. +Warlock, never heard a fine preacher, was at once under the sway of +one of the ablest and most dramatic orators of his time. His voice +was sweet and clear, and seemed strange enough coming from that ugly +and malevolent countenance. Only the head and the grasping hands +could be seen, but sometimes the invisible body was driven with such +force against the desk that it seemed that it must fling the thing +over, down into the congregation. + +"My brothers and sisters," he began, "I have come to-night to give +you a warning, and this warning is given to you not as the +expression of a personal opinion but as the declaration of an +assumed fact. Disregard it or not as you please, but I shall have +done my duty in pointing out to you the sure and certain meaning of +my message." + +"I, a sinner like the rest of you, live nevertheless in the fear of +hell fire. Hell fire has become, I think, to many of the present +generation a mockery and a derision. I come to tell you that it is +no mockery, that it as surely lies there, a blazing furnace, in +front of us as though we saw it with our own eyes . . ." + +With his own eyes he had surely seen it. They were fixed now in a +frenzy of realisation upon some distant vision, and, with a shiver, +the Chapel followed his gaze. It is easy enough to laugh at bare and +conventional words stripped of the atmosphere and significance of +their original surroundings. The merest baby in this twentieth +century can laugh at the flames of hell and advance a string of easy +arguments against the probability of any such melodramatic +fulfilment of the commonplace and colourless lives that the majority +of us lead, but Maggie was in no mood to laugh that night. + +Before five minutes had passed she found herself shivering where she +sat. The Chapel was convicted of Sin, and of Sin of no ordinary +measure. The head that rested like a round ball on the surface of +the desk thrust conviction into every heart: "You think that you may +escape, you look at your neighbours, every one of you, and say, 'He +is worse than I. I am safe,' but I tell you that not one man or +woman here shall be secure unless he turn instantly now to God and +beg for mercy . . ." + +As he continued he did indeed bear the almost breathless urgency of +one who has been sent on in advance to announce the imminence of +some awful peril. No matter what the peril might be; simply through +the Chapel there passed the breath of some coming danger. Impossible +to watch him and not realise that here was a man who had seen +something with his own eyes that had changed in a moment the very +fabric of his life. Thurston might be a charlatan who played with +the beliefs of his dupes, Warlock might be a mystic whose vision was +in the future and not in the past--Crashaw knew. + +He painted, quietly, without fine words but with assurance and +conviction, his belief in the punishment of mankind. God was almost +now upon the threshold of their house. He was at the very gates of +their city, and with Him was coming a doom as sure and awful as the +sentence of the earthly judge on his earthly victim. + +"Punishment! Punishment! . . . We have grown in this careless age to +laugh at punishment. A future life? There is no future life. God? +There is no God! Even were He to come upon us we could escape from +Him. We could make a very good case for ourselves. This world is +safe, secure, founded upon our markets, our treasuries, our laws and +commandments, our conventions of decent behaviour, our police and +our ministers. God cannot touch us. We are secure . . . I tell you +that at this very moment this earth in which you trust is trembling +under you, at this instant everything in which you believed is +undermined and is betraying you. You have been given your +opportunity--you are refusing it--and God is upon you." + +His voice changed suddenly to tones of a marvellous sweetness. He +appealed, pleaded, implored. The ugliness of his face and body was +forgotten, he was simply a voice issuing from space, sent to save a +world. + +"And we here--the few of us out of this huge city gathered together +here--it is not too late for us. Let us surrender ourselves. Let us +go to Him and say that we are His, that we await His coming and obey +His law . . . Brothers and sisters, I am as you are, weak and +helpless and full of sin, but come to Him, come to Him, come to Him! +. . . There is help for us all, help and pity and love. Love such as +none of us have ever known, love that cannot fail us and will be +with us until eternity!" + +He stepped out from behind the desk, stood before them all with his +little stunted, twisted body, his arms held out towards them. There +followed then an extraordinary scene--from all over the Chapel came +sobs and cries. A man rose suddenly from the back of the building +and cried aloud, "Lord, I believe! Help Thou mine unbelief." One of +the women who had come with Miss Avies fell upon her knees and began +to sob, crying hysterically: "Oh God, have mercy! God have mercy!" +Women pressed up the two aisles, some of them falling on their knees +there where they had stood, others coming to the front and kneeling +there. Somewhere they began to sing the hymn that had already been +sung that evening, a few voices at first, then more, then all +singing together: + +"By the blood, by the blood, by the blood of the Lamb We beseech +Thee!" + +Everywhere now women were crying, the Chapel was filled with voices, +sobs, cries and prayers. + +Mr. Crashaw stood there, motionless, his arms outstretched. + +Maggie did not know what she felt. She seemed deprived of all +sensation on one side, and, on the other, fear and excitement; both +joy and disgust held her. She could not have told any one what her +sensations were; she was trembling from head to foot as though with +cold. But behind everything she had this terror, that at any moment +she might be drawn forward to do something, to give some pledge that +would bind her for all her life. She felt as though some power were +urging her to this, and as though the Chapel and every one in it was +conscious of the struggle. + +What might have happened she would never know. She felt a touch on +her sleeve, and, turning round, saw Aunt Anne's eyes looking up at +her out of a face that was so white and the skin of it so tightly +drawn that it was like the face of a dead woman. + +"I'm in great pain, Maggie. I think you must take me home," she +heard her aunt say. + +Aunt Anne took her arm, they went out followed by Aunt Elizabeth. +The fresh evening air that blew upon Maggie's forehead seemed +suddenly to make of the Chapel a dim, incredible phantom; faintly +from behind the closed door came the echo of the hymn. The street +was absolutely still--no human being was in sight, only an old cab +stationed close at hand waiting for a possible customer; into this +they got. The pale, almost white, evening sky, with stars in sheets +and squares and pools of fire, shone with the clear radiance of +glass above them. Maggie could see the stars through the dirty +windows of the cab. + +They were quite silent all the way home. Aunt Anne sitting up very +straight, motionless, her fingers still on Maggie's arm. + +Inside the house there was Jane. She seemed at once to under-stand, +and, with Aunt Elizabeth, led Aunt Anne up the dark stairs. + +They disappeared, leaving Maggie alone in the hall, whose only sound +was the ticking clock from the stairs and only light the dim lamp +above the door. + + + + +CHAPTER V + +THE CHOICE + + +She waited for some time alone in the hall listening for she knew +not what. Her departure from the Chapel had been too abrupt to allow +her in a moment to shake off the impression of it--above all, the +impression of Mr. Crashaw standing there, his arms stretched out to +her, his eyes burning her through and through with the urgent +insistence of his discovery. + +She was tired, her head ached horribly, she would have given +everything at that moment for a friend who would care for her and +protect her from her own wild fears. She did not know of what she +was afraid, but she knew that she felt that she would rather do +anything than spend the night in that house. And yet what could she +do? How could she escape? She knew that she could not. Oh! if only +Martin would come! Where was he? Why could he not carry her off that +very night? Why did he not come? + +She gazed desperately about her. Could she not leave the house there +and then? But where should she go? What could she do without a +friend in London? She stood there, clasping and unclasping her +hands, looking up at the black stairs, listening for some sound from +above, fancying a ghost in every darkening corner of the place. + +Then her common sense reasserted itself. It was something, at any +rate, that she was out of the Chapel, away from Mr. Crashaw's +piercing eyes, Mr. Thurston's rasping voice, Mr. Warlock's +reproachful melancholy. She felt this evening as though by +struggling with all her strength she could shut the gates upon new +experiences that were fighting to enter into her soul, but must, at +all costs to her own happiness, be defeated. No such thing as +ghosts, no such thing as a God, be He kind, tender, cruel or loving- +-nothing but what one can see, can touch, can confront with one's +physical strength. She had been to a service at a Methodist chapel, +her aunt had been ill, to-morrow there would be daylight and people +hurrying down the street about their business, work and shops and +food and sun . . . No such thing as ghosts! Nothing but what you can +see! + +"And I'll get some work without wasting a minute," she thought, +nodding her head. "In a shop if necessary--or I could be a +governess--and then when he is free, Martin will be with me." + +She climbed on a chair and turned down the hall-gas as she had seen +Martha do. She went to the door and slipped the chain into its +socket and turned the lock. She listened for a moment before she +started upstairs, she saw Mr. Crashaw's eyes in the dark--she heard +his voice. + +"Punishment! Punishment!. . ." + +She suddenly started to run up the black stairs, stumbled, ran +faster through the passage under the picture of the armed men, +arrived at last in her room, breathless. + +During her undressing she stopped sometimes to listen. Her aunt's +bedroom was on the floor below hers, and she certainly could hear +nothing through the closed doors, and yet she fancied, as she stood +there, that the sound of sobbing came up to her and, twice, a sharp +cry. + +"I suppose I'm terribly selfish," she thought, "I ought to want to +go and help Aunt Anne, and I don't." No, she didn't. She wanted to +run away from the house, miles and miles and miles. She climbed into +bed and thought of her escape. If Miss Trenchard did not answer her +letter, then she could go off to Uncle Mathew, greatly though she +disliked the thought of that; then she could live on her three +hundred pounds and look about until she found work or Martin came +for her. + +But so ignorant was she of the world that she did not in the least +know how she could get her three hundred pounds. But Uncle Mathew +would know. She thought of him standing in the doorway at the hotel, +holding up a glass, then she thought of Martin, and so fell asleep. + +She woke suddenly to find some one standing in her open doorway and +holding up a candle. That some one was old Martha, looking strange +enough in a nightdress, her scanty grey hairs untidily about her +neck and a dirty red shawl over her shoulders. Maggie blinked at the +light and sat up in bed. + +"What is it?" she asked. + +"It's your aunt, Miss--Miss Anne. She's very bad. She wants you to +go to her." + +Maggie got out of bed, put on her dressing-gown and slippers and +followed the servant. + +As she hurried along the dark passage she was still only half-awake; +her soul had not returned into her body, but her body was awake and +vibrating with the knowledge that the soul was soon coming to it, +and coming to it with great news, with the consciousness of a +marvellous experience. For at the instant when Martha awoke her she +had been dreaming of Martin, dreaming of him physically, so that it +was his body against hers, his hand hot and dry in hers cool and +soft, his cheek rough and strong against hers smooth and pale. There +had been no sentimentality or weakness in her dream. They had been +confident and sure and defiant together, and it had been real life +for her, so real that this dream life in which now she moved down +the shadowy passage was about her as green water is about one when +one swims under waves. + +It was only slowly, as the cold air of the house at night cleared +her eyes and her throat and her breast, that she came to the world +consciousness again and surrendered her lover back to the shades and +felt a sudden frightened fear lest, after all, she should never +really know that ecstasy of which she had just been dreaming. + +Nevertheless it was still with a great consciousness of Martin that +she entered her aunt's bedroom. Before she entered she turned round +for a moment to Martha. + +"What must I do?" she asked. "What will she want me to do?" + +"It's only," said Martha, "if the pains come on very bad, to give +her some drops. They're in a little green bottle by her bed. Five +drops . . . yes, miss, five drops in a little green bottle. Only if +the pains is very bad. She's brave--wonderful. I'd 'ave sat up till +morning willing, and so of course would Miss Elizabeth. But she +seemed to want you, miss." + +They were like two conspirators whispering there in the dark. The +room within was so still. Maggie very softly pushed back the door +and entered. She walked a few steps inside the room and hesitated. +There was no sound in the room at all, utter stillness so that +Maggie could hear her own breathing as though it were some one else +at her side warning her. Then slowly things emerged, the long white +bed first, afterwards a shaded lamp beside it, a little table with +bottles, a chair--beyond the circle of lighted shadow there were +shapes, near the window a high glass, a dark shade that was the +dressing-table, and faint grey squares where the windows hung. + +In the room was a strange scent half wine, half medicine, and beyond +that the plain tang of apples partially eaten, a little smell of oil +too from the lamp--very faintly the figure of the Christ above the +bed was visible. Maggie moved forward to the bed, then stopped +again. She did not know what to do; she could see a dark shadow on +the pillow that must she knew be her aunt's hair, and yet she did +not connect that with her aunt. The room was cold and, she felt, of +infinite space. The smell of the wine and the medicine made her shy +and awkward as though she were somewhere where she should not be. + +There came a little sigh, and then a very quiet, tired voice. + +"Maggie, is that you?" + +"Yes, Aunt Anne." + +She came very close to the bed, and suddenly, as though a curtain +had been drawn back, she could see her aunt's large eyes and white +sharp face. + +"It was very good of you, dear, to come. I felt ashamed to wake you +up at such an hour, but I wanted you. I felt that only you must be +with me to-night. It was a call from God. I felt that it must be +obeyed. Sit down, dear. There, on that chair. You're not cold, are +you?" + +Maggie sat down, gathering her dressing-gown close about her. She +was not even now drawn right out of her dream, and the room seemed +fantastic, to rise and fall a little, and to be filled with sound, +just out of hearing. For a time she was so sleepy that she nodded on +her chair, and the green lamp swelled and quivered and the very bed +seemed to sway in the dark, but soon the cold air cleared her head, +and she was wide awake, staring before her at the grey window-panes. +Her aunt did not for a long time speak again. Maggie sat there her +mind a maze of the Chapel, old Crashaw, Miss Avies, and Martin. +Slowly the cold crept into her feet and her hands, but her head now +was burning hot. Then suddenly her aunt began to talk in a dreamy +rather lazy voice, not her natural daily tone which was always very +sharp and clear. She talked on and on; sometimes her sentences were +confused and unfinished, sometimes they seemed to Maggie to have no +meaning; once or twice the voice dropped so low that Maggie did not +catch the words, but always there was especial urgency behind the +carelessness as though every word were being spoken for a listener's +benefit--a listener who sat perhaps with pencil and notebook +somewhere in the dark behind them. + +"So sorry . . . so sorry, Maggie dear . . . so sorry," the words ran +up and down. "I hadn't meant to take you away before the service was +over. Elizabeth could have . . . sometimes my pain is very bad and I +have to lie down, you know. But it's nothing--nothing really--only +I'm glad, rather, that you should share all our little troubles, +because then you'll know us better, won't you? Dear Maggie, there's +been something between us all this time, hasn't there? Ever since +our first meeting--and it's partly been my fault. I wasn't good at +first, I wanted to be kind, but I was stiff and shy. You wouldn't +think that I'm shy? I am, terribly. I always have been since I was +very little, and just to enter a room when other people are there +makes me so embarrassed . . . I remember once when mother was alive +her scolding me because I wouldn't come in to a tea-party. But I +couldn't; I stood outside the door in an agony, doing everything to +make myself go in--but I couldn't . . . But now I've come to love +you, dear, although of course you have your faults. But they are +faults of your age, carelessness, selfishness. They are nothing in +the eyes of God, who understands all our weaknesses. And you must +learn to know Him, dear. That is my only prayer now. If I am taken, +if I go before the great day--if it be His will--then I pray always, +now that I may leave you in my place, waiting for Him as I have +waited, trusting Him as I have trusted . . . you saw to-night what +it means to us, what it must mean to any one who has listened. There +were times, years ago, when I had not turned to God, when I did +not care, when I thought of earthly love . . . God drew me to +Himself . . . You too must come, Maggie--you must come. You mustn't +stay outside--you are asked, you are invited--perhaps you will be +compelled . . ." + +The voice sank: Maggie's teeth chattered in her head from the cold, +and her foot had gone to sleep. She felt obstinate and rebellious +and frightened, she could not think clearly, and the words that came +from her, suddenly, seemed to her not to be her own. + +"Aunt Anne, I want to do everything that you and Aunt Elizabeth +think I should, but I must be myself, mustn't I? I'm grown up now; +I've got my three hundred pounds and I don't think I want to be +religious. I'm very grateful to you and Aunt Elizabeth, but I'm not +a help to you much, I'm afraid. I know I'm very careless, I do want +to be better, and that's all the more reason, perhaps, why I should +go out and earn my own living. I'd learn more quickly then. But I do +love you and Aunt Elizabeth . . ." + +She broke off; she did not love them. She knew that she did not. The +only human being in all the world whom she loved was Martin. +Nevertheless there did come to her suddenly then a new tenderness +for her aunt; the actual sight of her pain in the Chapel had deeply +touched her and now her eagerness for escape was mingled with a +longing to be affectionate and good. + +But Aunt Anne did not seem to have heard. + +"Are you sure you're not cold, dear?" + +"No, aunt." + +Their hands touched. + +"But you are. Put that rug over you. That one at the end of the bed. +I'm quiet now. I think perhaps I shall sleep a little." + +"Is there anything I can do?" + +"Perhaps turn the lamp down, dear. That's it. A little more. Now, if +you'd just raise my pillow. There, behind my head. That's the way! +Why, what a good nurse you are!" + +Maggie, as tenderly as she could, turned the pillow, patted it, +placed it beneath her aunt's head. She was close against her aunt's +face, and the eyes seemed suddenly so fierce and urgent, so +insistent and powerful, that seeing them was like the discovery of +some blazing fire in an empty house. Most of all, they were +terrified eyes. Maggie went back to her chair. After that, she sat +there during the slow evolution of Eternity; Eternity unrolled +itself before her, on and on and on, grey limitless mist and space, +comfortless, lifeless, hopeless. She had been for many weeks leading +a thoroughly unwholesome life in that old house with those old +women. She did not herself know how unhealthy it had been, but she +knew that she missed the wide fields and downs of Glebeshire, the +winds that blew from the sea round Borhedden, the air that swirled +and raced up and down the little stony strata of St. Dreot. Now she +had been kept indoors, had had no fun of any kind, had looked +forward to Mr. Magnus as her chief diversion. Then Martin had come, +and suddenly she had seen how dangerously her life was hemming her +in. She was losing courage. She would soon be afraid to speak for +herself at all; she would soon . . . + +In a panic at these thoughts, and feeling as though some one was +trying to push her down into a coffin whilst she was still alive, +she began hurriedly to speak, although she did not know whether her +aunt were asleep or no. + +"I think I ought to tell you, Aunt Anne, that I wrote a letter some +days ago and posted it myself. It was to a lady who knew Father once +in Glebeshire, and she said that if ever I wanted help I was to +write to her, and so--although perhaps I oughtn't to have done it +without asking you first, still I was afraid you mightn't want me +to--so I sent it. I wouldn't like to hurt your feelings, Aunt Anne, +and it isn't that I'm not happy with you and Aunt Elizabeth, but I +ought to be earning my own living, oughtn't I? And I've only got my +three hundred pounds, haven't I? I'm not complaining, but I don't +know about anything yet, do I? I can't even find my way when I'm out +with Aunt Elizabeth. And I'm afraid I'll never be really good enough +to be religious. Perhaps if Father'd wanted me to be I might be now, +but he never cared . . . I hope you won't be angry, Aunt Anne, but I +didn't like to-night--I didn't really. When I was there I thought +that soon I'd begin to cry like the others, but it was only because +every one else was crying--not because I wanted to. I hope you won't +be angry, but I'm afraid I'll never be religious as you and Aunt +Elizabeth want me to be; so don't you think it will be better for me +to start learning something else right away?" + +Maggie poured all this out and then felt immense relief. At last she +was honest again; at last she had said what she felt, and they knew +it and could never say that she hadn't been fair with them. She felt +that her speech had cleared the air in every kind of way. She waited +for her aunt's reply. No sound came from the bed. Had her aunt +heard? Perhaps she slept. Maggie waited. Then timidly, and softly +she said: + +"Aunt Anne . . . Aunt Anne . . ." + +No reply. Then again in a whisper: + +"Aunt Anne . . . Aunt Anne . . ." + +Supposing Aunt Anne . . . Maggie trembled, then, commanding herself +to be calm, she bent towards the bed. + +"Aunt Anne, are you asleep?" + +Suddenly Aunt Anne's face was there, the eyes closed, the mouth, the +cheeks pale yellow in the faint reflection from the lamp. There was +no stir, no breath. + +"Aunt Anne, Aunt Anne," Maggie whispered in terror now. Then she saw +that her aunt was sleeping; very, very faintly the sheets rose and +fell and the fingers of the hand on the coverlet trembled a little +as though they were struggling to wake. + +Then Aunt Anne had heard nothing after all. But it might be that she +was pretending, just to see what Maggie would say. + +"Aunt Anne," whispered Maggie once more and for the last time. Then +she sat back on her seat again, her hands folded, staring straight +in front of her. After that she did not know for how long she sat +there in a state somewhere between dream and reality. The room, +although it never lost its familiarity, grew uncouthly strange; +shapes grey and dim seemed to move beneath the windows, humping +their backs, spinning out into long limbs, hands and legs and +gigantic fingers. The deadest hour of the night was come; the +outside world seemed to press upon the house, the whole world cold, +thick, damp, lifeless, like an animal slain and falling with its +full weight, crushing everything beneath it. Perhaps she slept--she +did not know. Martin seemed to be with her, and against them was +Aunt Anne, her back against the door, her hands spread, refusing to +let them pass. The room joined in the struggle, the floor slipped +beneath their tread, the curtain swayed forward and caught them in +its folds, the lamp flickered and flickered and flickered . . . + +She was awake suddenly, quite acutely aware of danger. She rubbed +her eyes, turned, and in the dim shadow saw her aunt sitting up in +bed, her body drawn up to its intensest height, her hands pressing +down, flat upon the bed. Her eyes stared as though they would break +down all boundaries, but her lips trembled like the lips of a little +child. + +"Aunt Anne, what is it?" Maggie whispered. + +"It's the pain--" Her voice was far away as though some one were +speaking from the passage outside the door. "It's the pain . . . I +can't . . . much more . . ." + +Maggie remembered what Martha had told her about the drops. She +found the little green bottle, saw the glass by the side of it. + +Suddenly she heard Aunt Anne: "Oh no . . . Oh no! God I can't . . . +God, I can't . . . I can't." + +Maggie bent over the bed; she put her hand behind her aunt's back +and could feel the whole body quivering, the flesh damp beneath the +night-dress. She steadied her, then put the glass to her lips. + +The cry was now a little whisper. "No more . . . I can . . . no +more." Then more softly still: "Thy will, oh Lord. As thou wilt--Our +Father, which art in Heaven, Hallowed . . . Hallowed . . . Hallowed +. . ." + +She sank down on to her pillows. + +"Is it better?" Maggie asked. + +Her aunt caught her hand. + +"You mustn't leave me. I shan't live long, but you must stay with me +until I go. Promise me! Promise me!" + +"No, I can't promise," said Maggie. + +"You must stay. You must stay." + +"No I can't promise." Then suddenly kneeling down by the bed she put +her hand on the other's arm: "Aunt Anne, I'll do anything for you-- +anything--to make you better--if I can help . . . but not a promise, +I can't promise." + +"Ah, but you will stay," Aunt Anne's whisper trembled with its +certainty. + +That seemed the climax of the night to Maggie then. She felt that +she was indeed held for eternity by the house, the Chapel, and +something beyond the Chapel. The scent of the medicine, the +closeness of the room, the darkness and the sickness, seemed to +close all about her . . . She was at the bottom of a deep well, and +she would never get out, she would never get out . . . + +The door slowly, very softly opened, and old Martha looked in. + +"She's been very bad," whispered Maggie. + +"Ay, I heard something. That's why I came. You gave her the drops?" + +"Yes." + +"She'll sleep a bit now. I'll take your place, Miss Maggie. It's +time you went back to your bed." + +Maggie crept away. + +She came down to breakfast to find the house bathed in sunlight and +the parrot singing hoarsely "And her golden hair was hanging down +her back." Aunt Elizabeth was there, cheerful and almost merry in +her bird-like fashion. The world was normal, ghosts out of fashion, +and this morning was the day on which the silver was cleaned. This +last was Maggie's business, and very badly she did it, never being +"thorough," and having a fatal habit of thinking of other things. +Porridge, eggs and bacon, marmalade-- + +"And--her golden hair was hanging--" croaked Edward. + +"Your aunt won't come down this morning, Maggie. She's much better. +The sun's shining. A little walk will be a good thing. I'll buy the +calico that Anne talked about. Your aunt's better." + +Maggie felt ashamed of herself. What desperate silly feelings had +she allowed last night? How much she had made of that service, and +how weak she was to give way so easily! + +"I'll clean the silver," she thought. "I'll do it better than ever"- +-but unfortunately she had a hole in her stocking, and Aunt +Elizabeth, like a sparrow who has found a worm, told her about it. + +"Mr. Crashaw's coming to tea this afternoon," she concluded. + +"That's why Anne's staying in bed--to be well enough." The stocking +and Mr. Crashaw dimmed a little of the morning's radiance, but +behind them was the thought, "Martin must come to-day. It was like a +message his look last night." She even sang to herself as she +scrubbed at the silver. + +They spent a domestic morning. Aunt Elizabeth did not go for her +walk, but instead stayed in the dining-room and, seated at the end +of the long dining-table, her head just appearing above the worn and +soiled green table-cloth, tried to discipline the week's household +accounts. She worked sucking one finger after another and poking her +pencil into her ears. + +"One pound, three shillings--ham, ham, ham--?" + +At one moment she invited the cook to assist her, and that lady, +crimson from the kitchen fire, bared arms akimbo, stated that she +was not only the most economical woman in London, but was also, +thanks to her upbringing, one of the most sober and virtuous, and if +Miss Cardinal had anything to say against-- + +Oh no! Aunt Elizabeth had nothing to say against, only this one +pound, three shillings-- + +Well, the cook couldn't help that; she wasn't one to let a penny out +of her fingers where it shouldn't go. + +So the morning hummed along; luncheon-time came, the silver was all +cleaned, the stockings changed, and there was roast chicken. Thomas, +with his wicked eyes, came slowly, majestically upon the scene--but +even he was not sinister to-day, being interested in his own greed +rather than other persons' sins. + +All this time Maggie refused to think. Martin would come, then she +would see. + +Martin . . . Martin . . . Martin . . . She went up into her +bedroom and whispered the name over and over to herself whilst she +tried to mend her stocking. She flung the stocking down and gazed +out of the window on to a world that was all golden cloud and racing +watery blue. The roofs swam like floating carpets in the sun, +detached from the brick and mortar beneath them, carried by the +racing clouds. It was only at that sudden gaze that she realised +that she was a prisoner. All her alarm came back to her. + +"Why can't I go out? I'll put on my hat and just walk out. No one +can stop me. No one . . ." + +But she knew that she could not. Something more must happen first. +She turned from the window with a little shudder, finished very +clumsily her stocking, and as the cuckoo clock struck halfpast three +went down to the drawing-room. + +There to her surprise, she found Caroline Smith. The events of the +last few days had, a little, dimmed Caroline from her memory. She +had not seen Caroline for a fortnight. She did not know that she +especially wanted to see Caroline now. However, it was very certain +that Caroline wanted to see her. The young woman was dressed in +rose-coloured silk that stood out from her slim body almost like a +crinoline, and she had a straw funnel-shaped hat with roses perched +on the side of her lovely head. She kissed Maggie many times, and +then sitting down with her little sharp black shoes poked out in +front of her, she ran on: + +"It's been too bad, Maggie, dear; it's simply ages since we had a +moment, isn't it, but it hasn't been my fault. Father's been ill-- +bronchitis--and I've had to help Mother. Father's been so happy, +he's just been able to lie in bed for days and think about God. None +of those tiresome people at the Bank to interrupt him, and chicken +and jelly as much as he liked. He was so unhappy yesterday when he +had to go back to work, poor dear . . . But, Maggie, I hear you were +at the service last night. How did you like it?" + +"Like it?" said Maggie. "I don't know that it's a thing one likes, +exactly." + +"Doesn't one? I don't know. I'm not one of the Inside Saints, you +know, and I wouldn't be if they wanted me to he. But you're one now, +they say, and I never would have thought it. You don't look a bit +like one, and I shouldn't have dreamt that you'd ever stand that +sort of thing. You look so matter-of-fact." + +Maggie was on the point of bursting out that she was not an Inside +Saint, and would never be one, when caution restrained her. She had +learnt already that her gay young companion was not as trustworthy +as best friends ought to be. + +"It was the first time, last night," she said. + +"Yes, I know, and Miss Cardinal was ill and had to come away in the +middle, didn't she? It must have been a simply awful meeting, +because Mother came back as limp as anything. She'd been crying +buckets, and has a dreadful headache to-day. I suppose Mr. Crashaw +gave it them. I've never heard him, but I've seen him. Horrid old +monkey--I hope Miss Cardinal's better to-day." + +"Yes, thank you," said Maggie. "She's better." + +"Well, that's a good thing. I'm so glad. And you, you darling, what +did you think of it all? I'm sure you didn't cry buckets. I can see +you sitting there as quiet as anything, like a little Quaker. I'd +like to have gone just to have seen you. I hear Martin Warlock was +there too. Was he?" + +"He was," said Maggie. + +"Fancy that! I wonder what he went for. His father made him, I +expect. You know they say he's getting on awfully badly at home and +that there are quarrels all the time. I don't know, of course, but +his sister can't stand him. She's always showing her feelings--not +very good taste, I think, but Mr. Thurston eggs her on. They'll be +making a match of it one day, those two . . . I say, Maggie--" +Caroline drew her chair close. "I'll give you a secret. You won't +tell any one, will you?" + +"Certainly not--if you tell me not to," said Maggie. + +"Well, Martin Warlock and I--ever since he came back. Oh! I don't +say it's anything really. But he's attracted by me and would like to +go farther. He'll be asking me to marry him one of these days, and +then I'll have fun. He would have done the other day if I'd let him. +I like him rather, don't you? He's getting a bit fat, of course, but +he's got nice eyes, and then he's a real man. I like real men. But +there, you'll be thinking me coarse, I know you will. I'm not coarse +really, only impulsive. You don't like me, honestly, if it were +known. Oh no! you don't! I can tell. I always know. But I don't +care--I love you. You're a darling--and what I say is if you love +some one, just love them. Never mind what they think. Don't you +agree with me? But you wouldn't. You wouldn't think of loving +anybody. But I'm not really bad--only careless, Mother says--" + +What Mother said could not be known, because the door opened and +Martha announced Mr. Crashaw. The old man, leaning on a walking +stick, came forward and greeted Maggie and Caroline with good-temper +and amiability. He was indeed in day-time a very mild old man, and +it was difficult for Maggie to believe that this was the same who +last night had frightened her out of her wits and led her to the +edge of such strange suspicions. He was more than ever like a +monkey, with his bony brown forehead, protuberant eyes and large +mottled nose, and he sat there all huddled up by his rheumatism, a +living example of present physical torments rather than future +spiritual ones. It was apparent at once that he liked pretty young +women, and he paid Caroline a number of flattering attentions, +disregarding Maggie with a frankness that witnessed to a life that +had taught one lesson at least, never on any occasion to waste time. +Maggie did not mind--it amused her to see her terror of the night +before transformed into a mere serenading crippled old gentleman, +and to see, too, the excited pleasure with which Caroline accepted +even such decayed attentions as these. But what was it that had +persuaded her last night? Why did she now spend her time half in one +world and half in another? Which world was the real one? + +Aunt Anne very soon joined them, and this quiet, composed figure +only added to Maggie's scorn of her last night's terrors. Was this +the same who had struggled with such agony, who had made Maggie feel +that she was caught in a trap and imprisoned for ever? + +The sun beat hotly upon the carpet. Caroline's rose-coloured silk +shone and glowed, the tea was poured out, and there was chatter +about the warm winter that it was and how time passed, and how +fashions changed, and how you never saw a four-wheeler now, and what +they were turning Kingsway into, and what they were turning the Law +Courts out of, and even once, by Mr. Crashaw, a word about the +Lyceum Theatre, where some one was playing the Merchant of Venice, +which was a fine play and could do no one any harm. + +"But I daresay," said Mr. Crashaw, "that this young lady here goes +to nothing but plays every night of her life." + +"Why, Mr. Crashaw," said Caroline, tossing her head. "If that's the +kind of life you fancy I lead you're completely mistaken. Theatres +indeed! Never do I put so much as the tip of my nose inside one. +Father thinks they're wrong and so does Mother say she does, +although I know she likes them, really; but any way that doesn't +matter because I never have a moment to myself--sitting at home +sewing, that's the way I spend my days, Mr. Crashaw." + +It was the very last way she really spent them, as Maggie perfectly +well knew. It is not to be supposed that Mr. Crashaw either was +deceived. However, he gave a wicked wink with the eye that was least +rheumatic and said something about "a beautiful young lady like Miss +Smith wasted on sewing and darning," and Caroline smiled and said +something about "one day perhaps"--and Aunt Anne looked remotely +benevolent. What did she think of all this, Maggie wondered? What +did she think of her great preacher, her prophet, wasting the few +hours of life that remained to him over such a business? They had +some secret understanding, perhaps, as though they said to one +another, "We know, you and I, what are our real intentions beneath +all this. We only do what we must." + +Understanding or no, Mr. Crashaw sprang up with unexpected activity +when Caroline departed and announced his intention of conducting her +to her door. He made his adieus and then hobbled along after the +rose-coloured silk as though this was his last chance of warming his +hands at the flame of life. + +When they were gone, Aunt Anne said: + +"I am going back to bed, Maggie, dear. Martha will send me up some +supper later. Elizabeth has gone to Lambeth to see a friend, so make +yourself busy until seven, dear. If I want anything I'll ring." + +When she was left alone in the darkening room she stood there +thinking. Why should she not go out and find Martin? She did not +care what any one thought. She would go to his house and ask for +him. She had waited and waited . . . She wanted him so, she wanted +him so desperately! + +Then Martha opened the door and announced him, yes, really announced +him, saying: "It's young Mr. Warlock, Miss, and he says if your +aunts isn't in you'll do." + +"Ask him to come up, Martha," said Maggie, and then held herself +there, rooted, where she stood so that she should not run to him and +fling her arms round his neck. She felt at once with that quick +perception that was hers, in spite of her ignorance of life, that +this was no moment for love-making, and that he wanted something +quite other from her. + +He closed the door behind him, looked round the room, didn't come to +her, but stayed where he was. + +"I've been trying to see you all day," he said. "How long have we +got alone do you think?" She never took her eyes from his face. +"Until seven probably. Aunt Elizabeth's in Lambeth and Aunt Anne's +in bed." + +"That's luck." He drew a breath of relief, then moved over to the +fireplace. "Maggie, I've come to say we mustn't see one another any +more." + +Some one, some vast figure shadowy behind her, moved suddenly +forward and caught her in his arms and his embrace was deadly cold. +She stood where she was, her hands at her side, looking steadfastly +at him. + +"Why?" she said. "Because--because--the fact is, I've been wrong +altogether. Maggie, I'm not the sort of man for you to have anything +to do with. You don't know much about life yet, do you? I'm about +the first man you've ever met, aren't I? If you'd met another man +before me, you'd have cared for him as much." + +She said nothing and he seemed to be confused by her steady gaze, +because he looked down and continued to speak as though to himself: + +"I knew at once that there was danger in our meeting. With other +girls they can look after themselves. One hasn't any responsibility +to them. It's their own affair, but you believe every word a fellow +says. And if we'd been friends it wouldn't have mattered, but from +the very first we weren't that--we were something more." + +"You were so different from any other girl. I've wanted to be good +to you from the beginning, but now I see that if we go on I shall +only be bad. It all comes in the end to my being bad--really bad-- +and I want you to know it." "I don't know," said Maggie, "that I've +thought very much whether you're good or bad. And it doesn't matter. +I can look after myself." + +"No, you can't," he said vehemently, making a step towards her and +then suddenly stopping. "That's just it--you can't. I've been +thinking all the time since the other evening when we were together, +and I've seen that you believe every word I say and you trust me. I +don't mean to tell lies--I don't know that I'm worse than most other +men--but I'm not good enough for you to trust in all the same. I've +been knocking about for years, and I suppose I've had most of my +idealism knocked out of me. Anyway I don't believe in most people, +and you still do. I'm not going to be the one to change you." + +"Perhaps I know more about life than you think," said Maggie. + +"No, how can you? You've never had a chance of seeing any of it. +You'd get sick of me in no time. I'm moody and selfish and bad- +tempered. I used to drink a bit too. And I can't be faithful to +women. I might think I was going to be faithful to you and swear I +would be--and then suddenly some one would come along. I thought for +a bit I'd just go on with you and see what came of it. You're so +unusual, you make me want to be straight with you; but I've seen it +wouldn't be fair. I must just slip out of your path and you'll +forget me, and then you'll meet a much better man than I and be +happy. I'm queer--I have funny moods that last for days and days +sometimes. I seem to do every one harm I come in touch with. There's +my father now. I love him more than any one in the world, and yet I +make him unhappy all the time. I'm a bad fellow to be with--" + +He stopped suddenly, looked at her and laughed. "It isn't any good, +Maggie . . . You haven't any idea what a sweep I am. You'd hate me +if you really knew." + +She looked steadily back at him. "We haven't much time," she said, +speaking with steady, calm conviction as though she had, for years, +been expecting just such a conversation as this, and had thought out +what she would say. "Aunt Elizabeth can come back earlier than she +said. Perhaps I shall say something I oughtn't to. I don't care. The +whole thing is that I love you. I suppose it's true that I don't +know anything about men, but I'd be poor enough if my love for you +just depended on your loving me back, and on your being good to me +and all the rest of it. I've never had any one I could love until +you came, but now that you have come it can't be anything that you +can do that can alter it. If you were to go away I'd still love you, +because it's the love in me that matters, not what I get for it. +Perhaps you'll make me unhappy, but anyway one will be unhappy some +of the time." + +She went up to him and kissed him. "I know Caroline Smith or some +one would be very shocked if they thought I'd said such things to +you, but I can't help what they say." + +He had a movement to catch her and hold her, but he kept himself +off, moved away from her, turning his back to her. + +"You don't understand . . . you don't understand," he repeated. +"You know nothing about men, Maggie, and you know nothing about me. +I tell you I wouldn't be faithful to you, and I'd be drunk +sometimes, and I'd have moods for days, when I'd just sulk and not +speak to a soul. I think those moods some damned sort of religion +when I'm in them, but what they really are is bad temper. You've got +to know it, Maggie. I'd be rotten to you, however much I wanted not +to be." + +"That's my own affair," she answered. "I can look after myself. And +for all the rest, I'm independent and I'll always be independent. +I'll love you whether you're good to me or bad." + +"Well, then," he suddenly wheeled round to her, "you'd better have +it . . . I'm married already." + +She took that with a little startled cry. Her eyes searched his face +in a puzzled fashion as though she were pursuing the truth. Then she +said like a child who sees some toy broken before its eyes: + +"Oh, Martin!" + +"Yes. Nobody knows--not a soul. It was a mad thing--four years ago +in Marseille I met a girl, a little dressmaker there. I went off my +head and married her, and then a month later she ran off with a +merchant chap, a Greek. I didn't care; we got on as badly as +anything . . . but there you are. No one knows. That's the whole +thing, Maggie. I thought at first I wouldn't tell you. I was +beginning to care for you too much, as a matter of fact, and then +when your uncle asked me to dinner, I told myself I was a fool to +go. Then when I saw how you trusted me, I thought I'd be a cad and +let it continue, but somehow . . . you've got an influence over me +. . . You've made me ashamed of things I wouldn't have hesitated +about a year ago. And the funny thing is it isn't your looks. I can +say things to you I couldn't to other women, and I'll tell you right +away that there are lots of women attract me more. And yet I've +never felt about any woman as I do about you, that I wanted to be +good to her and care for her and love her. It's always whether they +loved me that I've thought about . . . Well, now I've told you, you +see that I'd better go, hadn't I? You see . . . you see." + +She looked up at him. + +"I've got to think. It makes a difference, of course. Can we meet +after a week and talk again?" + +"Much better if I don't see you any more. I'll go away altogether-- +abroad again." + +"No--after a week--" + +"Much better not." + +"Yes. Come here after a week. And if we can't be alone I'll give you +a letter somehow . . . Please, Martin--you must." + +"Maggie, just think--" + +"No--after a week." + +"Very well, then," he turned on her fiercely. "I've been honest. +I've told you. I've done all I can. If I love you now it isn't my +fault." + +He left the room, not looking at her again. And she stood there, +staring in front of her. + + + + +CHAPTER VI + +THE PROPHET IN HIS OWN HOME + + +Martin walked into the street with a confused sense of triumph and +defeat, that confusion that comes to all sensitive men at the moment +when they are stepping, against their will, from one set of +conditions into another. He had gone into that house, only half an +hour ago, determined to leave Maggie for ever--for his good and +hers. He came back into the street realising that he was now, +perhaps for the first time, quite definitely involved in some +relation with her--good, bad, safe, dangerous he did not know--but +involved. He had intended to tell her nothing of his marriage--and +he had told her. He had intended to treat their whole meeting as +something light, passing, inconsiderable--he had instead treated it +as something of the utmost gravity. He had intended, above all, to +prove to himself that he could do what he wished--he had found that +he had no power. + +And so, as he stepped through the dim gold-dust of the evening light +he was stirred with an immense sense of having stepped, definitely +at last, across the threshold of new adventure and enterprise. All +kinds of problems were awaiting solution--his relation to his +father, his mother, his sister, his home, his past, his future, his +sins and his weaknesses--and he had meant to solve them all, as he +had often solved them in the past, by simply cutting adrift. But +now, instead of that, he had decided to stay and face it all out, he +had confessed at last that secret that he had hidden from all the +world, and he had submitted to the will of a girl whom he scarcely +knew and was not even sure that he liked. + +He stopped at that for a moment and, standing in a little pool of +purple light under the benignant friendliness of a golden moon new +risen and solitary, he considered it. No, he did not know whether he +liked her--it was interest rather that drew him, her strangeness, +her strength and loneliness, young and solitary like the moon above +him--and yet--also some feeling softer than interest so that he was +suddenly touched as he thought of her and spoke out aloud: "I'll be +good to her--whatever happens, by God I'll be good to her," so that +a chauffeur near him turned and looked with hard scornful eyes, and +a girl somewhere laughed. With all his conventional dislike of being +in any way "odd" he walked hurriedly on, confused and wondering more +than ever what it was that had happened to him. Always before he had +known his own mind--now, in everything, he seemed to be pulled two +ways. It was as though some spell had been thrown over him. + +It was a lovely evening and he walked slowly, not wishing to enter +his house too quickly. He realised that he had, during the last +weeks, found nothing there but trouble. And if Maggie wished, in +spite of what he had told her, to go on with him? And if his father, +impatient at last, definitely asked him to stay at home altogether +and insisted on an answer? And if his gradually increasing +estrangement with his sister broke into open quarrel? And if, +strangest of all, this religious business, that in such +manifestations as the Chapel service of last night he hated with all +his soul, held him after all? + +He was in Garrick Street, outside the curiosity shop, his latchkey +in his hand. He stopped and stared down the street as he had done +once before, weeks ago. Was not the root of all his trouble simply +this, that he was becoming against his will interested, drawn in? +That there were things going on that his common sense rejected as +nonsense, but that nevertheless were throwing out feelers like the +twisting threats of an octopus, touching him now, only faintly, here +for a second, there for a second, but fascinating, holding him so +that he could not run away? Granted that Thurston was a charlatan, +Miss Avies a humbug, his sister a fool, his father a dreamer, +Crashaw a fanatic, did that mean that the power behind them all was +sham? Was that force that he had felt when he was a child simply +eager superstition? What was behind this street, this moon, these +hurrying figures, his own daily life and thoughts? Was there really +a vast conspiracy, a huge involving plot moving under the cardboard +surface of the world, a plot that he had by an accident of birth +spied upon and discovered? + +Always, every day now, thoughts, suspicions, speculations were +coming upon him, uninvited, undesired, from somewhere, from some +one. He did not want them he wanted only the material physical life +of the ordinary man. It must be because he was idling. He would get +work at once, join with some one in the City, go abroad again . . . +but perhaps even then he would not escape. Thoughts like those of +the last weeks did not depend for their urgency on place or time. +And Maggie, she was mixed up in it all. He was aware, as he +hesitated before opening the door, of the strangest feeling of +belonging to her, not love, nor passion, not sentiment even. Only as +though he had suddenly realised that with new perils he had received +also new protection. + +He went upstairs with a feeling that he was on the eve of events +that would change his whole world. + +As Martin climbed to the top of the black crooked staircase he was +conscious, as though it had been shown him in a vision, that he was +on the edge of some scene that might shape for him the whole course +of his future life. He had been aware, once or twice before, of such +a premonition, and, as with most men, half of him had rejected and +half of him received the warning. To-day, however, there were +reasons enough for thinking this no mere baseless superstition. With +Maggie, with his father, with his sister, with his own life the +decision had got to be taken, and it was with an abrupt +determination that he would end, at all costs, the fears and +uncertainties of these last weeks that he pushed back the hall-door +and entered. He noticed at once strange garments hanging on the rack +and a bright purple umbrella which belonged, as he knew, to a +certain Mrs. Alweed, a friend of his mother's and a faithful servant +of the Chapel, stiff and assertive in the umbrella-stand. There was +a tea-party apparently. Well, he could not face that immediately. He +would have to go in afterwards . . . meanwhile . . . + +He turned down the passage, pushed back his father's door and +entered. He paused abruptly in the doorway; there, standing in front +of the window facing him, his pale chin in the air, his legs apart, +supercilious and self-confident, stood Thurston. His father's desk +was littered with papers, rustling and blowing a little in the +breeze from the window that was never perfectly closed. + +One candle, on the edge of the desk, its flame swaying in the air +was the only light. Martin's first impulse was to turn abruptly back +again and go up to his room. He could not speak to that fellow now, +he could not! He half turned. Then something stopped him: + +"Halloo!" he said. "Where's father?" + +"Don't know," said Thurston, sucking the words through his teeth. +"I've been wanting him too." + +"Well, as he isn't here--" said Martin fiercely. + +"No use me waiting? Quite so. All the same I'm going to wait." + +The two figures were strangely contrasted, Martin red-brown with +health, thick and square, Thurston pale with a spotted complexion, +dim and watery eyes, legs and arms like sticks, his black clothes +shabby and his boots dusty. + +Nevertheless at that moment it was Thurston who had the power. He +moved forward from the window. "Makes you fair sick to see me +anywhere about the 'ouse, doesn't it? Oh, I know . . . You can't kid +me. I've seen from the first. You fair loathe the sight of me." + +"That's nothing to do with it," said Martin uneasily. "Whether we +like one another or not, there's no need to discuss it." + +"Oh, isn't there?" said Thurston, coming a little closer so that he +was standing now directly under the light of the candle. "Why not? +Why shouldn't we? What's the 'arm? I believe in discussing things +myself. I do really. I've said to myself a long way back. 'Well, +now, the first time I get 'im alone I'll ask him why 'e does dislike +me. I've always been civil to him,' I says to myself, 'and yet I +can't please him--so I'll just ask him straight.'" + +Martin shrugged his shoulders; he wanted to leave the room, but +something in Thurston held him there. + +"I suppose we aren't the sort to get on together. We haven't got +enough in common," he said clumsily. + +"I don't know about that," Thurston said in a friendly +conversational tone. "I shouldn't wonder if we've got more in common +than you'd fancy. Now I'll tell you right out, I like you. I've +always liked you, and what's more I always shall. Whatever you do--" + +"I don't care," broke in Martin angrily, "whether you like me or +not." + +"No, I know you don't," Thurston continued quietly. "And I know what +you think of me, too. This is your idea of me, I reckon--that I'm a +pushing, uneducated common bounder that's just using this religious +business to shove himself along with; that's kidding all these poor +old ladies that 'e believes in their bunkum, and is altogether about +as low-down a fellow as you're likely to meet with. That's about the +colour of it, isn't it?" + +Martin said nothing. That was exactly "the colour of it." + +"Yes, well," Thurston continued, a faint flush on his pale cheeks. +"Of course I know that all right. And I'll tell you the idea that I +might 'ave of you--only might 'ave, mind you. Why, that you're a +stuck-up ignorant sort of feller, that's been rolling up and down +all over Europe, gets a bit of money, comes over and bullies his +father, thinks 'e knows better than every one about things 'e knows +nothing about whatever--" + +"Look here, Thurston," Martin interrupted, stepping forward. "I tell +you I don't care a two-penny curse what a man like--" + +"I only said might, mind you," said Thurston, smiling. "It's only a +short-sighted fool would think that of you really. And I'm not a +fool. No, really, I'm not. I've got quite another idea of you. My +idea is that you're one of us whether you want to be or not, and +that you always will be one of us. That's why I like you and will be +a friend to you too." + +"I tell you I don't want your damned friendship," Martin cried. "I +don't want to have anything to do with you or your opinion or your +plans or anything else." + +"That's all right," said Thurston. "I quite understand. It's natural +enough to feel as you do. But I'm afraid you'll 'ave to 'ave +something to do with me. I'm not quite what you think me, and you're +not quite what you think yourself. There's two of each of us, that's +the truth of it. I may be a sham and a charlatan, one part of me, I +don't know I'm sure. I certainly don't believe all your governor +does. I don't believe all I say and I don't say all I think. But +then 'oo does? You don't yourself. I'll even tell you straight out +that when I just came into the business I laughed at the lot of 'em, +your father and all. 'A silly lot o' softs they are,' I said to +myself, 'to believe all that nonsense.' But now--I don't know. When +you've been at this game a bit you scarcely know what you do +believe, that's the truth of it. There may be something in it after +all. Sometimes . . . well, it 'ud surprise you if you'd seen all +the things I have. Oh, I don't mean ghosts and spirits and all that +kind of nonsense. No, but the kind of thing that 'appens to people +you'd never expect. You're getting caught into it yourself; I've +watched you all along. But that isn't the point. The point is that +I'm not so bad as you think, nor so simple neither. And life isn't +so simple, nor religion, nor love, nor anything as you think it. +You're young yet, you know. Very young." + +Martin turned back to the door. + +"All very interesting, Thurston," he said. "You can think what you +like, of course. All the same, the less we see of one another--" + +"Well," said Thurston slowly, smiling. "That'll be a bit difficult-- +to avoid one another, I mean. You see, I'm going to marry your +sister." + +Martin laughed. Inside him something was saying: "Now, look out. +This is all a trap. He doesn't mean what he says. He's trying to +catch you." + +"Going to marry Amy? Oh no, you're not." + +Thurston did not appear to be interested in anything that Martin had +to say. He continued as though he were pursuing his own thoughts. +"Yes . . . so it'll be difficult. I didn't think you'd like it when +you heard. I said to Amy, 'E won't like it,' I said. She said you'd +been too long away from the family to judge. And so you have, you +know. Oh! Amy and I'll be right enough. She's a fine woman, your +sister." + +Martin burst out: + +"Well, then, that settles it. It simply settles it. That finishes +it." + +"Finishes what ?" asked Thurston, smiling in a friendly way. + +"Never you mind. It's nothing to do with you. Has my father +consented?" + +"Yes . . . said all 'e wanted was for Amy to be 'appy. And so she +will be. I'll look after her. You'll come round to it in time." + +"Father agrees . . . My God! But it's impossible! Don't you see? +Don't you see? I . . ." + +The sudden sense of his impotence called back his words. He felt +nothing but rage and indignation against the whole set of them, +against the house they were in, the very table with the papers +blowing upon it and the candle shining . . . Well, it made his own +affair more simple--that was certain. He must be off--right away +from them all. Stay in the house with that fellow for a brother-in- +law? Stay when . . . + +"It's all right," said Thurston, moistening his pale dry lips with +his tongue. "You'll see it in time. It's the best thing that could +'appen. And we've got more in common than you'd ever suppose. We +'ave, really. You're a religious man, really--can't escape your +destiny, you know. There's religious and non-religious and it +doesn't matter what your creed is, whether you're a Christian or a +'Ottentot, there it is. And if you're religious, you're religious. I +may be the greatest humbug on the market, but I'm religious. It's +like 'aving a 'are lip--you'll be bothered with it all your life." + +But what more Thurston may have said Martin did not hear: he had +left the room, banging the door behind him. On what was his +indignation based? Injured pride. And was he really indignant? Was +not something within him elated, because by this he had been offered +his freedom? Thurston marry his sister? . . . He could go his own +way now. Even his father could not expect him to remain. + +And he wanted Maggie--urgently, passionately. Standing for a moment +there in the dark passage he wanted her. He was lonely, disregarded, +despised. + +They did not care for him here, no one cared for him anywhere--only +Maggie who was clear-eyed and truthful and sure beyond any human +being whom he had ever known. Then, with a very youthful sense of +challenging this world that had so grossly insulted him by admitting +Thurston into the heart of it, he joined the tea-party. There in the +pink, close, sugar-smelling, soft atmosphere sat his mother, Amy, +Mrs. Alweed and little Miss Pyncheon. His mother, with her lace cap +and white hair and soft plump hands, was pouring tea through a +strainer as though it were a rite. On her plate were three little +frilly papers that had held sugary cakes, on her lips were fragments +of sugar. Amy, in an ugly grey dress, sat severely straight upon a +hard chair and was apparently listening to Miss Pyncheon, but her +eyes, suspicious and restless, moved like the eyes of a newly +captured animal. Mrs. Alweed, stout in pink with a large hat full of +roses, smiled and smiled, waiting only for a moment when she could +amble off once again into space safe on the old broad back of her +family experiences, the only conversational steed to whose care she +ever entrusted herself. She had a son Hector, a husband, Mr. Alweed, +and a sister-in-law, Miss Alweed; she had the greatest confidence in +the absorbed attention of the slightest of her acquaintances. +"Hector, he's my boy, you know--although why I call him a boy I +can't think--because he's twenty-two and a half--he's at Cambridge, +Christs College--well, this morning I had a letter . . ." she would +begin. She began now upon Martin. His mind wandered. He looked about +the little room and thought of Thurston. Why was he not more angry +about it all? He had pretended to be indignant, he had hated +Thurston as he stood there . . . But had he? Half of him hated him. +Then with a jerk Thurston's words came back to him: "There's two of +each of us, that's the truth of it." "Two of each of us . . ." +Sitting there, listening to Mrs. Alweed's voice that flowed like a +river behind him, he saw the two figures, saw them quite clearly and +distinctly, flesh and blood, even clothes and voices and smile. And +he knew that all his life these two figures had been growing, +waiting for the moment when he would recognise them. One figure was +the Martin whom he knew--brown, healthy, strong and sane; a figure +wearing his clothes, his own clothes, the tweeds and the cloths, the +brogues and the heavy boots, the soft untidy hats; the figure was +hard, definite, resolute, quarrelling, arguing, loving, joking, +swearing all in the sensible way. It was a figure that all the world +had understood, that had been drunk often enough, lent other men +money, been hard-up and extravagant and thoughtless. "A good chap." +"A sensible fellow." "A pal." "No flies on Warlock." That was the +kind of figure. And the life had been physical, had never asked +questions, had never known morbidity, had lived on what it saw and +could touch and could break . . . And the other figure! That was, +physically, less plainly seen. No, there it was, standing a little +away from the other, standing away, contemptuously, despising it, +deriding it. Fat, soft, white hanging cheeks, wearing anything to +cover its body, but shining in some way through the clothes, so that +it was body that you saw. A soft body, hands soft and the colour of +the flesh pale and unhealthy. But it was the eyes that spoke: the +mouth trembled and was weak, the chin was fat and feeble, but the +eyes lived, lived--were eager, fighting, beseeching, longing, +captive eyes! + +And this figure, Martin knew, was a prey to every morbid desire, +rushed to sensual excess and then crept back miserably to search +for some spiritual flagellation. Above all, it was restless, as +some one presses round a dark room searching for the lock of the +door, restless and lonely, cowardly and selfish, but searching +and sensitive and even faithful, faithful to something or to some +one . . . pursued also by something or some one. A figure to whom +this world offered only opportunities for sin and failure and +defeat, but a figure to whom this world was the merest shadow +hiding, as a shade hides a lamp, the life within. Wretched enough +with its bad health, its growing corpulence, its weak mouth, its +furtive desires, but despising, nevertheless, the strong, healthy +figure beside it. Thurston was right. Men are not born to be free, +but to fight, to the very death, for the imprisonment and +destruction of all that is easiest and most physically active and +most pleasant to the sight and touch . . . + +"And so Hector really hopes that he'll be able to get down to us for +Christmas, although he's been asked to go on this reading party. Of +course, it's simply a question as to whether he works better at home +or with his friends. If he were a weak character, I think Mr. Alweed +would insist in his coming home, but Hector really cares for his +work more than anything. He's never been very good at games; his +short sight prevents him, poor boy, and as he very justly remarked, +when he was home last holidays, 'I don't see, mother, how I am going +to do my duty as a solicitor (that's what he hopes to be) if I don't +work now. Many men regard Cambridge as a time for play. Not so I.'" + +"But I hope that if Hector comes home this Christmas he'll attend +the Chapel services. The influence your father might have on such a +boy as Hector, Mr. Warlock, a boy, sensitive and thoughtful . . . I +was saying, Miss Pyncheon, that Hector--" + +Miss Pyncheon was the soul of good-nature--but she was much more +than that. She was by far the most sensible, genial, and worldly of +the Inside Saints; it was, in fact, astonishing that she should be +an Inside Saint at all. + +Of them all she impressed Martin the most, because there was nothing +of the crank about her. She went to theatres, to the seaside in the +summer, took in The Queen, and was a subscriber to Boots' +Circulating Library. She dressed quietly and in excellent taste--in +grey or black and white. She had jolly brown eyes and a dimple in +the middle of her chin. She was ready to discuss any question with +any one, was marvellously broad-minded and tolerant, and although +she was both poor and generous, always succeeded in making her +little flat in Soho Square pretty and attractive. + +Her chief fault, perhaps, was that she cared for no one especially-- +she had neither lovers nor parents nor sisters nor brothers, and to +all her friends she behaved with the same kind geniality, welcoming +one as another. She was thus aloof from them all and relied upon no +one. The centre of her life was, of course, her religion, but of +this she never spoke, although strangely enough no one doubted the +intensity of her belief and the reality of her devotion. + +She was a determined follower of Mr. Warlock; what he said she +believed, but here, too, there seemed to be no personal attachment. +She did not allow criticism of him in her own presence, but, on the +other hand, she never spoke as though it would distress her very +greatly to lose him. He was a sign, a symbol . . . If one symbol +went another could be found. + +To Martin she was the one out-standing proof of the reality of the +Chapel. All the others--his sister, Miss Avies, Thurston, Crashaw, +the Miss Cardinals, yes, and his father too, were, in one way or +another, eccentric, abnormal, but Miss Pyncheon was the sane every- +day world, the worldly world, the world of drinks and dinners, and +banks and tobacconists, and yet she believed as profoundly as any of +them. What did she believe? She was an Inside Saint, therefore she +must have accepted this whole story of the Second Coming and the +rest of it. Of course women would believe anything . . . +Nevertheless . . . + +He scarcely listened to their chatter. He was forcing himself not to +look at his sister, and yet Thurston's news seemed so extraordinary +to him that his eye kept stealing round to her to see whether she +were still the same. Could she have accepted him, that bounder and +cad and charlatan? He felt a sudden cold chill of isolation as +though in this world none of the ordinary laws were followed. "By +God, I am a stranger here," he thought. It was not until after +dinner that night that he was alone with his father. He had resolved +on many fine things in the interval. He was going to "have it out +with him," "to put his foot down," "to tell him that such a thing as +Thurston's marriage to his sister was perfectly impossible." And +then, for the thousandth time since his return to England he felt +strangely weak and irresolute. He did wish to be "firm" with his +father, but it would have been so much easier to be firm had he not +been so fond of him. "Soft, sentimental weakness," he called it to +himself, but he knew that it was something deeper than that, +something that he would never be able to deny. + +He went into his father's study that night with a strange dismal +foreboding as though he were being drawn along upon some path that +he did not want to follow. What was his father mixed up with all +this business for? Why were such men as Thurston in existence? Why +couldn't life be simple and straightforward with people like his +father and himself and that girl Maggie alone somewhere with nothing +to interfere? Life was never just as you wanted it, always a little +askew, a little twisted, cynically cocking its eye at you before it +vanished round the corner? He didn't seem to be able to manage it. +Anyway, he wasn't going to have that fellow Thurston marrying his +sister. + +He found his father lying back in his arm-chair fast asleep, looking +like a dead man, his long thin face pale with fatigue, his eyelids a +dull grey, his mouth tightly closed as though in a grim +determination to pursue some battle. And at the sight of him thus +worn out and beaten Martin's affection flooded his heart. He stood +opposite his father looking at him and loving him more deeply than +he had ever done before. + +"I will take him away from all this," was his thought, "these +Thurstons and all--out of all this . . . We'll go off abroad +somewhere. And I'll make him fat and happy." + +Then his father suddenly woke up, with a start and a cry: "Where am +I?" . . . Then he suddenly saw Martin. "Martin," he said, smiling. + +Martin smiled back and then began at once: "Father, this isn't true +about Thurston, is it?" + +He saw, as he had often done before, that his father had to call +himself up from some world of vision before he could realise even +his surroundings. Martin he recognised intuitively with the +recognition of the spirit, but he seemed to take in the details of +the room slowly, one by one, as though blinded by the light. + +"Ah--I've been dreaming," he said, still smiling at Martin +helplessly and almost timidly. "I'm so tired these days--suddenly--I +usen't to be . . ." He put his hand to his forehead, then laid it on +Martin's knee, and the strength and warmth of that seemed suddenly +to fill him with vigour. + +"You're never tired, are you?" he asked as a child might ask an +elder. + +"Very seldom," answered Martin, "I say, father, what is all this +about Thurston?" + +"Thurston . . . Why, what's he been doing?" + +"He says he's engaged to Amy." The disgust of the idea made Martin's +words, against his will, sharp and angry. + +"Does he? . . . Yes, I remember. He spoke to me about it." + +"Of course it's simply his infernal cheek . . ." + +Mr. Warlock sighed. "I don't know, I'm sure. Amy seemed to wish it." + +Martin felt then more strongly than before the Something that drove +him. It said to him: "Now, then . . . here's a thing for you to make +a row about--a big row. And then you can go off with Maggie." But, +on the other hand, there was Something that said: "Don't hurt him. +Don't hurt him. You may regret it all your life if . . ." + +If what? He didn't know. He was always threatened with regretting +things all his life. The blow was always going to fall. And that +pleasant very British phrase came back to him, "He would put his +foot down"--however--he was very angry--very angry. + +He burst out: "Oh, but that's absurd, father. Impossible--utterly. +Thurston in the family? Why, you must see yourself how monstrous it +would be. Amy's got some silly, sentimental whim and she's got to be +told that it won't do. If you ask me, I don't think Amy's improved +much since I was away. But that's not the question. The idea of +Thurston's disgusting. You can't seriously consider it for a minute +. . ." + +"Why is Thurston disgusting, my boy?" + +Martin hated to be called "my boy"--it made him feel so young and +dependent. + +"You've only got to look at him!" Martin jumped up, disregarding his +father's hand, and began to stamp about the room. "He's a cad--he's +not your friend, father. He isn't, really. He'd like to out you from +the whole thing if he could. He thinks you're old-fashioned and +behind the times, and all he thinks about is bringing in +subscriptions and collecting new converts. He's like one of those +men who beat drums outside tents in a fair . . . He's a sickening +man! He doesn't believe in his religion or anything else. I should +think he's crooked about money, and immoral probably too. You're +much too innocent, father. You're so good and trustful yourself that +you don't know how these fellows are doing you in. There's a regular +plot against you and they'd be most awfully pleased if you were to +retire. They're not genuine like you. They simply use the Chapel for +self-advertisement and making money. Of course there are some +genuine ones like the Miss Cardinals, but Thurston's an absolute +swindler . . ." + +He stopped short at that. He had said more than he had intended and +he was frightened suddenly. He swung round on his heel and looked at +his father. + +"Come here, Martin." He came across the room. "Closer. Now, tell me. +We're good friends, aren't we?" + +"Of course, father." + +He put his hand on his son's shoulder. "Do you know that I love you +more than anything in the whole world? More, I'm sometimes terribly +afraid, than God Himself. I can't help myself. I love you, Martin, +so that it's like hunger or thirst . . . It's the only earthly +passion that I've ever had. And I'll tell you another thing. It's +the one terror of my earthly life that you'll leave me. Now that +I've got you back I'm afraid every time you go out of the house that +you'll run away, round the corner, and never come back again. I love +you and I'm not going to let you go again.--Not until--until--the +Time has come . . . What does it matter to you and me what Thurston +and Amy do? God will come and He will find us both together--you and +I--and He will take us up and keep us together and we shall never be +separated any more . . . I love your strength, Martin, your +happiness, your youth--all the things I've never had. And you're not +going to leave me, not though Amy married a hundred Thurstons . . ." + +Mr. Warlock's grip on his son's shoulder was iron. + +Martin bent down and sat on the arm of his dusty leather chair to +bring himself on to the same level. He put his arm round his father +and drew him close to him. Maggie, Life, Money, Adventure-- +everything seemed to draw away from him and he saw himself, a little +boy, pattering on bare feet down the aisle towards the font--just as +though a spell had been cast over him. + +They sat close together in silence. Then slowly the thought of +Thurston came back again. Martin drew away a little. + +"All the same, father," he said, "Thurston mustn't marry Amy." + +"They're only engaged. There's no question of marriage yet." + +"Then they are engaged?" Martin drew right away, standing up again. + +"Oh, yes, they're engaged." + +"Then I'm not going to stand it. I tell you I won't stay here if +Thurston marries Amy." + +Mr. Warlock sighed. "Well then, let's leave it, my boy. I daresay +they'll never marry." + +"No. I won't have it. It's too serious to leave." + +His father's voice was sharper suddenly. + +"Well, we won't talk about it just now, Martin, if you don't mind." + +"But I must. You can't leave a thing like that. Thurston will simply +own the place . . ." + +"I tell you, Martin, to leave it alone." They were both angry now. + +"And I tell you, father, that if you let Thurston marry Amy I leave +the house and never come back again." + +"Isn't that rather selfish of you? You've been away all these years. +You've left us to ourselves. You come back suddenly without seeing +how we live or caring and then you dictate to us what we're to do. +How can you expect us to listen?" + +"And how can you expect me to stay?" Martin broke into a torrent of +words: "I'm miserable here and you know that I am. Mother and Amy +hate me and you're always wrapped up in your religion. What kind of +a place is it for a fellow? I came back meaning that you and I +should be the best pals father and son have ever been, but you +wouldn't come out with me--you only wanted to drag me in. You tell +me always to wait for something. To wait for what? I don't know. And +nobody here does seem to know. And I can't wait for ever. I've got +to lead my own life and if you won't come with me I must go off by +myself--" + +He was following his own ideas now--not looking at his father at +all. "I've discovered since I've been home that I'm not the sort of +fellow to settle down. I suppose I shall go on wandering about all +my days. I'm not proud of myself, you know, father. I don't seem to +be much good to any one, but the trouble is I don't want to be much +better. I feel as though it wouldn't be much good if I did try. I +can't give up my own life--for nobody--not even for you--and however +rotten my own life is I'd rather lead it than some one else's." + +He stopped and then went on quietly, as though he were arguing +something out with himself: "The strange thing is that I do feel +this place has got a kind of a hold on me. When you remind me of +what I was like as a kid I go right back and feel helpless as though +you could do anything with me you like. All the same I don't believe +in this business, father--all this Second Coming and the rest of it. +We're in the Twentieth Century now, you know, and everybody knows +that that kind of thing is simply impossible. Only an old maid or +two . . . Why, I don't believe you believe in it really, father. +That's why you're so keen on making me believe. But I don't; it's no +use. You can't make me. I don't believe there's any God at all. If +there were a God he'd let a fellow have more free will . . ." + +He was interrupted by an extraordinary cry. He turned to see his +father standing, one hand pressed back on the chair, his face white, +his eyes black and empty, like sightless eyes. + +"Martin! That's blasphemy! . . . Take care! Take care! . . . Oh, my +son, my son! . . ." + +Then he suddenly collapsed backwards, crouching on to the chair as +though he were trying to flee from some danger. Martin sprang +towards him. He caught him round the body, holding him to him-- +something was leaping like a furious animal inside his father's +breast. + +"What is it?" he cried, desperately frightened. + +"It's my heart," Warlock answered in a voice very soft and distant. +"Bad . . . Excitement . . . Ring that bell . . . Amy . . ." + +A moment later Amy entered. She came quickly into the room, she said +nothing--only gave Martin one look. + +She gave her father something from a little bottle, kneeling in +front of him. + +At last she turned to her brother. "You'd better go," she said. "You +can do nothing here." + +Miserable, repentant, feeling as though he had no place in the world +and yet eager too to defend himself, he left the room. + + + + +CHAPTER VII + +THE OUTSIDE WORLD + + +Maggie had a week. + +She did not need it. From the first half-hour after Martin's leaving +her her mind was made up. This question of marriage did not, on +further reflection, very greatly disturb her. She had known, in her +time, a number of married people and they had been invariably +unhappy and quarrelsome. The point seemed to be that you should be, +in some way, near the person whom you loved, and she had only loved +one person in all her life, and intended never to love another. Even +this question of love was not nearly so tangled for her as it would +be for any more civilised person. She knew very little about +marriage and only in the most sordid fashion about sexual relations +which were definitely connected in her mind with drunken peasants +and her father's cook. They had nothing at all to do with Martin. + +The opinion of the world was an unknown factor in her vision, she +only knew of the opinion of her aunts and Miss Warlock and with +these she was already in rebellion. + +She would have been in great trouble had she supposed that this +woman still loved Martin and needed him, but that, from what Martin +had said, was obviously not so. No, it was all quite clear. They +would escape together, out of this tangle of unnatural mysteries and +warnings, and live happily for ever after in the country. + +As to Martin's self-portrait, that did not greatly distress her. She +had never supposed that he or any one else was "good." She had never +known a "good" person. Nor did it occur to her, in her pristine +state of savagery, that you loved any one the less for their +drawbacks. She would rather be with Martin at his worst than with +any one else at their best--that was all. + +Half-an-hour was enough time to settle the whole affair. She then +waited patiently until the end of the week. She did not quite know +how she would arrange a meeting, but that would, she expected, +arrange itself. + +Two events occurred that filled her mind and made the week pass +quickly. One was that she received an answer to her adventurous +letter, the other was a remarkable conversation with Miss Caroline +Smith. The answer to her letter was lying on her plate when she came +down to breakfast, and Aunt Elizabeth was watching it with an +excited stare. + +It read as follows: + +14 BRYANSTON SQUARE. + +Dear Miss CARDINAL, + +Of course I remember you perfectly. I wondered whether you would +write to me one day. I am married now and live most of the year in +London. Would you come and see me at Bryanston Square? I am nearly +always at home at tea-time. If you are free would you perhaps come +next Friday? + +It will be so nice to see you again. + +Yours sincerely, + +KATHERINE MARK. "You've got a letter, dear. Your aunt isn't quite so +well this morning, I'm afraid. Scrambled eggs." + +"Yes," she looked her aunt in the face without any confusion. How +strangely her decision about Martin had altered her relationship now +to every one! What did it matter whether any one were angry? "I +ought to have told you, Aunt Elizabeth. I wrote about a fortnight +ago to a lady who came once to see us at home. She was a Miss +Trenchard then. She said that if ever I wanted any help I was to +write to her. So I have written--to ask her whether she can find me +any work to do, and she has asked me to go and see her." + +"Work," said Aunt Elizabeth. "But you won't go away while your +aunt's so ill." + +Wouldn't she? Maggie didn't know so much about that. + +"I want to be independent," said Maggie, trying to fix Aunt +Elizabeth's eyes. "It isn't fair that I should be a burden to you." + +"You're no burden, dear." Aunt Elizabeth looked uneasily round the +room. "Your aunt depends on you." + +"Depends on me for what?" + +"For everything." + +"Then she oughtn't to, Aunt Elizabeth, I've said it again and again. +I'm not fit for any one to depend on. I'm forgetful and careless and +untidy. You know I am. And I'm different from every one here. I'm +very grateful to Aunt Anne, but I'm not good enough for her to +depend on." + +Aunt Elizabeth blinked nervously. + +"She's got very little. You mustn't take away all she has." + +"I'm not all she has," answered Maggie, knowing that she was +becoming excited and cross. "I don't belong to any one except +myself." "And Martin" her soul whispered. Then she added, suddenly +moved by remorse as she looked at Aunt Elizabeth's meek and +trembling face, "You're so good to me, both of you, and I'm so bad. +I'll give you anything but my freedom." + +"You talk so strangely, dear," said Aunt Elizabeth. "But there are +so many things I don't understand." + +Maggie took the letter up to her bedroom and there read it a number +of times. It all seemed wonderful to her, the stamped blue address, +the rich white square notepaper, and above all the beautiful +handwriting. She thought of her own childish scrawl and blushed, she +even sat down, there and then, at her dressing-table and, with a +pencil, began to imitate some of the letters. + +On Friday! To-day was Tuesday. Bryanston Square. Wherever was +Bryanston Square, and how would she find it? She determined to ask +Caroline Smith. + +She had not long to wait for her opportunity. On Wednesday evening +about half-past five Miss Smith poked her head into the Cardinal +drawing-room to discover Maggie sitting with her hands on her lap +looking down on to the street. + +"Are your aunts anywhere?" asked Caroline. + +"No," said Maggie. "Aunt Anne's in bed and Aunt Elizabeth's at Miss +Pyncheon's." + +"That's right," said Caroline, "because I haven't seen you, darling, +for ages." + +"The day before yesterday," said Maggie. + +"You're a literal pet," said Caroline kissing her. "I always +exaggerate, of course, and it's so sweet of you to tell me about +it." She rushed off to the fire and spread out her blue skirt and +dangled her feet. + +"Isn't it cold and dark? You funny dear, not to have the blinds down +and to sit staring into the beastly street like that . . . I believe +you're in love." + +Maggie came to herself with a start, got up and slowly went over to +the fire. + +"Caroline, where's Bryanston Square?" + +"Oh, you pet, don't you know where Bryanston Square is?" + +cried Caroline suddenly fixing her bright eyes upon Maggie with +burning curiosity. + +"If I did I wouldn't ask," said Maggie. + +"Quite right--neither you would. Well, it's near Marble Arch." + +"But I don't know where the Marble Arch is." + +"Lord!" cried Caroline. "And she's been in London for months. You +really are a pet. Well, what you'd better do is to get into the +first taxi you see and just say 'Bryanston Square.'" + +How stupid of her! She might have thought of that for herself. + +"Is there a park near Bryanston Square?" she asked. + +"Yes. Of course--Hyde Park." + +"And is it open at six?" + +"Of course. You can't shut Hyde Park." + +"Oh!" + +Maggie pursued her thoughts. Caroline watched her with intense +curiosity. + +"What do you want with a Park, you darling?" she asked at last. + +"Oh, nothing," said Maggie, slowly. Then she went on, laughing: +"I've been asked out to tea--for the first time in my life. And I'm +terribly frightened." + +"How exciting!" said Caroline clapping her hands. "Who's it with?" + +"It's a Mrs. Mark. She was a Miss Trenchard. She used to live in +Glebeshire. She's going to find me some work to do." + +"Work!" cried Caroline. "Aren't you going to stay with your aunts +then?" + +"I want to be independent," said Maggie slowly. + +"Well!" said Caroline, amazed. + +Could Maggie have seen just then into Miss Smith's mind and could +she only have realised that, with Miss Smith, every action and +intention in the human heart pivoted upon love-affairs and love- +affairs only, she might have been warned and have saved much later +trouble. She was intent on her own plans and was thinking of +Caroline only as a possible agent. + +"Caroline," she asked, "would you take a note for me to some one?" + +"Of course," said Caroline. "Who is it?" + +"Martin Warlock," said Maggie. + +At the name she suddenly blushed crimson. She knew that Caroline was +looking at her with eager curiosity. She suspected then that she had +done something foolish and would have given anything to recall her +words, but to recall them now seemed only to make it the more +suspicious. + +"It's only something his sister wanted to know," she said casually. +"I thought you'd be seeing him soon. I hardly ever do." + +"Yes, I'm going up there to-night," said Caroline staring at Maggie. +"Well, I'll give it you before you go," then she went on as casually +as she could. "What's been happening lately?" + +"Of course you know all about the excitement," said Caroline sitting +back in the faded arm-chair with her blue dress spread all about her +like a cloud. + +"What excitement?" said Maggie, pulling herself up, with a desperate +struggle, from her own private adventures. + +"What! you don't know ?" Caroline exclaimed in an awed whisper. + +"Know what?" Maggie asked, rather crossly, repenting more and more +of asking Caroline to carry her note. + +"Why, where DO you live? . . . All about Mr. Warlock and his +visions!" + +"I've heard nothing at all," said Maggie. + +This was unexpected joy to Caroline, who had never imagined that +there would be any one so near the Inner Saints as Maggie who yet +knew nothing about these recent events. + +"Do you really know nothing about it?" + +"Nothing," said Maggie. + +"Aren't you wonderful?" said Caroline. "What happened was this. +About three weeks ago Mr. Warlock had a vision in the middle of the +night. He saw God at about three in the morning." + +"How did he see God?" asked Maggie, awed in spite of herself. + +Caroline's voice dropped to a mysterious whisper. "He just woke up +and there God was at the end of the bed. Of course he's not spoken +to me about it, but apparently there was a blaze of light and +Something in the middle. And then a voice spoke and told Mr. Warlock +that on the last night of this year everything would be fulfilled." + +"What did He mean?" asked Maggie. + +"Different people think He meant different things," said Caroline. +"Of course there's most fearful excitement about it. Mr. Warlock's +had two since." + +"Two what?" asked Maggie. + +"Two visions. Just like the first. The blazing light and the voice +and telling him that the last night of the year's to be the time." +Caroline then began to be carried away by her excitement. She talked +faster and faster. "Oh! You don't know what a state every one's in! +It's causing all sorts of divisions. First there are all his own +real believers. Miss Pyncheon, your aunts, and the others. My +father's one. They all believe every word he says. They're all quite +certain that the last day of this year is to be the time of the +Second Coming. They won't any of them, look a minute further than +that. Father doesn't care a bit now what mother does with the money +because, he says, we shan't want any next year. Mother isn't so sure +so she's taking as much care of it as ever, and of course it's nice +for her now to have it all in her own hands. They're all of them +doing everything to make themselves ready. It doesn't matter how +aggravating you are, father never loses his temper now. He's so +sweet that it's maddening. Haven't you noticed how good your aunts +are?" + +"They're always the same," said Maggie. + +"Well. I expect they're different really. Then there's the middle- +class like Mr. Thurston and Miss Avies who pretend to believe all +that Mr. Warlock says, but of course, they don't believe a word of +it, and they hope that this will prove his ruin. They know there +won't be any Second Coming on New Year's Eve, and then they think he +will be finished and they'll be able to get rid of him. So they're +encouraging him to believe in all this, and then when the moment +comes they'll turn on him!" + +"Beasts!" said Maggie suddenly. + +"Well, I daresay you're right," said Caroline. "Only it does make me +laugh, all of it. Thurston and Miss Avies have all their plans made, +only now they're quarrelling because Thurston wants to marry Amy +Warlock and Miss Avies meant him to marry her!" + +"Is Mr. Thurston going to marry Miss Warlock?" cried Maggie. + +"So they say," said Caroline again watching Maggie curiously. "Well, +anyway, Miss Avies is the strongest of the lot really. I'd back her +against anybody. I'm terrified of her myself, I tell you frankly. +She'd wring any one's neck for twopence. Oh yes, she would! . . . +Then there are the third lot who simply don't believe in Mr. +Warlock's visions at all and just laugh at him. People like Miss +Smythe and Mrs. Bellaston. A lot of them are leaving the chapel. Mr. +Warlock won't listen to anybody. He's getting stranger and stranger, +and his heart's so bad they say he might die any day if he had a +shock. Then he's always quarrelling with Martin." + +Caroline suddenly stopped. She looked at Maggie. + +"Martin's a terrible trial to his father," she said. + +But Maggie was secure now. + +"Is he?" she asked indifferently. Then she added slowly, "What do +you believe, Caroline?" + +"What do I believe?" + +"Yes, about Mr. Warlock's visions." + +"Oh, of course, it's only because he's ill and prays for hours +without getting off his knees, and won't eat enough, that he sees +things. And yet I don't know. There may be something in it. If I +were on my knees for weeks I'd never see anything. But I'll be +terribly sorry for Mr. Warlock if the time comes and nothing +happens. He'll just have to go." + +They sat a little longer together and then Caroline said: "Well, +darling, I must be off. Where's that note?" She hesitated, looking +at Maggie with a wicked gleam in her pale blue eyes. "You know, +Maggie, I can't make up my mind. I've had an offer of marriage." + +"I'm so glad, Caroline," said Maggie. + +"Yes, but I don't know what to do. It's a man--Mr. Purdie. His +father's ever so rich and they've got a big place down at Skeaton." + +"Where's that?" asked Maggie. + +"Oh, don't you know? Skeaton-on-Sea. It's a seaside resort. I've +known William for a long time. His father knows father. He came to +tea last week, and proposed. He's rather nice although he's so +silent." + +"Why don't you marry him then?" asked Maggie. + +"Well, I know Martin Warlock's going to ask me. It's been getting +closer and closer. I expect he will this week. Of course, he isn't +so safe as William, but he's much more exciting. And he's got quite +a lot of money of his own." + +Strange, the sure, confident, happy security that Maggie felt in her +heart at this announcement. + +"I should wait for Martin Warlock," she said. "He'd be rather fun to +marry." + +"Do you think so?" answered Caroline. "Do you know, I believe I +will. You're always right, you darling . . . Only suppose I should +miss them both. William won't wait for ever! Got that note, dear?" + +Maggie was defiant. She would just show the creature that she wasn't +afraid of her. She'd give her the note and she might imagine what +she pleased. + +She got a pencil and a piece of paper and wrote hurriedly. + +The week is up on Friday. Will you meet me that evening at a quarter +past six under the Marble Arch? MAGGIE. + +The boldness, the excitement of this inflamed her. It was so like +her to challenge any action once she was in it by taking it to its +furthest limit. She put it in an envelope and wrote Martin's name +with a flourish. + +"There!" she said, giving it to Caroline. + +"Thank you," said Caroline, and with a number of rather wet and +elaborate kisses (Maggie hated kissing) departed. + +But her afternoon was not yet over; hardly had Caroline left when +the door was opened and Miss Avies was shown in. Maggie started up +with dismay and began to stammer excuses. Miss Avies brushed them +aside. + +"It doesn't matter," she said. "You'll do as well--even, it may be, +better." + +A strange woman Miss Avies! Maggie had, of course, seen her at +Chapel, but this was the first time that they had been alone +together. Miss Avies was like a thin rod of black metal, erect and +quivering and waiting to strike. Her long sallow face was stiff, not +with outraged virtue, or elaborate pride, or burning scorn, but +simply with the accumulated concentration of fiery determination. +She was the very symbol of self-centred energy, inhuman, cold, +relentless. Her hair was jet black and gleamed like steel, and she +had thick black eyebrows like ink-marks against her forehead of +parchment. Her eyes were dead, like glass eyes, and she had some +false teeth that sometimes clicked in her mouth. She wore a black +dress with no ornament and thin black gloves. + +She did not seem, however, to Maggie unkindly, as she stood there, +looking about the room rather short-sightedly. (She would not wear +glasses. Could it have been vanity?) She was not hostile, nor +scornful, nor even patronising . . . but had Maggie been struck +there, dead at her feet she would not have moved a step to help her. +Her voice was ugly, with a crack in it, as though it needed oil. +Maggie, as she looked at her, did not need to be told that she did +not believe in Mr. Warlock's mysticism. She came across and shook +Maggie's hand. Her touch was cold and stiff and a little damp like +that of a wet stone. + +"Sorry your Aunt's out," she said, "but I can talk to you for a +while." She looked at Maggie for a moment. Then she said: + +"Why don't you clear out of all this?" + +The voice was so abrupt and the words so unexpected that Maggie +jumped. + +"Why don't I?" she repeated. + +"Yes, you," said Miss Avies. "You've no place here in all this +business. You don't believe in it, do you?" + +"No," said Maggie. + +"And you don't want to use it for something you do believe in?" + +"No," said Maggie. "Well then, clear out." + +Maggie, colouring a little, said: + +"My aunts have been very good to me. I oughtn't to leave them." + +"Fiddlesticks," said Miss Avies. "Your life's your own, not your +aunts'." + +She sat down and stayed bolt upright and motionless near the fire; +she flung a thin dark shadow like a stain on the wall. There was a +long pause between them. After that abrupt opening there seemed to +be nothing to say. Maggie's thoughts also were elsewhere. She was +wishing now passionately that she had not given that note to +Caroline. + +Suddenly Miss Avies said, "What do you do with yourself all day?" + +Maggie laughed. "Try and make myself less careless, Miss Avies." + +Miss Avies replied, "You'll never make yourself less careless. We +are as we are." + +"But don't you think," said Maggie, "that one can cure one's +faults?" + +"One gets rid of one only to make room for another . . . But that +doesn't matter. The point is that one should have an ambition. +What's your ambition, child?" + +Maggie didn't answer. Her ambition was Martin, but she couldn't tell +Miss Avies so. + +At last, after a long pause, as Miss Avies still seemed to be +waiting, she answered: + +"I suppose that I want to earn my living--to be independent." + +"Well, leave this place then," said Miss Avies. "There's no +independence here." Then added, as though to herself. "They think +they're looking for the face of God . . . It's only for themselves +and their vanity they're looking." + +Maggie said, to break another of the long pauses that seemed to be +always forming between them: + +"I think every one ought to earn their own living, don't you?" + +Miss Avies shook her head. "You're very young--terribly young. I've +got no advice to give you except to lead a healthy life somewhere +away from these surroundings. We're an unnatural lot here and you're +a healthy young creature . . . Have you got a lover?" + +Maggie smiled. "I've got a friend," she said. Miss Avies sighed. +"That's more than I've got," she said. + +"Not that I've time for one," she added. She got up. "I won't wait +for your aunt," she said, "I've left a note downstairs . . . You +clear out as soon as you can, that's my advice to you." + +She said good-bye, looking into Maggie's clear eyes. She was +suddenly less inhuman, the touch of her hand was warmer. + +"Don't you cheat yourself into believing in the Deity," she said, +and was gone. + +When Friday arrived Maggie had not seen Caroline again, and she +could not tell whether the note had been safely delivered or no. She +was not sure what she had better do. Caroline might hare done +anything with the note, torn it up, burnt it, lost it, forgotten it +altogether. Well, that was a risk that Maggie must take. If he did +not appear she would wait a little while and then come away. They +must soon meet in any case. They had all their lives before them. + +Aunt Anne was up again--very, very pale now and so thin that the +light seemed to shine through her making her more of a stained +window saint than ever. + +Maggie told her about the visit, Aunt Anne looked at her curiously. +She seemed so weak and frail that Maggie suddenly felt warm maternal +love. Rather shyly she put her hand upon her aunt's: "I won't go +away until you're better--" + +Aunt Anne nodded her head. + +"I know you won't, dear," she said. "Don't be out late to-day. We +shall be anxious about you." + +Maggie had made a promise and was terrified when she thought of it. +Suppose her aunt did not get better for years and years? + +People often had long lingering illnesses with no apparent change in +their condition. To Maggie a promise was an utterly final thing. She +could not dream that one ever broke one's word. She trembled now +when she thought of what she had done. She had been entrapped after +all and by her own free will. + +In her little room as she was putting on her hat she suddenly prayed +to a God, of whom she knew nothing, that her aunt might get better +soon. + +She started out on her great adventure with a strange self-assurance +as though loving Martin had given her the wisdom of all the ages. + +Turning down the street towards the Strand she found almost at once +a taxi-cab drawn up, as though it had been waiting there especially +for her like an eloping coach in a romantic tale. A fat red-faced +fellow with a purple nose, a cloth cap and a familiar vague eye, as +though he always saw further than he intended, waited patiently for +her to speak. + +Boldly, as though she had done such things all her life, she said, +"Fourteen Bryanston Square." Then she slipped in and was hidden from +the gay world. She sat there, her hands on her lap staring at the +three crimson rolls in the neck of her driver. She was thinking of +nothing, nothing at all. Did she struggle to think? Only words would +come, "Martin," or "Bryanston Square," or "cab," again and again, +words that did not mean anything but physical sensations. "Martin" +hot fire at the throat, "Bryanston Square" an iron rod down the +spine, and "cab" dust and ashes in the eyes. + +She tried to look at herself in the little mirror opposite her, but +she could only catch the corner of her cheek and half her hat. But +she minded less about her appearance now. If Martin could love her +it did not matter what others thought--nevertheless she pulled her +hat about a little and patted her dress. The cab stopped and she +felt desperately lonely. Did any one care about her anywhere? No, no +one. She could have cried with pity at the thought of her own +loneliness. + +"One and sixpence, Miss," said the cabman in so husky a voice. + +She gave it to him. + +"What's this?" he asked, looking at it. + +"One and sixpence," she answered timidly, wondering at his sarcastic +eye. + +"Oh well, o' course," he said, looking her all over. + +She knew instinctively that he demanded more. She found another +sixpence. "Is that enough?" she asked. + +He seemed ashamed. + +"If I 'adn't a wife sick--" he began. + +She ran up the high stone steps and rang a bell. The episode with +the driver had disturbed her terribly. It had shown in what a +foreign world she was. All her self-confidence was gone. She had to +take a pull at herself and say: "Why, Maggie, you might be ringing +the dentist's bell at this moment." + +That helped her, and then the thought of Martin. She saw his boyish +smile and felt the warm touch of his rough hand. When the maid was +there instead of the green door, she almost said: "Is Martin in?" + +But she behaved very well. + +"Mrs. Mark?" she said in precisely the voice required. + +The maid smiled and stood aside. And then into what a world she +entered! A world of comfort and reassurance, of homeliness and +kindliness, without parrots and fierce-eyed cats and swaying +pictures of armoured men--a world of urbanity and light and space. +There was a high white staircase with brown etchings in dark frames +on the white walls. There was a thick soft carpet and a friendly fat +grandfather clock. Many doors but none of them mysterious, all ready +to be opened. + +She climbed the staircase and was shown into a room high and gaily +coloured and full of flowers. She saw the deep curtains, blue silk +shot with purple, the chairs of blue silk and a bowl of soft amber +light hanging from the ceiling. A mass of gold-red chrysanthemums +flamed against the curtains. Several people were gathered round a +tea-table near the fire. + +She stood lost on the thick purple carpet under the amber light, all +too brilliant for her. She had come from a world of darkness, owl- +like she must blink before the blaze. Some one came forward to her, +some one so kind and comforting, so easy and unsurprised that Maggie +suddenly felt herself steadied as though a friend had put an arm +around her. Before she had felt: "This light--I am shabby." Now she +felt, "I am with friendly people." She was surprised at the way that +she was suddenly at her ease. + +Mrs. Mark was not beautiful, but she had soft liquid eyes and her +hand that held Maggie's was firm and warm and strong. + +"Let me introduce you," said Mrs. Mark. "That is Miss Trenchard, and +that Mr. Trenchard. This is my husband. Philip, this is Miss +Cardinal." + +Miss Trenchard must be forty, Maggie thought. She was plump and +thick-set, with a warm smile. Then Mr. Trenchard was a clergyman--he +would be stout were he not so broad. His face was red, his hair +snowy white, but he did not look old. + +He smiled at Maggie as though he had known her all his life. Then +there was Mr. Mark, who was stocky and thick, and reminded Maggie of +Martin, although his face was quite different, he looked much +cleverer and not such a boy; he was not, in fact, a boy at all. "I'm +sure he thinks too hard," decided Maggie, who had habits of making +up her mind at once about people. + +"Well, there's no one to be frightened about here," she decided. And +indeed there was not! It was as though they had all some especial +reason for being nice to her. Perhaps they saw that she was not in +her own world here. And yet they did not make her feel that. She +drank in the differences with great gulps of appreciation, but it +was not they who insisted. + +Here were light and colour and space above all--rest. Nothing was +about to happen, no threat over their heads that the roof would fall +beneath one's feet, that the floor would sink. No sudden catching of +the breath at the opening of a door, no hesitation about climbing +the stairs, no surveillance by the watching Thomas, no distant +clanging of the Chapel bell. How strange they all seemed, looking +back from this safe harbour. The aunts, the Warlocks, Thurston, Mr. +Crashaw, Caroline--all of them. There the imagination set fire to +every twig--here the imagination was not needed, because everything +occurred before your eyes. + +She did not figure it all out in so many words at once, but the +contrast of the two worlds was there nevertheless. Why had she been +so anxious, so nervous, so distressed? There was no need. Had she +not known that this other world existed? Perhaps she had not. She +must never again forget it . . . + +Katherine Mark was so kind and friendly, her voice so soft and her +interest so eager, that Maggie felt that she could tell her +anything. But their talk was not to come just yet--first there must +be general conversation. + +The clergyman with the white hair and the rosy face laughed a great +deal in a schoolboy kind of way, and every time that he laughed his +sister, who was like a pippin apple with her sunburnt cheeks, looked +at him with protecting eyes. + +"She looks after him in everything," said Maggie to herself. He was +called Paul by them all. + +"He's my cousin, you know, Miss Cardinal," said Mrs. Mark. "And yet +I scarcely ever see him. Isn't it a shame? Grace makes everything so +comfortable for him . . ." + +Grace smiled, well pleased. + +"It's Paul's devotion to his parish . . ." she said in calm, happy, +self-assured voice, as though she'd never had a surprise in her +life. + +"I'm sure it isn't either of those things," thought Maggie to +herself. "He's lazy." + +Lazy but nice. She had never seen a clergyman so healthy, so happy +so clean and so kind. She smiled across the table at him. + +"Do you know Skeaton?" he asked her. Skeaton! Where had she heard of +the place? Why, of course, it was Caroline! + +"Only yesterday I heard of it for the first time," she said. "A +friend of mine knows some one there." + +"Beastly place," said Mr. Mark. "Sand always blowing into your +eyes." + +Mr. and Mrs. Trenchard got up to go. + +He stood a moment holding Maggie's hand. "If ever you come to +Skeaton, Miss Cardinal," he said, "we shall be delighted . . ." His +eyes she noticed were light blue like a baby's. She felt that he +liked her and would not forget her. + +"Come, Paul," said Miss Trenchard, rather sharply Maggie fancied. + +Soon afterwards Philip departed. "Must finish that beastly thing," +he assured his wife. + +"It's an article," Katherine Mark explained. "He's always writing +about politics. I hate them, so he pretends to hate them too. But he +doesn't really. He loves them." + +"I know nothing about politics," said Maggie with profound truth. +"Your husband must be very clever." + +"He's better than that," said Katherine with pride; "I hate perfect +people, don't you?" + +"Oh, indeed I do!" said Maggie from the bottom of her heart. They +then came to her particular business. + +"I would like to get some work to do," said Maggie, "that would make +me independent. I have three hundred pounds of my own." + +"What can you do?" asked Katherine. + +"I don't know," said Maggie. + +"Can you shorthand and type?" + +"No, I can't," said Maggie; "but I'll learn." + +"Must you be independent soon?" asked Katherine. "Are you unhappy +where you are?" + +Maggie paused. + +"Don't tell me anything you oughtn't to," said Katherine. + +"No," answered Maggie. "It isn't that exactly. I'm not happy at +home, but I think that's my fault. My aunts are very good. But I +want to be free. It is all very religious where I am, and they want +me to believe in their religion. I'm afraid I'm not religious at +all. Then I don't want to be dependent on people. I'm very ignorant. +I know nothing about anything, and so long as I am kept with my +aunts I shall never learn." + +She stopped abruptly. She had thought suddenly of Martin. His coming +had altered everything. How could she say what she wanted her life +to be until her relation to him were settled? Everything depended on +that. + +This sense of Martin's presence silenced her. "If I can feel," she +said at last, "that I can ask your advice. I have nobody . . . We +all seem . . . Oh! how can I make you understand properly! You never +will have seen anything like our house. It is all so queer. so shut- +up, away from everything. I'm like a prisoner . . ." + +And that is perhaps what she was like to Mrs. Mark, sitting there in +her funny ill-fitting clothes, her anxious old-fashioned face as of +a child aged long before her time. Katherine Mark, who had had, in +her life, her own perplexities and sorrows, felt her heart warm to +this strange isolated girl. She had needed in her own life at one +time all her courage, and she had used it; she had never regretted +the step that she had then taken. She believed therefore in courage +. . . Courage was eloquent in every movement of Maggie's square +reliant body. + +"She could be braver than I have ever been," she thought. + +"Miss Cardinal," she said, "I want you to come here whenever you +can. You haven't seen our boy, Tim, yet--one and a half--and there +are so many things I want to show you. Will you count yourself a +friend of the house?" + +Maggie blushed and twisted her hands together. + +"You're very good," she said, "but . . . I don't know . . . perhaps +you won't like me, or what I do." + +"I do like you," said Katherine. "And if I like any one I don't care +what they do." + +"All the same," said Maggie, "I don't belong . . . to your world, +your life. I should shock you, I know. You might be sorry afterwards +that you knew me. Supposing I broke away . . ." + +"But I broke away myself," said Katherine, "it is sometimes the only +thing to do. I made my mother, who had been goodness itself to me, +desperately unhappy." + +"Why did you do that?" asked Maggie. + +"Because I wanted to marry my husband." + +"Well, I love a man too," said Maggie. + +"Oh, I do hope you'll be happy!" said Katherine. "As happy as I am." + +"No," said Maggie, shaking her head, "I don't expect to be happy." + +She seemed to herself as she said that to be hundreds of miles away +from Katherine Mark and her easy life, the purple curtains and her +amber light. + +"Not happy but satisfied," she said. + +She saw that it was five minutes past six. "I must go," she said. + +When they said good-bye Katherine bent forward and kissed her. + +"If ever, in your life. I can help in any way at all," she said, +"come to me." + +"I'll do that," promised Maggie. She coloured, and then herself bent +forward and kissed Katherine. "I shall like to think of you--and all +this--" she said and went. + +She was let out into the outer world by the smiling maid-servant. +Bryanston Square was dark with purple colour as though the purple +curtains inside the house had been snipped off from a general +curtained world. There was a star or two and some gaunt trees with +black pointing fingers, and here a lighted window and there a +shining doorway; behind it all the rumble of a world that +disregarded love and death and all the Higher Catechism. + +Maggie confronted a policeman. + +"Please, can you tell me where the Marble Arch is?" she asked. + +"Straight ahead, Miss," he answered, pointing down the street, "you +can't miss it." + +And she could not. It soon gleamed white ahead of her against the +thick folds of the sky. When she saw it her heart raced in front of +her, like a pony, suddenly released, kicking its heels. And her +thoughts were so strangely wild! The lovely night, yes, purple like +Mrs. Mark's curtains and scented oranges, chrysanthemums, boot- +polish and candied sugar.--Oh yes! how kind they had been--nice +clergyman, fat a little, but young in spite of his white hair, and +Aunt Anne in bed under the crucifix struggling and Mr. Crashaw +smiling lustfully at Caroline . . . The long black streets, strips +of silk and the lamps like fat buttons on a coat, there was a cat! +Hist! Hist! A streak of black against black . . . and the Chapel +bell ringing and Thomas' fiery eyes . . . + +Behind all this confusion there was Martin, Martin, Martin. Creeping +nearer and nearer as though he were just behind her, or was it that +she was creeping nearer and nearer to him? She did not know, but her +heart now was beating so thickly that it was as though giants were +wrapping cloth after cloth round it, hot cloths, but their hands +were icy cold. No, she was simply excited, desperately, madly +excited. + +She had never been excited before, and now, with the excitement, +there was mingled the strangest hot pain and cold pity. She noticed +that now her knees were trembling and that if they trembled much +more she would not be able to walk at all. + +"Now, Maggie, steady your knees!" she said to herself. But look, the +houses now were trembling a little too! Ridiculous those smart +houses with their fine doors and white steps to tremble! No, it was +her heart, not the houses . . . + +"Do I look queer?" she thought; "will people be looking at me?" + +Ideas raced through her head, now like horses in the Derby. + +"Woof! Poof! Off we go!" St. Dreot's, that square piece of grass on +the lawn with the light on it, her clothes, the socks that must be +mended, Caroline's silk and the rustle it made, shops, houses, +rivers, seas, death--yes, Aunt Anne's cancer . . . and then, with a +great upward surge like rising from the depths of the sea after a +dive, Martin! Martin, Martin! . . . For a moment then she had to +pause. She had been walking too fast. Her heart jumped, then ran a +step or two, then fell into a dead pause . . . She went on, seeing +now nothing but two lamps that watched her like the eyes of a giant. + +She was there! This was a Marble Arch! All by itself in the middle +of the road. She crossed to it, first went under it, then thought +that he would not see her there so came out and stood, nervously +rubbing her gloved hands against one another and turning her head, +like a bird, swiftly from side to side. She didn't like standing +there. It seemed to make her so prominent. Men stared at her. He +should have been there first. He might have known . . . But perhaps +Caroline never gave him the letter. At that thought her heart really +did stop. She was terrified at once as though some one had told her +disastrous news. She would not wait very long; then she would go +home . . . + +She saw him. He stood only a little away from her staring about him, +looking for her. She felt that she had not seen him for years; she +drank in his sturdiness, his boyish face, his air of caring nothing +for authority. She had not seen his dark blue overcoat before. He +stood directly under a lamp, swaying ever so little on his heels, +his favourite, most characteristic, movement. He stood there as +though he were purposely giving her a portrait that she might +remember for the rest of her days. She was too nervous to move and +then she wanted that wonderful moment to last, that moment when she +had realised that he had come to meet her, that he was there, +amongst all those crowds, simply for her, that he was looking for +her and wanting her, that he would be bitterly disappointed did she +not come . . . + +She saw him give a little impatient jerk of the head, the same +movement that she had seen him make in Chapel. That jerk set her in +motion again, and she was suddenly at his side. She touched his arm; +he turned and his eyes lit with pleasure. They smiled at one another +and then, without a word, moved off towards the park. He took her +arm and put it through his. She felt the warm thick stuff of the +blue coat, and beneath that the steady firm beat of his heart. They +walked closely together, his thigh pressed against hers, and once +and again her hair brushed his cheek. She was so shy that, until +they were through the gates of the park, she did not speak. Then she +said: + +"I was so afraid that Caroline would not give you the note." + +"Oh, she gave it me all right." He pressed her arm closer to him. +"But I expect that she read it first." + +"Oh, is she like that?" + +"Yes, she's like that . . ." + +There was another pause; they turned down the path to the right +towards the trees that were black lumps of velvet against the purple +sky. There were no stars, and it was liquidly dark as though they +ploughed through water. Maggie felt suffocated with heat and +persecuted by a strange weariness; she was suddenly so tired that it +was all that she could do to walk. + +"I'm tired . . ." she murmured--"expecting you--afraid that you +wouldn't come." + +"I believe that I would have come," he answered quite fiercely, +"even if I hadn't had the note--I was determined to see you to-night +some way. But you know, Maggie, it had better be for the last +time . . ." + +"No," she said, whispering, "it's the first time." + +"Let's sit down here," he said. "We're alone all right." + +There was no seat near them. The trees made a cave of black above +them, and in front of them the grass swept like a grey beach into +mist. There was no sound save a distant whirr like the hum of a top +that died to a whisper and then was lashed by some infuriated god to +activity again. + +They sat close together on the bench. She felt his arm move out as +though he would embrace her, then suddenly he drew back. + +"No," he said, "until we've talked this out we've got to be like +strangers. We can't go on, you know, Maggie, and it's no use your +saying we can." + +She pressed her hands tightly together. "I can convince him better," +she thought to herself, "if I'm very quiet and matter-of-fact." So, +speaking very calmly and not looking at him, she went on: + +"But, Martin, you promised last time that it would depend on +me . . . You said that if I didn't mind your being married and was +willing to take risks that we would go on together. Well, I've +thought all about it and I know that I'd rather be miserable with +you than happy with any one else. But then I shouldn't be miserable. +You seem to think you could make me miserable just as soon as you +like. But that depends on myself. If I don't want to be miserable +nobody can make me be." She paused. He moved a little closer and +suddenly took her hand. + +She drew it away and went on: + +"Don't think I'm inexperienced about this, Martin. You say I know +nothing about men. Perhaps I don't. But I know myself. I know what I +want, and I can look after myself. However badly you treated me, it +would be you that I was with all the time." + +"No, no, Maggie," he answered, speaking rapidly and as though he +were fiercely protesting against some one. "It isn't that at all. +You say you know yourself--but then I know myself. It isn't only +that I'm a rotten fellow. It is that I seem to bring a curse on +every one I'm fond of. I love my father, and I've come back and made +him miserable. It's always like that. And if I made you miserable it +would be the worst thing I ever did . . . I don't even know whether +I love you. If I do it's different from any love I've ever had. +Other women I'd be mad about. I'd go for them whatever happened and +got them somehow, and I wouldn't care a bit whether they were happy +or no. But I feel about you almost as though you were a man--not +sensually at all, but that safe steady security that you feel for a +man sometimes . . . You're so restful to be with. I feel now as +though you were the one person in the world who could turn me into a +decent human being. I feel as though we were just meant to move +along together; but then some other woman would come like a fire and +off I'd go . . . Then I'd hate myself worse than ever and be really +finished." + +Maggie looked at him. + +"You don't love me then, Martin?" she asked. + +"Yes I do," he answered suddenly, "I keep telling myself that I +don't, but I know that I do. Only it's different. It's as though I +were loving myself, the better part of myself. Not something new and +wildly exciting, but something old that I had known always and that +had always been with me. If I went away now. Maggie, I know I'd come +back one day--perhaps years afterwards--but I know I'd come back. +It's like that religious part of me, like my legs and my arms. Oh! +it's not of my own comfort I'm doubting, but it's you! . . . I don't +want to hurt you, Maggie darling, just as I've hurt every one I +loved--" + +"I'll come with you, Martin," said Maggie, "as long as you want me, +and if you don't want me, later you will again and I'll be waiting +for you." + +He put his arm round her. She crept up close to him, nestled into +his coat and put her hand up to his cheek. He bent down his head and +they kissed. + +After that there could be no more argument. What had he not intended +to press upon her? With what force arid power had he not planned to +persuade her? How he would tell her that he did not love her, that +he would not be faithful to her, that he would treat her cruelly. +Now it was all gone. With a gesture of almost ironic abandonment he +flung away his scruples. It was always so; life was stronger than +he. He had tried, in this at least, to behave like a decent man. But +life did not want him to be decent . . . + +And how he needed that rest that she gave him! As he felt her close +up against him, folded into him with that utterly naif and childish +trust that had allured and charmed him on the very first occasion, +he felt nothing but a sweet and blessed rest. He would not think of +the future. He would not . . . HE WOULD NOT. And perhaps all would +be well. As he pressed her closer to him, as he felt her lips +suddenly strike through the dark, find his check and then his mouth, +as he felt her soft confident hand find his and then close and fold +inside it like a flower, he wondered whether this once he might not +force things to be right. It was time he took things in hand. He +could. He must . . . + +He began to whisper to her: + +"Maggie darling . . . It mayn't be bad. I'll find out where this +other woman is and she shall divorce me. I'll arrange it all. And +we'll go away somewhere where I can work, and we won't allow anybody +to interfere. After all, I'm older now. The mess I've been in before +is because I always make wrong shots . . ." + +His words ceased. Their hearts were beating too tumultuously +together for words to be possible. Maggie did not wish to speak, she +could not. She was mingled with him, her heart his, her lips his, +her check his . . . She did not believe that words would come even +though she wished for them. She was utterly happy--so utterly that +she was, as it were, numb with happiness. They murmured one +another's names. + +"Martin." + +"Maggie! . . ." + +At last, dreaming, scarcely knowing what they did, like two children +in a dark wood, they wandered towards home. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +PARADISE + + +Maggie had never really been happy before. She had of course not +known this; her adventures in introspection had been very few, +besides she had not known what happiness looked like; her father, +her uncle, and her aunts were not exactly happy people . . . + +Now she flung herself without thought or care into a flood of +happiness, and as sometimes occurs in life, she was granted by the +gods, beneficent or ironic as you please, a period of security when +everything menacing or dangerous withdrew and it seemed as though +the whole world were in a conspiracy to cheat her into confidence. +She was confident because she did not think; she simply did not +think at all. She loved Martin and Martin loved her; cased in that +golden armour, she confronted her aunts and the house and the world +behind the house with a sublime and happy confidence. She loved her +aunts now, she loved Martha and the parrot and the cat, and she +could not believe that they did not all love her. Because Martin +loved her the rest of the world must also do so, and if they did not +she would compel them. + +For three whole weeks the spell lasted, for three marvellous golden +weeks. When she looked back afterwards she wondered that she had not +seen many things, warnings, portents, whatever you please to call +them. But for three weeks she saw nothing but Martin, and for three +weeks he saw nothing but Maggie. + +She began her career of defiance at once by informing Aunt Anne that +she was now going out every morning to do her shopping. Considering +the confinement to the house that her life had always been, this was +such a declaration of independence as those walls had never +encountered before. But Aunt Anne never turned one of her shining +neatly ordered hairs. "Shopping, my dear?" she asked. "Yes," said +Maggie, looking her full in the face. "What sort of shopping, dear?" +"Oh, I don't know," said Maggie. "There's always something every +day." + +Maggie had an uncomfortable feeling that her aunt had in some way +mysteriously defeated her by this sudden abandonment of all protest, +and for a moment the mysterious house closed around her, with its +shadows and dim corners and the little tinkling Chapel hell in the +heart of it. But the thought of Martin dissolved the shadows, and +off she went. + +They agreed to meet every morning at eleven o'clock outside +Hatchards, the bookseller's, in Piccadilly. They chose that place +because you could look into a bookseller's window for quite a long +time without seeming odd, and there were so many people passing that +no one noticed you. Their habit then was to walk to the corner of +the Green Park and there climb on to the top of a motor omnibus and +go as far as they could within the allotted time. Maggie never in +after life found those streets again. They had gone, she supposed, +to Chelsea, to St. John's Wood, to the heart of the city, to the +Angel, Islington, to Westminster and beyond, but places during those +three weeks had no names, streets had no stones, houses no walls, +and human figures no substantiality. They tried on one or two +occasions to go by Tube, but they missed the swing of the open air, +the rush of the wind, and their independence of men and women. Often +he tried to persuade her to stay with him for luncheon and the +afternoon, but she was wiser than he. + +"No," she said, "everything depends on keeping them quiet. A little +later on it will be lovely. You must leave that part of it to me." + +She promised him definitely that soon they should go to a matinee +together, but she would not give her word about a whole evening. In +some strange way she was frightened of the evening, although she had +already pledged her word to him on something much more final: "No," +she thought to herself, "when the moment comes for me to leave +everything, I will go, but he shall know that I am not doing it +cheaply, simply for an evening's fun." He felt something of that +too, and did not try to persuade her. He hugged his unselfishness; +for the first time in his life it seemed to him that he wanted to +follow somebody else's will; with the other women it had been so +different, if they had not wanted to obey him he had left them. But +indeed all through these three weeks they were discovering +themselves and one another, and, as though it were part of the +general conspiracy, only the best part of themselves. On the top of +the 'bus, as they sat close together, their hands locked under his +overcoat, the world bumping and jolting, and jogging about their +feet, as though indeed public houses and lamp-posts and cinemas and +town halls and sweet-shops were always jumping up tiptoe to see +whether they couldn't catch a glimpse of the lovers, Martin and +Maggie felt that they were really divine creatures, quite modestly +divine, but nevertheless safe from all human ravages and earthly +failings, wicked and cowardly thoughts, and ambitions and desires. + +Indeed, during those three weeks Maggie saw nothing of Martin's +weaknesses, his suspicions and dreads, his temper and self- +abasement. The nobility that Martin had in him was true nobility, +his very weaknesses came from his sharp consciousness of what purity +and self-sacrifice and asceticism really were, and that they were +indeed the only things for man to live by. During those weeks he saw +so truly the sweetness and fidelity and simplicity of Maggie that +his conscience was killed, his scruples were numbed. He did not want +during those weeks any sensual excitement, any depravity, any +license. A quiet and noble asceticism seemed to him perfectly +possible. He burst out once to Maggie with: "I can't conceive, +Maggie, why I ever thought life complicated. You've straightened +everything out for me, made all the troubles at home seem nothing, +shown me what nonsense it was wanting the rotten things I was always +after." + +But Maggie had no eloquence in reply--she could not make up fine +sentences; it embarrassed her dreadfully to tell him even that she +loved him, and when he was sentimental it was her habit to turn it +off with a joke if she could. She wanted terribly to ask him +sometimes what he had meant when he said that he didn't love her as +he had loved other women. She had never the courage to ask him this. +She wondered sometimes why it had hurt her when he had said he loved +her as though she were a man friend, without any question of sex. +"Surely that's enough for me," she would ask herself, "it means that +it's much more lasting and safe." And yet it was not enough. + +Nevertheless, during these weeks she found his brotherly care of her +adorable, he found her shyness divine. + +"Every other woman I have ever been in love with," he told her once, +"I have always kept asking them would they ever change, and would +they love me always, and all that kind of nonsense. A man always +begins like that, and then the time comes when he wishes to God they +would change, and they won't. But you're not like that, Maggie, I +know you'll never change, and I know that I shall never want you +to." "No, I shall never change," said Maggie. + +At the very beginning of the three weeks a little incident occurred +that was trivial enough at the time, but appeared afterwards as +something significant and full of meaning. This incident was a +little talk with poor Mr. Magnus. Maggie always thought of him as +"poor Mr. Magnus." He seemed so feckless and unsettled, and then he +wrote novels that nobody wanted to buy. He always talked like a +book, and that was perhaps one reason why Maggie had avoided him +during these last months. Another reason had been that she really +could not be sure how far he was in the general conspiracy to drive +her into the Chapel. He would not do that of his own will she was +sure, but being in love with Aunt Anne he might think it his sacred +duty, and Maggie was terrified of "sacred duties." Therefore when, +three days after that great evening in the park, he caught her alone +in the drawing-room, her first impulse was to run away; then she +looked at him and found that her love for the world in general +embraced him too "if only he won't talk like a book," she thought to +herself. + +He looked more wandering than ever with his high white collar, his +large spectacles, and his thin, dusty hair; the fire of some hidden, +vital spirit burnt beneath those glasses, and his face was so kindly +that she felt ashamed of herself for having avoided him so often. + +"Both the aunts are at Miss Avies'." she said. + +"Oh," he said, looking at her rather blankly. + +"Perhaps I'll come another time," and he turned towards the door. + +"No," she cried. "You won't--I haven't seen you for months." + +"That's not my fault," he answered. "I thought we were to have been +friends, and you've run away every time you saw the corner of my +dusty coat poking round the door." + +"Yes," she said, "I have--I've been frightened of every one lately." + +"And you're not now?" he asked, looking at her with that sudden +bright sharpness that was so peculiarly his. + +"No, I'm not," she answered. "I'm frightened of nobody." + +He said nothing to that, but stared fixedly in front of him. + +"I'm in a bad mood," he said. "I've been trying for weeks to get on +with a novel. Just a fortnight ago a young man and a young woman +took shelter from the rain in the doorway of a deserted house-- +they're still there now, and they haven't said a word to one another +all that time." + +"Why not?" asked Maggie. + +"They simply won't speak," he answered her. + +"Well then, I should start another story," said Maggie brightly. + +"Ah," he said, shaking his head. "What's the use of starting one if +you know you're never going to finish it, what's the use of +finishing it if you know no one is ever going to read it?" Maggie +shook her head. + +"You've changed. When I saw you last you told me that you didn't +mind whether any one ever read them or not, and that you just wrote +them because you loved doing them." + +"Every author," said Mr. Magnus gloomily," says that to himself when +he can't sell his books, but it's all vainglory, I'm afraid." + +"I can't help being glad," Maggie answered. "There are such +interesting things you might do. I can't imagine why any one writes +books now when there are so many already in existence that nobody's +read." + +He wasn't listening to her. He looked up suddenly and said quite +wildly: + +"It's terrible all this that's going on. You know about it, of +course--Warlock's visions I mean and the trouble it's making. I'm +outside it and you're outside it, but we're being brought into it +all the same--how can we help it when we love the people who are in +it? It's so easy to say that it's nonsense, that people ought to be +wiser nowadays; that it's hysteria, even insanity--I know all that +and, of course, I don't believe for a moment that God's coming in a +chariot of fire on New Year's Eve especially for the benefit of +Thurston, Miss Avies and the rest, but that doesn't end it--it ought +to end it, but it doesn't. There's more in some people's madness +than in other people's sanity, and anyway, even if it's all nonsense +it means life or death to your aunt and some of the others, and it +means a certain breaking up of all this place. And it probably means +the triumph of a charlatan like Thurston and the increase of humbug +in the world and the discouragement of all the honest adventurers. I +call myself an adventurer, you know, Miss Maggie, although I'm a +poor specimen--but I'm damned if it isn't better to be a poor +adventurer than to be a fat, swollen, contented stay-at-home who can +see just as far as his nose and his cheque-book and might be just as +well dead as alive--I beg your pardon," he added suddenly, "for +swearing--I'm not myself, I'm not really." + +She could see indeed that he was in great agitation of mind, and +some of this agitation communicated itself to her. Had she not been +selfish in forgetting all this through her own happiness? He was +right, she was part of it all, whether she wished or no. + +"What do you think," she asked, dropping her voice a little, "is the +real truth about it?" + +"The real truth"--he looked at her suddenly with a tender, most +charming smile that took away his ugliness. "Ah, that's a tremendous +question. Part of the truth is that Warlock's been praying so much +and eating so little that it would be odd indeed if he didn't see +visions of some sort. And part of the truth is that there are a lot +of women in the world who'll believe simply anything that you tell +them. It's part of the truth, too, that there are scoundrels in the +world who will take advantage of anybody's simple trust to fill +their pockets. But that's not all," he went on, shaking his head, +"no, that's not all. It's part of the truth that there is a mystery, +and that human beings will go on searching whatever all the +materialists and merchants in the world can try to do to stop them. +I remember years ago an old man, a little off his dot, telling my +father that he, the old man, was a treasure hunter. He told my +father that the world was divided into two halves, the treasure +hunters and the Town Councillors, and that the two halves would +never join and never even meet. My father, who was a practical man, +said that the old idiot should be shut up in an asylum, and +eventually I believe he was. 'We'll have him going off one day,' my +father said, 'in a cargo boat with a map in his pocket, looking for +gold pieces.' But it wasn't gold pieces he was after." + +To Maggie it was always irritating the way that Mr. Magnus would +wander away from the subject. She brought him back now with a jerk. + +"No, but what do you think is going to happen?" she asked him. + +"I don't know," he answered. "I can't tell, but I know all my +happiness here is coming to an end, and I don't know what I shall +do. If I were a strong man I would go out and find all the other +treasure hunters, all the vicious ones, and the diseased, and the +drunkards and the perverted, and I would try to found some kind of a +society so that they should recognise one another all the world over +and shouldn't feel so lonely and deserted and hopelessly done for. I +don't mean a society for improving them, mind you, or warning them +or telling them they'll go to prison if they don't do better, that's +none of my business. But it seems to be a solemn fact that you +aren't a treasure hunter until there's something wrong with you, +until you've got a sin that's stronger than you are, or until you've +done something that's disgraceful in the eyes of the world--not that +I believe in weakness or in giving way to things. No one admires the +strong and the brave more than I do. I think a man's a fool if he +doesn't fight as hard as he can. But there's a brotherhood of the +dissatisfied and the uneasy and the anxious-hearted, and I believe +it's they who will discover the Grail in the end if it's ever going +to be discovered at all." + +He broke off, then said restlessly: "I think things out, you know, +and at last I come to a conclusion, and it ends by being a platitude +that all the goody, goody books have said times without number. But +all the same that doesn't prevent it from being my discovery. It's +nothing to do with goodness and nothing to do with evil, it's +nothing to do with strength, and nothing to do with weakness; it +simply is that there are some people who want what they can see and +no more, and there are others, the baffled, fighting and disordered +others, for whom nothing that they can see with their mortal eyes is +enough, and who'll be restless all their days with their queer +little maps and their mysterious, thumbed directions to some island +or other that they'll never reach and never even get a ship for." + +He stopped and there was a long silence between them, Maggie was +silent because she never knew what to say when he burst into +parables and divided mankind, under strange names, into different +camps. And yet this time she did know a little what he was after. +There was that house of Katharine Mark's the other day, with its +comfort and quiet and kind smiling clergyman--and there was this +strange place with all of them in an odd quiver of excitement +waiting for something to happen. But she couldn't speak to him about +that, she couldn't say anything to him at all. He cleared his throat +as though he were embarrassed and were conscious that he had been +making a fool of himself. Maggie felt that he was disappointed in +her. She was sorry for that, but she was as she was. + +"Well, I'm glad you're happy," he said, looking at her wistfully. He +got up and stood awkwardly looking at her. + +"I want you to promise me something," he said, "that's really what I +came for. I want you to promise that you won't in any case leave +your aunts before the New Year." + +She got up, looked at him and gave him her hand. + +"Yes," she said. "I promise that." + +The year had only a week or two more to run and she was not afraid +of that little space of time. He seemed to want to say something +more, but after hesitating he suddenly made a bolt for the door and +she could hear him stumbling downstairs. + +She forgot him almost as soon as he had left the house, but his +words nevertheless brought her to consider her aunts. Next morning +at breakfast time she had a further reason to consider them. Aunt +Elizabeth met her, when she came downstairs, with a very grave face. + +"Your aunt's had a terrible night," she said. "She's insisted on +coming downstairs--I told her not. She never listens to anything I +say." + +Maggie could see that something more than ordinary had occurred. +Aunt Elizabeth was on the edge of tears, and in so confused a state +of mind that she put sugar into her egg, and then ate it with a +puzzled air as though she could not be sure why it tasted so +strange. When Aunt Anne came in it was plain enough that she had +wrestled with demons during the night. Maggie had often seen her +before battling with pain and refusing to be defeated. Now she +looked as though she had but risen from the dead. It was a ghost in +very truth that stood there; a ghost in black silk dress with white +wristbands and a stiff white collar, black hair, so tightly drawn +back and ordered that it was like a shining skull-cap. Her face was +white, with the effect of a chalk drawing into which live, black, +burning eyes had been stuck. But it was none of these things that +frightened Maggie. It was the expression somewhere in the mouth, in +the eyes, in the pale bony hands, that spoke of some meeting with a +torturer whose powers were almost omniscient--almost, but not quite. +Pain, sheer physical, brutal pain, came into the room hulking, +steering behind Aunt Anne's shoulder. It grinned at Maggie and said, +"You haven't begun to feel what I can do yet, but every one has his +turn. You needn't flatter yourself that you're going to escape." + +When Aunt Anne moved now it was with infinite caution, as though she +were stalking her enemy and was afraid lest any incautious gesture +should betray her into his ambush. No less marked than her torture +was her courage and the expectation that sustained that courage. She +had her eyes set upon something very sure and very certain. Maggie +was afraid to think what that expectation might be. But Maggie had +grown during these last weeks. She did not now kiss her aunt and try +to show an affection which was not so genuine as she would have +liked it to be by nervous little demonstrations. She said gravely: + +"I am so sorry, Aunt Anne, that you have had so bad a night. Shall I +stay this morning and read to you?" + +Even as she spoke she realised with sharp pain what giving up her +meeting with Martin meant. + +"What were you going to do, dear?" asked Aunt Anne, her eyes seeing +as ever far beyond Maggie and the room and the house. As she spoke +Thomas, the cat, came forward and began rubbing himself very gently, +as though he were whispering something to his mistress, against her +dress. Maggie had an impulse, so strong that it almost defeated her, +to burst out with the whole truth. She almost said: "I'm going out +to meet Martin Warlock, whom I love and with whom I'm going to +live." She hated deceit, she hated lies. But this was some one +else's secret as well as her own, and telling the truth now would +only lead to much pain and distress, and then more lies and more +deceit. + +So she said: + +"I'm going to Piccadilly to get some things for Aunt Elizabeth." + +"Yes," said Aunt Elizabeth, "she saves me a great deal of trouble. +She's a good girl." + +"I know she's a good girl," said Aunt Anne softly. + +It was strange to remember the time not so long ago when to run out +of the house and post a letter had seemed a bold defiant thing to do +threatened with grave penalties. The aunts had changed their plans +about her and had given her no reasons for doing so. No reasons were +ever given in that house for anything that was done. The more Maggie +went out, the more she was drawn in. + +On her way to Martin that morning the figure of Aunt Anne haunted +her. She felt for a brief moment that she would do anything, yes, +even surrender Martin, to ease her aunt's pain. And then she knew +that she would not, and she called herself cruel and selfish and +felt for an instant a dark shadow threatening her because she was +so. But when she saw Martin outside Hatchard's she forgot it all. It +was a strange thing that during those weeks they neither of them +asked any questions about their home affairs. It was as though they +both inwardly realised that there was trouble for them of every kind +waiting outside and that they could only definitely realise their +happiness by building a wall around themselves. They knew perhaps in +their secret hearts, or at any rate Martin knew, that they could not +hold their castle for long. But is not the gift of three perfect +weeks a great thing for any human being to be given--and who has the +temerity, the challenging audacity, to ask with confidence for even +so much? + +On this particular morning Martin said to her: + +"Before we get into the 'bus, Maggie, you've got to come into a shop +with me." He was especially boyish and happy and natural that +morning. It was strange how his face altered when he was happy. His +brow was clear, his eyes were bright, and he had a kind of crooked +confident smile that must have won anybody's heart. His whole +carriage was that of a boy who was entering life for the first time +with undaunted expectation that it could give him nothing but the +best and jolliest things. Maggie as she looked at him this morning +caught her breath with the astonishing force of her love for him. +"Oh, how I'll look after him," was her thought. "He shall never be +unhappy again." + +They crossed the street together, and stood for a moment close +together on the kerb in the middle way as though they were quite +alone in the world. She caught his arm and they ran before a +charging motor-'bus, laughing. People turned back and looked at +them, so happy they seemed. They walked up Bond Street and Martin +drew her into a jeweller's. She had never possessed any ornament +except her coral necklace in all her life and she knew now for the +first time how terribly she liked beautiful things. It was useless +of her to pretend that she did not know that he was going to give +her something. She did not pretend. A very thin old man, who looked +like one of the prophets, drawn out of the wilderness and clothed by +the most fashionable of London tailors, looking over their shoulders +as he talked to them because he saw at once that they were not +customers who were likely to add very much to his shop's exchequer, +produced a large tray, full of rings that glittered and sparkled and +danced as though they'd been told to show themselves off to the best +possible advantage. But for Maggie at once there was only one +possible ring. It was a thin hoop of gold with three small pearls +set in the middle of it; nothing very especial about it, it was in +fact less striking than almost any other ring in the tray. Maggie +looked at the ring and the ring looked at Maggie. It was as though +the ring said, "I shall belong to you whether you take me or no." + +"Now," said Martin with a little catch in his throat, "you make your +choice, Maggie." He was not a millionaire, but he did honestly +intend that whatever ring she chose she should have. + +"Oh," said Maggie, whispering because the shop was so large and the +prophet so indifferent, "don't you think you'd better choose?" + +At the same time she felt the anxious gaze of the three little +pearls upon her. + +"No," said Martin, "I want to give you what you'd like." + +"I'd like what you'd like," said Maggie, still whispering. + +At this banality the prophet made a little impatient movement as +though he really could not be expected to stand waiting there for +ever. Also a magnificent lady, in furs so rich that you could see +nothing of her but her powdered nose, was waving ropes of pearls +about in a blase manner very close to them, and Maggie had a +strange, entirely unreasonable fear that this splendour would +suddenly turn round and snatch the little pearl ring and go off with +it. + +"I'd like that one," said Maggie, pointing. She heard the prophet +sniff his contempt, but she did not care. + +Martin, although he would willingly have given her the most gorgeous +ring in the shop, was delighted to find that her taste was so good, +and like herself. He had great ideas about taste, some of his secret +fears had been lest her strange uncouth upbringing should have +caused her to like gaudy things. He could have hugged her before +them all when she chose that particular ring, which he had himself +noticed as the prettiest and neatest there. + +"Just see whether it fits, darling," he said. At the word "darling" +the prophet cast another despairing look about the shop, as though +he knew well the length of time that lovers could take over these +things if they once put their hearts into it. Maggie was ashamed of +her stubby finger as she put her hand forward--but the ring fitted +exactly. + +"That's right," said Martin, "Now we'll have this put into a case." + +"How wonderful he is," thought Maggie. Not as other women might have +thought, "I wonder how many times he's done this before." Maggie +thought then that it would be more proper to retire a little so that +she should not know the price--and she stood in the doorway of the +shop, looking upon the wind and weather in Bond Street and the +magnificent motor car that belonged to the lady with the pearls and +a magnificent chauffeur, who was so superior that it was probable +that the lady with the pearls belonged to him--and she saw none of +these things, but was conscious of herself and Martin wrapt together +in a mist of happiness that no outside force could penetrate. + +As they walked away from the shop she said: "Of course I won't be +able to wear it." + +He put the little square box, wrapped in tissue paper, into her +hand, and answered: "You can wear it on a ribbon under your dress." + +"Oh yes," she whispered, pressing his hand for a moment. + +They did not climb on to a 'bus that morning, but walked ahead +blindly, blissfully, they did not know whither. They were now in +wild days at the end of November and the weather was tempestuous, +the wind blowing with a screaming fury and black clouds scudding +across the sky like portents. Little heavy drops of rain fell with a +sudden urgency as though they were emphasising some secret; figures +were swept through the streets and the roar of the wind was so +vehement that the traffic seemed to make no sound. And yet nothing +happened--no great storm of rain, no devastating flood. It was a day +of warning. + +They noticed nothing of the weather. It might have been a world of +burning sunshine for all they saw of it. + +"You know," said Martin, "I've never liked giving any one anything +so much as I liked giving you that ring." + +"I wish I could give you something too," she said. + +"Well, you can," he said. "Some little thing that I'll carry about +with me always . . . Oh, Maggie!" he went on. "Isn't it strange how +easy it is to be good when no one worries you. These last ten days +with you I couldn't have done anything wrong if I tried. It isn't +fair to say we can help ourselves. We can't. Something just comes +along and seizes you and makes you do wrong." + +"Oh, I don't know," said Maggie. "Don't let's talk about those +things. It's like Mr. Magnus, who says we're treasure hunters or +pools of water, or old men in asylums. I don't understand all that. +I'm just Maggie Cardinal.--All the same I believe one can do what +one wants to. I don't believe people can make one do things." + +"Do you think any one could make me not love you if they tried? I +shall love you always, whatever happens. I know I shall never +change. I'm not one to change. I'm obstinate. Father used to say +'obstinate as a pig.'" + +That made her think of the old days at St. Dreot's, just then, as +they seemed, so remote. She began to tell him of those old days, of +the Vicarage, of the holes in the floor and the ceiling, of her +loneliness and the way the villagers used to talk, of her solitary +walks and looking down on to Polchester from the hill-top, of her +father's sudden death, of Uncle Mathew . . . + +"He's a funny old codger," said Martin. "What does he do?" + +"I don't know," said Maggie. "I really don't know how he lives I'm +afraid it's something rather bad." + +"I've known men like that," said Martin, "plenty, but it's funny +that one of them should be connected with you. It doesn't seem as +though you could have anything to do with a man like that." + +"Oh, but I like him!" said Maggie. "He's been very kind to me often. +When I was all alone after father died he was very good--" She +stopped abruptly remembering how he'd come into her bedroom. +"Drink's been his trouble, and never having any money. He told me +once if he had money he'd never do a thing he shouldn't." "Yes," +said Martin. "That's what they always say when they haven't any +money, and then when they have any it's worse than ever." + +He was thinking, perhaps, of himself. At any rate to stop remorseful +thoughts he began to tell her about his own childhood. + +"Mine was very different from yours, Maggie," he said. "I wasn't +lonely. You don't know what a fuss people made of me. I was +conceited, too. I thought I was chosen, by God, out of all the +world, that I was different from every one else, and better too. +When I was only about nine, at home one Sunday they asked me if I'd +say a prayer, and I did, before them all, made it up and went on for +quarter of an hour. Lord! I must have been an awful child. And +outside the religious time I was as wicked as I could be. I used to +go down into the kitchen and steal the food and I'd dress up as a +ghost to frighten Amy and I'd break mother's china. I remember once, +after we'd had a service in the drawing-room and two girls had gone +into hysterics, I stole down into the kitchen in my nightdress to +get some jam and I found one of the Elders making love to the cook. +They were both so fat and he had his coat and waistcoat off and he +was kissing her neck. My word, they were frightened when they saw +me standing there! After that I could do what I liked with the cook +. . . We used to have prayer meetings in the drawing-room, and +sometimes father would pray so hard that the glass chandelier would +shake and rattle till I used to think it would come down." + +"And the funny thing was that one minute I'd be pinching Amy who was +kneeling next to me and the next I'd be shaking with religion and +seeing God standing right in front of me by the coal-scuttle. Such a +mix-up! . . . it was then and so it is now. Amy always hated me. She +was really religious and she thought I was a hypocrite. But I wasn't +altogether. There was something real in it and there still is." + +"Didn't you go to school?" asked Maggie. + +"No, that was the mistake. They never sent me. Father loved me too +much and he wanted to keep me always with him. He tried to teach me +himself but I never learnt anything. I always knew I could turn them +round my little finger. I always knew he'd rather do anything than +make me unhappy. Sometimes we had lovely times together, sitting in +the dusk in the front of the fire. Do you know, Maggie, I've never +changed in my love for father? I've changed in everything else, but +in that never. Yet I've hurt him over and over and over again. I've +done things . . ." Here he broke off. To-day was to be happy; they +must build up their walls faster, faster, faster to keep the world +out. He would think of nothing, nothing but the present. The wind +blew and the heavy drops of rain fell, one and one and one, slowly +between the gusts. Ho drew her close to him. + +"Are you cold?" + +"No, Martin dear." + +"I suppose we should turn back." + +"Yes, it's getting late." + +"It will seem hours until to-morrow." + +"And to me too." + +They were at the end of the Green Park. There was no one +there. They kissed and clung together and Maggie's hand was +warm inside his coat. Then they turned back and entered the +real world once more . . . + +"Now we must have our matinee," Martin said. Maggie could not refuse +and besides she herself wanted it so badly. Also the three weeks +were drawing to a close, and although she did not know what was in +store for them, she felt, in some mysterious way, that trouble was +coming. + +"Yes, we'll have our matinee," she said. + +It was a terrific excitement for her, apart altogether from her love +for Martin. She had, of course, never been to a theatre. She could +not imagine in the least what it was like. It so happened, by a +wonderful chance, that a note came from Katherine Mark asking her to +tea. She showed this to the aunts and said that she would accept it. +She wrote to Katherine Mark and refused and told Martin that for +that Wednesday afternoon she was quite free until at least seven +o'clock. She wove these deceits with strong disgust. She hated the +lies, and there were many, many times when she was on the edge of +confessing everything to the aunts. But the thought of what would +follow that confession held her back. She could not make things +harder for Martin. + +Nevertheless she wondered why when she felt, in herself, no shame al +all at the things that she was doing, she should have to lie to +cover those things up. But everything in connection with the Chapel +seemed to lie.--The place was wrapped in intrigue and double- +dealing. How long would it be before she and Martin were out of it +all? + +She was to meet him by one of the lions in Trafalgar Square. She +bought a golden chrysanthemum which she stuck into the belt of her +black dress and she wore her coral necklace. She was tired of black. +She sometimes thought she would spend all her Three Hundred Pounds +on clothes . . . To-day, as soon as she was out of the house and had +turned the corner into King William Street, she slipped on her ring. +She kissed it before she put her glove on. He was waiting there +looking like a happy schoolboy, that way that she loved him to look. +That slow crooked smile of his, something that broke up his whole +face into geniality and friendliness, how she adored him when he +looked like that! He was wearing clothes of some rough red-brown +stuff and a black knitted tie-- + +She was carrying something, a little parcel in tissue paper. She +pressed it into his hand when they met. He opened it, just like a +boy, chuckling, his eyes shining, his fingers tearing the paper in +his eagerness. Her present was a round locket of thin plain gold and +inside was the funniest little black faded photograph of Maggie, her +head only, a wild untidy head of hair, a fat round schoolgirl face-- +a village snapshot of Maggie taken in St. Dreot's when she was about +fifteen. + +"It's all I had," she said. "I remembered it the other day and I +found it. A travelling photographer took it one day. He came to the +village and every one was taken, father and all. It's very bad but +it was the only one." + +"It's wonderful," said Martin, and truly it was wonderful. It had +caught by a marvellous chance, in spite of its shabby faded +darkness, the very soul of Maggie. Was it her hair, her untidy hair, +or the honesty of her eyes, or the strength and trustiness of her +mouth? But then it was to any one who did not know her the bad dim +photograph of an untidy child, to any one who did know her the very +stamp and witness of Maggie and all that she was. Maggie had spent +twenty-five shillings on the locket (she had had three pounds put +away from her allowance in her drawer). + +It was a very simple locket, thin plain gold round and smooth, but +good, and it would last. + +"You darling," whispered Martin. "There couldn't have been anything +more like you if you'd been taken by the grandest photographer in +London." + +They started off towards Shaftesbury Avenue where the theatre was, +and as they went a funny little incident occurred. They were both +too happy to talk and Maggie was too happy even to think. Suddenly +she was aware that some one was coming towards her whom she knew. +She looked and tugged herself from that world of Martin and only +Martin in which she was immersed. It was the large, smiling, rosy- +cheeked, white-haired clergyman, Mr. Trenchard. Yes, certainly it +was he. He had recognised her and was stopping to speak to her. +Martin moved on a little and stood waiting for her. She was confused +and embarrassed but pleased too because he seemed glad to see her. +He looked the very picture of a well-dressed, kindly, genial friend +who had known her all his life. He was wearing a beautifully shining +top-hat and his stiff white collar gleamed. Yes, he was glad to see +her and he said so. He remembered her name. "Miss Cardinal," he +called her. How had she been? What had she been doing? Had she seen +Mrs. Mark? He was staying with his sister at Brown's Hotel in +Somewhere--she didn't catch the name of the street. His sister would +be so glad if she would come and see them one day. Would she come? +He wouldn't tie her down, but she had only to write and say she was +coming . . . + +He took her hand and held it for a moment and looked in her eyes +with the kindliest friendliest regard. He was glad to have seen her. +He should tell his sister . . . + +He was gone and Maggie really could not be sure what she had said. +Something very silly she could be certain. Stupid the pleasure that +his few words had given her, but she felt once again, as she had +felt in Katherine Mark's drawing-room, the contact with that other +world, that safe, happy, comfortable, assured world in which +everything was exactly what it seemed. She was glad that he liked +her and that his sister liked her. Then she could not be so wild and +odd and uncivilised as she often was afraid that she was. She +rejoined Martin with a little added glow in her cheeks. + +"Who was that?" Martin asked her rather sharply. + +She told him. + +"One of those humbugging parsons," he said. "He stood over you as +though he'd like to eat you." + +"Oh, I'm sure he's not a humbug," she answered. + +"You'd be taken in by anybody," he told her. + +"Oh, no, I shouldn't," she said. "Now forget him." + +And they did. By the time they had reached Piccadilly Circus they +were once more deep, deep in one another. They were back in their +dark and gleaming wood. + +The Lyric Theatre was their destination. Maggie drew a breath as +they stepped into the hall where there stood two large stout +commissionaires in blue uniforms, gold buttons, and white gloves. +People pushed past them and hurried down the stairs on either side +as though a theatre were a Nothing. Maggie stood there fingering her +gloves and feeling lonely. The oil painting of a beautiful lady with +a row of shining teeth faced her. There were also some palms and a +hole in the wall with a man behind it. + +Soon they too passed down the stairs, curtains were drawn back, and +Maggie was sitting, quite suddenly, in a large desert of gold and +red plush, with emptiness on every side of it and a hungry-looking +crowd of people behind a wooden partition staring at her in such a +way that she felt as though she had no clothes on. She gave a +hurried glance at these people and turned round blushing. + +"Why don't they sit with us?" she whispered to Martin. + +"They're the Pit and we're the Stalls," he whispered to her, but +that comforted her very little. + +"Won't people come and sit where we are?" she asked. + +"Oh yes; we're early," he told her. + +Soon she was more composed and happier. She sat very close to +Martin, her knee against his and his hand near to hers, just +touching the outside of her palm. Her ring sparkled and the three +little pearls smiled at her. As he breathed she breathed too, and it +seemed to her that their bodies rose and fell as one body. Without +looking directly at him, which would, she knew, embarrass him before +all those hungry people behind her, she could out of the corner of +her eye see the ruddy brown of his cheek and the hard thick curve of +his shoulder. She was his, she belonged to no one else in the world, +she was his utterly. Utterly. Ever so swiftly and gently her hand +brushed for an instant over his; he responded, crooking his little +finger for a moment inside hers. She smiled; she turned round and +looked at the people triumphantly, she felt a deep contented rest in +her heart, rich and full, proud and arrogant, the mother, the lover, +the sister, the child, everything to him she was . . . + +People came in, the theatre filled, and a hum of talk arose, then +the orchestra began to tune, and soon music was playing, and Maggie +would have loved to listen but the people must chatter. + +When suddenly the lights went down the only thing of which she was +conscious was that Martin's hand had suddenly seized hers roughly, +sharply, and was crushing it, pressing the ring into the flesh so +that it hurt. Her first excited wondering thought then was: + +"He doesn't care for me any more only as a friend.--There's the +other now . . ." and a strange shyness, timidity, and triumph +overwhelmed her so that her eyes were full of tears and her body +trembling. + +But as the play continued she must listen. It was her very first +play and soon it was thrilling to her so that she forgot, for a +time, even Martin. Or rather Martin was mingled with it, absorbed in +it, part of it, and she was there too sharing with him the very +action of the story. It was a very old-fashioned play about a little +Charity girl who was brought up by a kindly middle-aged gentleman +who cared for nothing but books. He brought her up on his own plan +with a view to marrying her afterwards. But meanwhile, of course, +she saw a handsome young soldier who was young like herself, and she +was naturally bored with the studious gentleman. Maggie shared all +the feelings of the Charity girl. Had she been brought up, say by a +man like Mr. Trenchard and then had met Martin, why, of course, she +could have gone only one way. + +The soldier was not like Martin, being slim and curled and +beautiful, nor was the studious gentleman like Mr. Trenchard, being +thin and tall with a face like a monk and a beautiful voice. But the +girl was like Maggie, prettier of course, and with artful ways, but +untidy a little and not very well educated. At the first interval, +when the lights were up and the band was playing and the people +walking, Martin whispered: + +"Do you like it, Maggie?" + +"I love it," she answered. + +And then they just sat there, without another word between them, +pressed close together. + +A little song ran through the play--one of Burns's most famous +songs, although Maggie, who had never read anything, did not know +that. The verses were: + +O my luve's like a red, red rose That's newly sprung in June: O my +luve's like the melodie That's sweetly played in tune! + +As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, So deep in luve am I: And I will +luve thee still, my dear, Till a' the seas gang dry: + +Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt wi' the sun; +I will luve thee still, my dear, While the sands o' life shall run. + +And fare thee weel, my only Luve, And fare thee weel a while! And I +will come again, my Luve, Tho' it were ten thousand mile. + +First the handsome soldier sang this to the Charity girl, and then, +because it was a sentimental tune, it was always turning up through +the play, and if one of the characters were not singing it the +orchestra was quietly playing it. Maggie loved it; she was not +sentimental but she was simple, and the tune seemed at once to +belong to herself and to Martin by natural right. + +As the story developed it became more unreal and Maggie's unerring +knowledge of the difference between sense and nonsense refused to +credit the tall handsome villainness who confronted the Charity girl +at the ball. The Charity girl had no right to be at the ball and +people stood about in unnatural groups and pretended not to listen +to the loud development of the plot and no one seemed to use any of +their faculties. Then at the end, when the middle-aged gentleman +nobly surrendered his Charity girl to the handsome soldier, the +little tune came back again and all was well. + +They came out of the theatre into lights and shadows and mists cabs +and omnibuses and crowds of people . . . Maggie clung to Martin's +arm. It seemed to her, dazzled for an instant, that a great are of +white piercing light cut the black street and that in the centre of +this arc a tree, painted green, stood, and round the tree figures, +dark shapes, and odd shadows danced. She shaded her eyes with her +hand. The long shining line of Shaftesbury Avenue ran out, from her +feet, into thick clusters of silver lights. The tree had vanished +and now there were policemen and ladies in hats and strange +mysterious houses. She caught above it all, between the roofs, the +pale flat river of the evening sky and in this river stars like +golden buttons floated. The moon was there too, a round amber coin +with the laughing face stamped upon it. + +"What time is it?" she asked Martin. + +"Half-past five," he said. "How early the moon rises. It's only +climbing now. See the chimney's tossing it about." + +"I must get home." + +"No, no." He held her arm fiercely. "You must come to tea. That's +part of the programme. We have plenty of time before seven o'clock." +She knew that she ought to return. Something seemed to tell her, as +she stood there, that now was the moment to break this off. But when +his hand was on her arm, when he was so close to her, she could not +leave him. She would have one hour more . . . He took her across the +street, down into darkness, up into light. Then they went into a +shop, up some stairs, and were suddenly in a little room with a +table with a cloth, a window looking out into the lamp-lit square, +cherry-coloured curtains and gay hunting pictures on the walls. +Martin pushed a bell in the wall and a stout waiter, perspiring, +smiling, a napkin in his hand, came to the door. "Tea," said Martin, +and he vanished. "It's all right," he said, drawing her to a +creaking wicker armchair near the empty fireplace. "No one will +interrupt us. They know me here. I ordered the room yesterday." Tea +came, but she could not eat anything. In some strange way that +moment in the theatre when he had pressed her hand had altered +everything. She recognised in herself a new Maggie; she was excited +with a thick burning excitement, she was almost sleepy with the +strain of it and her cheeks were hot, but her throat icy cold. When +she told him that she wasn't hungry, he said, "I'm not either." Then +he added, not looking at her, "That fellow won't be back for an +hour." He came and stood by her looking down on her. He bent forward +over the chair and put his hands under her chin and pressed her face +up towards his. But he did not kiss her. Then he took her hands and +pulled her gently out of the chair, sat down on it himself, then, +still very tenderly, put his arms round her and drew her down to +him. She lay back against him, her cheek against his, his arms tight +around her. He whispered to her again and again, "Darling . . . +Darling . . . Darling." She felt now so terribly part of him that +she seemed to have lost all her own identity. His hands, softly, +tenderly passed up and down her body, stroking her hair, her cheeks, +her arms. Her mouth was against his cheek and she was utterly +motionless, shivering a little sometimes and once her hand moved up +and caught his and then moved away again. At last, as it seemed from +an infinite distance, his voice came to her, speaking to her. +"Maggie, darling," he said, "don't go back till late to-night. You +can say that those people asked you to stay to dinner. Your aunts +can't do anything. Nothing can happen. Stay with me here and then +later we'll go and have dinner at a little place I know . . . and +then come back here . . . come back here . . . like this. Maggie, +darling, say you will. You must. We mayn't have another chance for +so long. You're coming to me afterwards. What does it matter, a +week or two earlier? What does it matter, Maggie? Stay here. Let +us love one another and have something to think about . . . to +remember . . . to remember . . . to remember . . ." His voice seemed +to slip away into infinity as voices in a dream do. She could not +say anything because she was in a dream too. She could only feel his +hand stroking her face. He seemed to take her silence for consent. +He suddenly kissed her furiously, pressing her head back until it +hurt. That woke her. She pushed his arms back and sprang up. Her +hands were trembling. She shook her head. "No, Martin. No, not now." +"Why not?" He looked at her angrily from the chair. His face was +altered, he was frowning, his eyes were dark. "I'm not going to stay +now." Her voice shook in spite of herself. With shaking hands she +patted her dress. "Why not?" he asked again. "I'm not. I promised +the aunts. Not now. It would spoil everything." "Oh, very well." +He was furious with her. He wouldn't meet her eyes. "Not now." She +felt that she would cry; tears flooded her eyes. "It's been so +lovely . . . Martin . . . Don't look like that. Oh, I love you too +much!" She broke off. With a sudden movement she fell at his feet; +kneeling there, she drew his hands to her face, she kissed them, the +palms of his hands over and over again. His anger suddenly left him. +He put his arms round her and kissed her, first her eyes, then her +cheeks, then, gently, her mouth. "All right," he said. "Only I feel +somehow . . . I feel as though our time had come to an end." "But it +shan't?" He turned upon her fiercely, held her hands, looked in her +face. "Maggie, do you swear that you'll love me always, whatever I +am, whatever I do?" "I swear," she answered, gazing into his eyes," +that I'll love you always, whatever you are, whatever you do." Then +she went away, leaving him by the table, staring after her. In the +street she saw that her chrysanthemum was in pieces, torn and +scattered and destroyed. She slipped off the ring and put it into +her pocket, then, with forebodings in her heart, as though she did +indeed know that her good time was over, she turned towards home. +She was right. Her good time was over. That night she was left +alone. Martha let her in and, regarding her darkly, said nothing. +The aunts also said nothing, sitting all the evening under the green +shade of the lamp in the drawing-room, Aunt Anne reading a pamphlet, +Aunt Elizabeth sewing. Maggie pretended to read but she saw no +words. She saw only the green lamp like a dreadful bird suspended +there and Aunt Anne's chiselled sanctity. Over and over again she +reasoned with herself. There was no cause for panic. Nothing had +happened to change things--and yet--and yet everything was changed. +Everything had been changed from that moment when Martin pressed her +hand in the theatre. Everything! . . . Danger now of every sort. She +could be brave, she could meet anything if she were only sure of +Martin. But he too seemed strange to her. She remembered his dark +look, his frown when she had refused him. Oh, this loneliness, this +helplessness. If she could be with him, beside him, she would fear +nothing. That night, the first faint suspicion of jealousy, of +doubt, an agonising dart of pain at the knowledge of what it would +mean to her now if he left her, stirred in her breast. This room was +stifling. She got up from her chair, went to the window, looked out +between the thick curtains at the dark deserted street. "What is it, +Maggie?" "Nothing, Aunt Anne." "You're very restless, dear." "It's +close. May I open the door?" "A little, dear." She opened the door +and then sat there hearing the Armed Men sway ever so slightly, tap, +tap, against the wall in the passage. That night she scarcely slept +at all, only tumbling into sudden nightmare dreams when something +had her by the throat and Martin was not there. In the morning as +soon as she could escape she hurried to Piccadilly. Martin was +waiting for her. When she saw him she realised at once that her good +time was indeed over. His face was white and strained. He scarcely +looked at her but stared anxiously up and down the street. + +"What is it?" she asked breathlessly. "Look here, Maggie," he began, +still scarcely looking at her. "I must get back at once. I only came +to tell you that we must drop our meetings for the next day or two-- +until it's blown over." + +"Until what's blown over," she asked him. + +"It's my father. I don't know what exactly has happened. They'll +none of them tell me, damn them. It's Caroline Smith. She's been +talking to Amy about you and me. I know that because of what Amy +said about you at breakfast this morning." + +"What did she say?" + +"She wouldn't speak out. She hinted. But she admitted that Caroline +Smith had told her something. But she doesn't matter. Nothing +matters except father. He mustn't be excited just now. His heart's +so bad. Any little thing . . . We must wait." + +She saw that he was scarcely realising her at all. She choked down +all questions that concerned themselves. She simply agreed, nodding +her head. + +He did look at her then, smiling as he used to do. + +"It's awfully hard on us. It won't be for more than a day or two. +But I must put things right at home or it will be all up. I don't +care for the others, of course, but if anything happened to father +through me . . ." He told her to write to the Charing Cross post- +office. He would do the same. In a day or two it would be all right. +He pressed her hand and was gone. + +When she looked about her the street seemed quite empty although it +was full of people. She threw up her head. She wouldn't be beaten by +anybody . . . only, it was lonely going back to the house and all of +them . . . alone . . . without Martin. + +She cried a little on her way home. But they were the last tears she +shed. + + + + +CHAPTER IX + +THE INSIDE SAINTS + + +Maggie, when she was nearly home, halted suddenly. She stopped as +when on the threshold of a room that should be empty one sees +waiting a stranger. If at the end of all this she should lose +Martin! . . . + +There was the stranger who had come to her now and would not again +depart. She recognised the sharp pain, the almost unconscious +pulling back on the sudden edge of a dim pit, as something that +would always be with her now--always. One knows that in the second +stage of a great intimacy one's essential loneliness is only +redoubled by close companionship. One asks for so much more, and +then more and more, but that final embrace is elusive and no +physical contact can surrender it. But she was young and did not +know that yet. All she knew was that she would have to face these +immediate troubles alone, that she would not see him for perhaps a +week, that she would not know what his people at home were doing, +and that she must not let any of these thoughts come up into her +brain. She must keep them all back: if she did not, she would tumble +into some foolish precipitate action. + +When she reached home she was obstinate and determined. At once she +found that something was the matter. During luncheon the two aunts +sat like statues (Aunt Elizabeth a dumpy and squat one). Aunt Anne's +aloofness was coloured now with a very human anger. Maggie realised +with surprise that she had never seen her angry before. She had been +indignant, disapproving, superior, forbidding, but never angry. The +eyes were hard now, not with religious reserve but simply with bad +temper. The mist of anger dimmed the room, it was in the potatoes +and the cold dry mutton, especially was it in the hard pallid knobs +of cheese. And Aunt Elizabeth, although she was frightened by her +sister's anger on this occasion, shared in it. She pursed her lips +at Maggie and moved her fat, podgy hand as though she would like to +smack Maggie's cheeks. + +Maggie was frightened--really frightened. The line of bold +independence was all very well, but now risks were attached to it. +If she swiftly tossed her head and told her aunts that she would +walk out of the house they might say "Walk!" and that would +precipitate Martin's crisis. She knew from the way he had looked at +her that morning that his thoughts were with his father, and it +showed that she had travelled through the first stage of her +intimacy with him, that she could not trust him to put her before +his own family troubles. At all costs she must keep him safe through +these next difficult weeks, and the best way to keep him safe was +herself to remain quietly at home. + +Of all this she thought as she swallowed the hostile knobs of cheese +and drank the tepid, gritty coffee. + +She followed her aunts upstairs, and was not at all surprised when +Aunt Elizabeth, with an agitated murmur, vanished into higher +regions. She followed Aunt Anne into the drawing-room. + +Aunt Anne sat in the stiff-backed tapestry chair by the fire. Maggie +stood in front of her. She was disarmed at that all-important moment +by her desperate sensation of defenceless loneliness. It was as +though half of herself--the man-half of herself--had left her. She +tried to summon her pluck but there was no pluck there. She could +only want Martin, over and over again inside herself. Had any one +been, ever so hopelessly ALONE before? + +"Maggie, I am angry," said Aunt Anne. She said it as though she +meant it. Amazing how human this strange aloof creature had become. +As though some coloured saint bright with painted wood and tinsel +before whom one stood in reverence slipped down suddenly and with +fingers of flesh and blood struck one's face. Her cheeks were +flushed, her beautiful hands were no longer thin but were hard and +active. + +"What have I done, aunt?" asked Maggie. + +"You have not treated us fairly. My sister and I have done +everything for you. You have not made it especially easy for us in +any way, but we have tried to give you what you wanted. You have +repaid is with ingratitude." + +She paused, but Maggie said nothing. She went on: + +"Lately--these last three weeks--we have given you complete liberty. +I advised that strongly against my sister's opinion because I +thought you weren't happy. You didn't make friends amongst our +friends, and I thought you should have the chance of finding some +who were younger and gayer than we were. Then I thought we could +trust you. You have many faults, but I believed that you were +honest." + +"I am honest!" Maggie broke in. Her aunt went on: + +"You have used the liberty we gave you during these weeks to make +yourself the talk of our friends. You have been meeting Mr. Martin +Warlock secretly every day. You have been alone with him in the Park +and at the theatre. I know that you are young and very ignorant. You +could not have known that Martin Warlock is a man with whom no girl +who respects herself would be seen alone--" + +"That is untrue!" Maggie flamed out. + +"--and," went on Aunt Anne, "we would have forgiven that. It is your +deceit to ourselves that we cannot forget. Day after day you were +meeting him and pretending that you went to your other friends. I am +disappointed in you, bitterly disappointed. I saw from the first +that you did not mean to care for us, now, as well, you have +disgraced us--" + +Maggie began: "Yes, I have been seeing Martin. I didn't think it +wrong--I don't now. I didn't tell you because I was afraid that +you would stop me--" + +"Then that shows that you knew it was wrong." + +"No, Aunt Anne--only that you would think it was wrong. I can only +go by myself, by what I feel is wrong I mean. I've always had to, +all my life. It would have been no good doing anything else at home, +because father--" + +She pulled herself up. She was not going to defend herself or ask +for pity. She said, speaking finally: + +"Yes, I have been out with Martin every day. I went to the theatre +with him, too, and also had tea with him." + +Maggie could see Aunt Anne's anger rising higher and higher like +water in a tube. Her voice was hard when she spoke again--she +pronounced judgment: + +"We see now that you were right when you said that you had better +leave us. You are free to go as soon as you wish. You have, of +course, your money, but if you care to stay with us until you have +found some work you must now obey our rules. While you remain with +us you must not go out unless my sister or I accompany you." Then +her voice changed, softening a little. She suddenly raised her hands +in a gesture of appeal: "Oh, Maggie, Maggie, turn to God. You have +rebelled against Him. You have refused to listen to His voice. The +end of that can be only misery. He loves, but He also judges. Even +now, within a day, a week, He may come with judgment. Turn to Him, +Maggie, not because I tell you but because of the Truth. Pray with +me now that He may help you and give you strength." + +Because she felt that she had indeed treated them badly and must do +just now what they wished, she knelt down on the drawing-room +carpet. Aunt Anne also knelt down, her figure stiff like iron, her +raised hands once again delicate and ghost-like. + +"0 Lord God," she prayed, "this Thy servant comes to Thee and prays +that Thou wilt give her strength in her struggle with the Evil One. +She has been tempted and is weak, but Thou art strong to save and +wilt not despise the least of these Thy children." + +"Come, O Lord the Father, and take Thy daughter into Thy loving +care, and when Thou comest, in all Thy splendour, to redeem the +world, I pray that Thou wilt find her waiting for Thee in holiness +and meekness of heart." + +They rose. Maggie's knees were sore with the stiff carpet. The +family group watched her from the wall ironically. + +She saw that in spite of the prayer Aunt Anne had not forgiven her. +She stood away from her, and although her voice now was not so hard, +it had lost altogether the tender note that it used to have. + +"Now, Maggie, you must promise us that you will not see Martin +Warlock again." + +Maggie flushed. "No, aunt, I can't promise that." + +"Then we must treat you as a prisoner whilst you are with us." + +"If he wants to see me I must see him." + +They looked at one another. Aunt Anne was like a man just then. + +"Very well. Until you give us your promise we must see ourselves +that you do not disgrace us." + +There was no more to be said. It was as though a heavy iron door had +rolled to. + +Aunt Anne passed Maggie and left the room. + +Well, then, there was the situation. As she remained in the empty +room she felt relief because now she knew where she was. + +If only she could keep in touch with Martin then nothing else at all +mattered. But that must be, otherwise she felt that she would rush +at them all and tread them down and break doors and windows to get +at him. + +Meanwhile, how they must all have been talking! She felt no especial +anger against Caroline Smith. It had been her own fault for trusting +that note to her honour. Caroline had no honour, of course. Maggie +might have guessed that from the way that she talked about other +people. And then probably she herself was in love with Martin . . . +She sat down, staring in front of her, thinking. They all knew, Amy +Warlock, Mr. Thurston, Miss Avies--knew about that wonderful, +marvellous thing, her love for Martin, his for her. They were +turning it over in their hands, soiling it, laughing at it, sneering +at it. And what were they doing to Martin? At that thought she +sprang up and began hurriedly to walk about. Oh, they must leave him +alone! What were they saying to him? They were telling him how +ridiculous it was to have anything to do with a plain, ugly girl! +And he? Was he defending her? At the sudden suggestion of his +disloyalty indignation fought in her with some strange, horrible +suspicion. Yes, it would come back, that thought. He was weak. He +had told her that he was. He was weak. She KNEW that he was. She +would not lie to herself. And then at the thought of his weakness +the maternal love in her that was the strongest instinct in her +character flooded her body and soul, so that she did not mind if he +were weak, but only wanted to defend him, to protect him . . . + +Strangely, she felt more sure of him at that moment when she was +conscious of his weakness than she had been when she asserted his +strength. Beneath that weakness he would be true to her because he +needed her. No one else could give him what she did; he had said so +again and again. And it would always be so. He would have to come +back to her however often he denied her. + +She felt happier then. She could face them all. She had been bad to +her aunts, too. She had done them harm, and they had been nothing +but goodness to her. Apart from leaving Martin she would do all, +these next weeks, to please them. + +She went up to her bedroom, and when she reached it she realised, +with a little pang of fright, that she was a prisoner. No more +meetings outside Hatchards, no more teas, no more walks . . . She +looked out of the window down into the street. It was a long way +down and the figures walking were puppets, not human at all. But the +thing to be thought of now was the question of letters. How was she +to get them to the Strand Office and receive from them Martin's +letters in return? After long, anxious thought there seemed to be +only one way. There was a kitchen-maid, Jane, who came every morning +to the house, did odd jobs in the kitchen, and went home again in +the evening. Maggie had seen the girl about the house a number of +times, had noticed her for her rebellious, independent look, and had +felt some sympathy with her because she was under the harsh dominion +of Martha. + +Maggie had spoken to her once or twice and the girl had seemed +grateful, smiling in a kind of dark, tearful way under her untidy +hair. Maggie believed that she would help her; of course the girl +would get into trouble were she discovered, and dismissal would +certainly follow, but it was clear enough that she would not in any +case be under Martha's government very long. Martha never kept +kitchen-maids for more than a month at a time. + +She sat down at once and wrote her first letter, sitting on her bed. + +DARLING MARTIN--There has been an explosion here. The aunts have +told me to give you up. I could not promise them that I would not +see you and so I am a prisoner here until I leave them altogether. I +won't leave them until after the New Year, partly because I gave a +promise and partly because it would make more trouble for you if I +were turned out just now. I can't leave the house at all unless I am +with one of them, so I am going to try and send the letters by the +kitchen-maid here who goes home every day, and she will fetch yours +when she posts mine. I'll give her a note to tell the post people +that she is to have them. Martin, dear, try and write every day, +even if it's only the shortest line, because it is dreadful to be +shut up all day, and I think of you all the time and wonder how you +are. Don't be unhappy, Martin--that's the one thing I couldn't bear. +If you're not, I'm not. There's no reason to be unhappy about me. +I'm very cheerful indeed if I know that you are all right. You are +all right, aren't you? I do want to know what happened when you got +home. I quite understand that the one thing you must do now is to +keep your father well and not let anything trouble him. If the +thought of me troubles him, then tell him that you are thinking of +nothing but him now and how to make him happy. But don't let them +change your feeling for me. You know me better than any of them do +and I am just as you know me, every bit. The aunts are very angry +because they say I deceived them, but they haven't any right to tell +me who I shall love, have they? No one has. I am myself and nobody's +ever cared for me except you--and Uncle Mathew, so I don't see why I +should think of anybody. The aunts never cared for me really--only +to make me religious. + +But, Martin, never forget I love you so much I can never change. I'm +not one who changes, and although I'm young now I shall be just the +same when I'm old. I have the ring and I look at it all the time. I +like to think you have the locket. Please write, dear Martin, or +I'll find it very difficult to stay quiet here, and I know I ought +to stay quiet for your sake. + +Your loving, + +MAGGIE. + +She put it in an envelope, wrote the address as he had told her, and +then set out to find Jane. It was four o'clock in the afternoon now +and the house, on this winter's day, was dark and dim. + +The gas was always badly lit in the passages, spitting and muttering +like an imprisoned animal. The house was so quiet when Maggie came +out on to the stairs that there seemed to be no one in it. She found +her way down into the hall and saw Thomas the cat there, moving like +a black ghost along the floor. He came up to her and rubbed himself +in his sinister, mysterious way against her dress. When she turned +towards the green baize door that led towards the kitchen regions he +stood back from her, stole on to the lower steps of the staircase +and watched her with steady, unblinking eyes. She pushed the door +and went through into the cold passage that smelt of cheese and +bacon and damp earth. There seemed to be no one about, and then +suddenly the pantry door opened and Jane came out. She stopped when +she saw Maggie. + +"Where's Martha?" asked Maggie in a low voice. + +The whisper seemed to tell Jane at once that this was to be a +confidential matter. She jerked with a dirty thumb in the direction +of the kitchen. + +"In there. Cooking the dinner," she whispered back. She was untidy, +there were streaks of black on her face, but her eyes looked up at +Maggie with a friendly, roguish glance, as though they had already +something in common. Maggie saw that she had no time to lose. She +came close to her. + +"Jane," she said, "I'm in trouble. It's only you who can help me. +Here's a letter that I want posted--just in the ordinary way. Can +you do that for me?" + +Jane, suddenly smiling, nodded her head. + +"And there's something else," Maggie went on. "To-morrow morning, +before you come here, I want you to go to the Strand post-office-- +you know the one opposite the station--and ask for a letter +addressed to me. I've written on a piece of paper here that you're +to be given any letters of mine. Give it to me somehow when no one's +looking. Do you understand?" + +Jane nodded her head. Maggie gave her the note and also half-a- +crown, but Jane pushed back the money. + +"I don't want no money," she said in a hoarse whisper. "You're the +only one here decent to me." + +At that moment the kitchen door opened and Martha appeared. When she +saw Jane she came up to her and said: "Now then, idling again! What +about the potatoes?" + +She looked at Maggie with her usual surly suspicion. + +"I came down for a candle," Maggie said, "for my room. Will you give +me one, please?" + +Jane had vanished. + +Martin, meanwhile, after Maggie left him, had returned home in no +happy state. There had leapt upon him again that mood of sullen +impatient rebellion that he knew so well--a mood that really was +like a possession, so that, struggle as he--might, he seemed always +in the grip of some iron-fingered menacing figure. + +It was possession in a sense that to many normal, happy people in +this world is so utterly unknown that they can only scornfully name +it weakness and so pass on their way. But those human beings who +have suffered from it do in very truth feel as though they had been +caught up into another world, a world of slavery, moral galley- +driving with a master high above them, driving them with a lash that +their chained limbs may not resist. Such men, if they try to explain +that torment, can often point to the very day and even hour of their +sudden slavery; at such a tick of the clock the clouds gather, the +very houses and street are weighted with a cold malignity, thoughts, +desires, impulses are all checked, perverted, driven and counter- +driven by a mysterious force. Let no man who has not known such +hours and the terror of such a dominion utter judgment upon his +neighbour. + +To Martin the threat of this conflict with his father over Maggie +was the one crisis that he had wished to avoid. But his character, +which was naturally easy and friendly and unsuspicious, had confused +him. Those three weeks with Maggie had been so happy, so free from +all morbidity and complication, that he had forgotten the world +outside. For a moment when Maggie had told him that she had given +her note to Caroline he had been afraid, but he had been lulled as +the days passed and nothing interfered with their security. Now he +was suddenly plunged into the middle of a confusion that was all the +more complicated because he could not tell what his mother and his, +sister were thinking. He knew that Amy had disliked him ever since +his return, and that that dislike had been changed into something +fiercer since his declared opposition to Thurston. His mother he +simply did not understand at all. She spoke to him still with the +same affection and tenderness, but behind the words he felt a hard +purpose and a mysterious aloofness. + +She was not like his mother at all; it was as though some spy had +been introduced into the house in his mother's clothing. + +But for them he did not care; it was his father of whom he must +think. Here, too, there was a mystery from which he was deliberately +kept. He knew, of course, that they were all expecting some crisis; +as the days advanced he could feel that the excitement increased. He +knew that his father had declared that he had visions and that there +was to be a revelation very shortly; but of these visions and this +revelation he heard only indirectly from others. His father said +nothing to him of these things, and at the ordinary Chapel services +on Sunday there was no allusion to them. He knew that the Inside +Saints had a society and rules of their own inside the larger body, +and from that inner society he was quite definitely excluded. Of +that exclusion he would have been only too glad had it not been for +his father, but now when he saw him growing from day to day more +haggard and worn, more aloof from all human society, when lie saw +him wrapped further and further into some strange and as it seemed +to him insane absorption, he was determined to fight his way into +the heart of it. His growing intimacy with Maggie had relieved him, +for a moment, of the intensity of this other anxiety. Now suddenly +he was flung back into the very thick of it. His earlier plan of +forcing his father out of all this network of chicanery and +charlatanism now returned. He felt that if he could only seize his +father and forcibly abduct him and take him away from Amy and +Thurston and the rest, and all the associations of the Chapel, he +might cure him and lead him back to health and happiness again. + +And yet he did not know. He had not himself escaped from it all by +leaving it, and then that undermining bewildering suspicion that +perhaps after all there was something in all of this, that it was +not only charlatanism, confused and disconcerted him. He was like a +man who hears sounds and faint cries behind a thick wall, and there +are no doors and windows, and the bricks are too stout to be torn +apart. + +He had been behind that wall all his life . . . + +Amy's allusion to Maggie in the morning had been very slight, but +had shown quite clearly that she had heard all, and probably more, +than the truth. When he returned that morning he found his mother +alone, knitting a pink woollen comforter, her gold spectacles on the +end of her nose, her fresh lace cap crisp and dainty on her white +hair--the very picture of the dearest old lady in the world. + +"Mother," he began at once, "what did Amy mean this morning about +myself and Maggie Cardinal?" + +"Maggie who, dear?" his mother asked. + +"Maggie Cardinal--the Cardinal niece, you know," he said +impatiently. + +"Did she say anything? I don't remember." + +"Yes, mother. You remember perfectly well. She said that they were +all talking about me and Maggie." + +"Did she?" The old lady slowly counted her stitches. "Well, dear, I +shouldn't worry about what they all say--whoever 'they' may be." + +"Oh, I don't care for that," he answered contemptuously, "although +all the same I'm not going to have Amy running that girl down. She's +been against her from the first. What I want to know is has Amy been +to father with this? Because if she has I'm going to stop it. I'm +not going to have her bothering father with bits of gossip that +she's picked up by listening behind other peoples' key-holes." + +Amy, meanwhile, had come in and heard this last sentence. + +"Thank you, Martin," she said quietly. + +He turned to her with fury. "What did you mean at breakfast," he +asked, "by what you said about myself and Maggie Cardinal?" + +She looked at him with contempt but no very active hostility. + +"I was simply telling you something that I thought you ought to +know," she said. "It is what everybody is saying--that you and she +have been meeting every day for weeks, sitting in the Park after +dark together, going to the theatre. People draw their own +conclusions, I suppose." + +"How much have you told father of this?" he demanded. + +"I don't know at all what father has heard," she answered. + +"You've been that girl's enemy since the first moment that she came +here," he continued, growing angrier and angrier at her quiet +indifference. "Now you're trying to damage her character." + +"On the contrary," she answered, "I told you because I thought you +ought to know what people were saying. The girl doesn't matter to me +one way or another--but I'm sorry for her if she thinks she cares +for you. That won't bring her much happiness." + +Then suddenly her impassivity had a strange effect upon him. He +could not answer her. He left them both, and went up to his room. + +As soon as he had closed the door of his bedroom he knew that his +bad time was come upon him. It was a physical as well as a spiritual +dominion. The room visibly darkened before his eyes, his brain +worked as it would in dreams suggesting its own thoughts and wishes +and intentions. A dark shadow hung over him, hands were placed upon +his eyes, only one thought came before him again and again and +again. "You know, you have long known, that you are doomed to make +miserable everything that you touch, to ruin every one with whom you +come in contact. That is your fate, and you can no more escape from +it than you can escape from your body!" + +How many hours of this kind he had known in Spain, in France, in +South America. Often at the very moment when he had thought that he +was at last settling down to some decent steady plan of life he +would be jerked from his purpose, some delay or failure would +frustrate him, and there would follow the voice in his ear and the +hands on his eyes. + +It was indeed as though he had been pledged to something in his +early life, and because he had broken from that pledge had been +pursued ever since . . . + +He stripped to the waist and bathed in cold water; even then it +seemed to him that his flesh was heavy and dull and yellow, that he +was growing obese and out of all condition. He put on a clean shirt +and collar, sat down on his bed and tried to think the thing out. To +whomsoever he had done harm in the past he would now spare Maggie +and his father. He was surprised at the rush of tenderness that came +over him at the thought of Maggie; he sat there for some time +thinking over every incident of the last three weeks; that, at +least, had been a good decent time, and no one could ever take it +away from them again. He looked at her picture in the locket and +realised, as he looked at it, a link with her that he had never felt +with any woman before. "All the same," he thought, "I should go +away. She'd mind it at first, but not half as much as she'd mind me +later on when she saw what kind of a chap I really was. She'd be +unhappy for a bit, but she'd soon meet some one else. She's never +seen a man yet except me. She'd soon forget me. She's such a kid." + +Nevertheless when he thought of beginning that old wandering life +again he shrank back. He had hated it--Oh! how he'd hated it! And he +didn't want to leave Maggie. He was in reality beginning to believe +that with her he might pull himself right out of this morass of +weakness and indecision in which he had been wallowing for years. +And yet what sort of a life could he offer her? He did not believe +that he would ever now be able to find this other woman whom he had +married, and until he had found her and divorced her Maggie's +position would be impossible. She, knowing nothing of the world, +could disregard it, but HE knew, knew that daily, hourly recurrence +of alights and insults and disappointments, knew what that life +could make after a time of women in such a position; even though she +did not mind he would mind for her and would reproach himself +continually. + +No, it was impossible. He must go away secretly, without telling her +. . . Then, at that, he was pulled up again by the thought of his +father. He could not leave him until this crisis, whatever it might +be, was over. A very little thing now might kill him, and at the +thought of that possibility he jumped up from his bed and swore that +THAT catastrophe at least must be prevented. His father must live +and be happy and strong again, and he, Martin, must see to it. + +That was his charge and his sacred duty above all else. + +Strong in this thought he went down to his father's room. He knocked +on the door. There was no answer, and he went in. The room was in a +mess of untidiness. His father was walking up and down, staring in +front of him, talking to himself. + +At the sound of the door he turned, saw Martin and smiled, the old +trusting smile of a child, that had been, during his time abroad, +Martin's clearest memory of him. + +"Oh, is that you? Come in." + +Martin came forward and his father put his arm round his neck as +though for support. + +"I'm tired--horribly tired." Martin took him to the shabby broken +arm-chair and made him sit down. Himself sat in his old place on the +arm of the chair, his hand against his father's neck. + +"Father, come away--just for a week--with me. We'll go right off +into the country to Glebeshire or somewhere, quite alone. We won't +see a soul. We'll just walk and eat and sleep. And then you'll come +back to your work here another man." + +"No, Martin. I can't yet. Not just now." + +"Why not, father?" + +"I have work, work that can't be left." + +"But if you go on like this you'll be so that you can't go on any +longer. You'll break down. You know what the doctor said about your +heart. You aren't taking any care at all." + +"Perhaps . . . perhaps . . . but for a week or two I must just go +on, preparing . . . many things . . . Martin." + +He suddenly looked up at his son, putting his hand on his knee. + +"Yes, father." + +"You're being good now, aren't you?" + +"Good, father?" + +"Yes . . . Not doing anything you or I'd be ashamed of. I know in +the past . . . but that's been forgotten, that's over. Only now, +just now, it's terribly important for us both that you should be +good . . . like you used to be . . . when you were a boy." + +"Father, what have people been saying to you about me?" + +"Nothing--nothing. Only I think about you so much. I pray about you +all the time. Soon, as you say, we'll go away together . . . only +now, just now, I want you with me here, strong by my side. I want +your help." + +Martin took his father's hand, felt how dry and hot and feverish it +was. + +"I'll be with you," he said. "I promise that. Don't you listen to +what any one says. I won't leave you." He would like to have gone on +and asked other questions, but the old man seemed so worn out and +exhausted that he was afraid of distressing him, so he just sat +there, his hands on his shoulders, and suddenly the white head +nodded, the beard sank over the breast and huddled up in the chair +as though life itself had left him; the old man slept. + +During the next four days Martin and Maggie corresponded through the +fair hands of Jane. He wrote only short letters, and over them he +struggled. He seemed to see Maggie through a tangled mist of persons +and motives and intentions. He could not get at the real Maggie at +all, he could not even get at his real feelings about her. He knew +that these letters were not enough for her, he could feel behind her +own a longing for something from him more definite, something that +would bring her closer to him. He was haunted by his picture of her +sitting in that dismal house, a prisoner, waiting for him, and at +last, at the end of the four days, he felt that he must, in some way +or other see her. Then she herself proposed a way. + +"To-morrow night (Friday)," she wrote, "the aunts are going to a +meeting. They won't return until after eight o'clock. During most of +that time Martha will be in the kitchen cooking, and Jane (who is +staying late that night) has promised to give me a signal. I could +run out for quarter of an hour and meet you somewhere close by and +risk getting back. Jane will be ready to let me in. Of course, it +may fail, but things can't be worse than they are . . . I absolutely +forbid you to come if you think that this can make anything worse +for you at home. But I MUST see you, Martin . . . I feel to-night as +though I couldn't stand it any longer (although I've only had five +days of it!), but I think that if I met you, really you, for only +five minutes, I could bear it then for weeks. Let me know if you +agree to this, and if so where we could meet about 7.30." + +The mere thought of seeing her was wonderful. He would not have +believed a month ago that it could have come to mean so much to him. + +He wrote back: + +"Yes. At the corner of Dundas Street, by the Pillar Box, 7.30." + +He knew that she had been to that dark little street with her aunts +to see Miss Pyncheon. + +The night, when it came, was misty, and when he reached the place +she was at once in his arms. She had been there more than five +minutes, she had thought that he was not coming. Martha had nearly +caught her . . . + +He kissed her hair and her eyes and her mouth, holding her to him, +forgetting everything but her. She stayed, quiet, clinging to him as +though she would never let him go, then she drew away. + +"Now we must walk about or some one will see us," she said. + +"We've only got five minutes. Martin, what I want to know is, are +you happy?" + +"Yes," he said. + +They walked like ghosts, in the misty street. + +"Well, then I am," she said. "Only your letters didn't sound very +happy." + +"Can you hold on till after the New Year?" They were walking hand in +hand, her fingers curled in his palm. + +"Yes," she said. "If you're happy." + +"There are troubles of course," he said. "But I don't care for Amy +and the rest. It's only father that matters. I can't discover how +much he knows. If I knew that I'd be much happier. We'll be all +right, Maggie, if nothing happens to him." + +With a little frightened catch in her throat she asked him: + +"How do you mean, if anything happens to him?" + +"If anything happened to him--" she could feel his hand stiffen +round hers; "through me--then--why then--I'd leave you--everything-- +I'd have to." + +"Leave me! . . . Oh Martin! No!" + +"I'd go. I'd go--I don't know where to. I don't know what I'd do. +I'd know then that I must leave every one alone, always, for ever-- +especially you." + +"No. You'd need me more than ever." + +"You don't understand, Maggie. I'd be impossible after that. If +father suffered through me that would be the end of it--the end of +everything." + +"Martin, listen." She caught his arm, looking up, trying to see his +face. "If anything like that did happen that would be where you'd +want me. Don't you see that you COULDN'T harm me EXCEPT by leaving +me?" + +"You can reason it as you like, Maggie, but I know myself. I know +the impulse would be too strong--to go away and hide myself from +everybody. I've felt it before--when I've done something especially +bad. It's something in me that I've known all my life." Then he +turned to her: "But it's all right. Nothing shall happen to the old +man. I'll see that it doesn't. We've only got to wait a fortnight, +then I'll get him away for a holiday. And once he's better I can +leave him. It WILL be all right. It SHALL." + +Then he bent down to her. "You know, Maggie, I love you more, far +more than I ever thought. Even if I went away you'd be the only one +I'd love. I never dreamt that I'd care for any one so much." + +He felt her tremble under his hand when he said that. + +She sighed. "Now I can go back," she said. "I'll say that over to +myself again and again." + +They stayed a little longer, he put his arms round her again and +held her so close to him that she could feel his heart throbbing. +Then when they had kissed once more she went away. + +She returned safely. Jane opened the door for her, mysteriously, as +though she enjoyed her share in the conspiracy. Maggie sped +upstairs, and now with Martin's words in her ears, had enough to +stiffen her back for the battle. + +The next move in the affair was on the following afternoon when +Maggie, alone in the drawing-room, beheld Caroline Smith in the +doorway. + +"She's got cheek enough for anything," was Maggie's first thought, +but she was not aware of the true magnificence of that young woman's +audacity until she found her hand seized and her cheek kissed. + +Caroline, in fact, had greeted her with precisely her old +spontaneous enthusiasm. + +"Maggie, darling, where have you been all these days--but WEEKS it +is indeed! You might at least have sent me just a word. Life simply +hasn't been the same without you! You pet! . . . and you look tired! +Yes, you do. You've been overworking or something, all because you +haven't had me to look after you!" + +Maggie gravely withdrew, and standing away from the shining elegance +of her friend said: + +"Caroline--I want to know something before we go any further. What I +want to know is--why did you read that note that I asked you to give +to Martin Warlock?" + +Caroline stared in amazement. "My dear, what IS the matter? Are you +ill or something? Oh, you are. I can see you are! You poor darling! +Read your note? What note, dear?" + +"The note I gave you a month ago--one evening when you were here." + +"A note! A month ago. My dear! As though I could ever remember what +I did a MONTH ago! Why, it's always all I can manage to remember +what I did yesterday. Did you give me a note, dear?" + +Maggie began to be angry. "Of course I did. You remember perfectly +well. I gave it to you for Martin Warlock. You let him have it, but +meanwhile you read it, and not only that but told everybody else +about it." + +Caroline's expression changed. She was suddenly sulky. Her face was +like that of a spoilt child. + +"Well, Maggie Cardinal, if you call that being a friend! To say that +I would ever do such a thing!" + +"You know you did!" said Maggie quietly. + +"Read your letters? As though I'd want to! Why should I? As though I +hadn't something more interesting to do! No thank you! Of course you +have been getting yourself into a mess. Every one knows that. That's +why I came here to-day--to show you that I was a REAL friend and +didn't mind WHAT people said about you! When they were all talking +about you last night, and saying the most DREADFUL things, I +defended you and said it wasn't really your fault, you couldn't have +told what a rotten sort of a man Martin Warlock was--" + +"That's enough," said Maggie. "I don't want your defence, thank you. +You're mean and deceitful and untrue. You never have been a friend +of mine, and I don't want ever to see you again!" + +Caroline Smith was horrified. "Well, upon my word. Isn't that +gratitude? Here am I, the only person in this whole place would take +any trouble with you! When the others all said that you were plain +and stupid and hadn't anything to say for yourself I stuck to you. I +did all I could, wasting all my time going to the dressmaker with +you and trying to make you look like something human, and this is +the way you repay me! Well, there's a lesson for me! Many's the time +mother's said to me, 'Carry, you'll just ruin yourself with that +kind heart of yours, laying yourself out for others when you ought +to be seeing after yourself. You've got too big a heart for this +world.' Doesn't it just show one? And to end it all with accusing me +of reading your letters! If you choose to sit in the park after dark +with a man who everybody knows--" + +"Either you're going to leave this room or I am," said Maggie. + +"Thank you!" said Caroline, tossing her head. "I haven't the +slightest desire to stay, I assure you! Only you'll be sorry for +this, Maggie Cardinal, you will indeed!" + +With a swish of the skirts and a violent banging of the door she was +gone. + +"The only friend I had," thought Maggie. + +The next development was an announcement from Aunt Anne that she +would like Maggie to accompany her to a meeting at Miss Avies'. Aunt +Anne did not explain what kind of a meeting it would be, and Maggie +asked no questions. She simply replied that she would go. She had +indeed by this time a very considerable curiosity of her own as to +what every one thought was going to happen in ten days' time. +Perhaps this meeting would enlighten her. It did. + +On arriving at Miss Avies' gaunt and menacing apartment she found +herself in the very stronghold of the Inside Saints. It was a +strange affair, and Maggie was never to see anything quite like it +again. In the first place, Miss Avies' room was not exactly the +place in which you would have expected to discover a meeting of this +kind. + +She lived over a house-agent's in John Street, Adelphi. Her sitting- +room was low-ceilinged with little diamond-paned windows. The place +was let furnished, and the green and red vases on the mantelpiece, +the brass clock and the bright yellow wallpaper were properties of +the landlord. To the atmosphere of the place Miss Avies, although +she lived there for a number of years, had contributed nothing. + +It had all the desolate forlornness of a habitation in which no +human being has dwelt for a very long time; there was dust on the +mantelpiece, a melancholy sputtering of coal choked with cinders and +gasping for breath in the fireplace, stuffy hot clamminess beating +about the unopened windows. Along the breadth of the faded brown +carpet some fifty cane-bottomed chairs were pressed tightly in rows +together, and in front of the window, facing the chairs, was a +little wooden table with a chair beside it, on the table a glass of +water and a Bible. + +When Maggie and her aunts entered the chairs were almost all +occupied and they were forced to sit at the end of the last row but +one. The meeting had apparently not yet begun, and many heads were +turned towards them as they took their places. Maggie fancied that +the glances directed at herself were angry and severe, but that was +very possibly her imagination. She soon recognised people known to +her--Miss Pyncheon, calm and placid; Mrs. Smith, Caroline's mother, +very stout, hot, and self-important; Amy Warlock, proud and severe; +and Miss Avies herself standing, like a general surveying his +forces, behind the table. + +The room was draughty and close and had a confused smell of oil- +cloth and geraniums, and Maggie knew that soon she would have a +headache. She fancied that already the atmosphere was influencing +the meeting. From where she sat she could see a succession of side +faces, and it was strange what a hungry, appealing look these pale +cheeks and staring eyes had. Hungry! Yes, that's what they all were. +She thought, fantastically, for a moment, of poor Mr. Magnus's +Treasure Hunters, and she seemed to see the whole of this company in +a raft drifting in mid-ocean, not a sail in sight and the last +ship's biscuit gone. + +They were not, taken altogether, a very fine collection, old maids +and young girls, many of them apparently of the servant class, one +or two sitting with open mouths and a vacancy of expression that +seemed to demand a conjurer with a rabbit and a hat. Some faces were +of the true fanatic cast, lit with the glow of an expectancy and a +hope that no rational experience had ever actually justified. One +girl, whom Maggie had seen with Aunt Anne on some occasion, had +especially this prophetic anticipation in the whole pose of her body +as she bent forward a little, her elbows on her knees her chin on +her hands, gazing with wide burning eyes at Miss Avies. This girl, +whom Maggie was never to see again hung as a picture in the rooms of +her mind for the rest of her life--the youth, the desperate anxiety +as of one who throws her last piece upon the gaming-table, the +poverty of the shabby black dress, the real physical austerity and +asceticism of the white cheeks and the thin arms and pale hands-- +this figure remained a symbol for Maggie. She used to wonder in +after years, when fortune had carried her far enough away from all +this world, what had happened to that girl. But she was never to +know. + +There were faces, too, like Miss Pyncheon's, calm, contented, +confident, old women who had found in their religion the panacea of +all their troubles. There were faces like Mrs. Smith's, coarse and +vulgar, out for any sensation that might come along, and ready +instantly to express their contempt if the particular "trick" that +they were expecting failed to come off; other faces, again, like Amy +Warlock's, grimly set upon secret thoughts and purposes of their +own, faces trained to withstand any sudden attack on the emotions, +but eager, too, like the rest for some revelation that was to answer +all questions and satisfy all expectations. + +Maggie wondered, as she looked about her, how she could have raised +in her own imagination, around the Chapel and its affairs, so +formidable an atmosphere of terror and tyrannic discipline. Here +gathered together were a few women, tired, pale, many of them +uneducated, awaiting like children the opening of a box, the +springing into flower of a dry husk of a seed, the raising of the +curtain on some wonderful scene. Maggie, as she looked at them, knew +that they must be disappointed, and her heart ached for them all, +yes, even for Amy Warlock, her declared enemy. She lost, as she sat +there, for the moment all sense of her own personal history. She +only saw them all tired and hungry and expectant; perhaps, after +all, there WAS something behind it all--something for which they had +a right to be searching; even of that she had not sure knowledge-- +but the pathos and also the bravery of their search touched and +moved her. She was beginning to understand something of the beauty +that hovered like a bird always just out of sight about the ugly +walls of the Chapel. + +"Whatever they want, poor dears," she thought, "I do hope they get +it." + +Miss Avies opened the meeting with an extempore prayer: then they +all stood up and sang a hymn, and their quavering voices were thin +and sharp and strained in the stuffy close-ceilinged room. The hymn, +like all the other Chapel hymns that Maggie had heard, had to do +with "the Blood of the Lamb," "the sacrifice of Blood," "the Blood +that heals." There was also a refrain: + + And, when Thou comest, Lord, we pray That Thou wilt spare Thy +sword, Or on that grim and ghastly day Who will escape the Lord? WHO +will escape the Lord? + +There were many verses to this hymn, and it had a long and +lugubrious tune, so that Maggie thought that it would never end, but +as it proceeded the words worked their effect on the congregation, +and at the last there was much emotion and several women were +crying. + +Then they all sat down again and the meeting developed a very +business-like side. There was a great deal of discussion as to +dates, places, appointments, and Maggie was amused to discover that +in this part of the proceedings Mrs. Smith had a great deal to say, +and took a very leading place. + +The gathering became like any other assemblage of ladies for some +charitable or social purpose, and there were the usual disputes and +signs of temper and wounded pride; in all those matters Miss Avies +was a most admirable and unflinching chairman. + +Then at last the real moment came. Miss Avies got up to speak. She +stood there, scornful, superior, and yet with some almost cynical +appeal in her eyes as though she said to them: "You poor fools! No +one knows better than I the folly of your being here, no one knows +better than I how far you will, all of you, be from realising any of +your dreams. Tricked, the lot of you!--and yet--and yet--go on +believing, expecting, hoping. Pray, pray that I may be wrong and you +may be right." + +What she actually said was as follows: "This will be our last +meeting before the end of the year. What will come to all of us +before we all meet again no one can say, but this we all know, that +we have, most of us, been living now for many years in expectation. +We have been taught, by the goodness of God, to believe that we must +be ready at any moment to obey His call, and that call may come, in +the middle of our work, of our prayers, of our love for others, of +our pursuit of our own ambitions, and that whenever it does come we +must be ready to obey it. We have been told by our great and good +Master, who has been set over us for our guidance by God Himself, +that that call may now be very near. Whatever form it may take we +must accept it, give up all we have and follow Him. That is +understood by all of us. I will not say more now. This is not the +time for any more directions from me. We must address ourselves, +each one of us, to God Himself, and ask Him to prepare us so that we +may be as He would have us on the day of His coming. I suggest now +before we part that we share together in a few minutes of private +prayer." They all rose, and Maggie, before she knelt down, caught a +sudden glimpse of the pale girl whom she had noticed earlier +standing for a moment as though she were about to make some +desperate appeal to them all. Some words did indeed seem to come +from her lips, but the scraping of chairs drowned every other sound. +Nevertheless that figure was there, the hands stretched out, the +very soul struggling through the eyes for expression, the body +tense, sacred, eloquent, like the body of some young prophetess. +Then all were on their knees, and Maggie, too, her face in her +hands, was praying. It was, perhaps, the first time in her life that +she had actively, consciously, of her own volition prayed. The +appeal formed itself as it were without her own agency. + +"God--if there is a God--give me Martin. I care for nothing else but +that. If You will give me Martin for my own always, ever, I will +believe in You. I will worship You and say prayers to You, and do +anything You tell me if You give me Martin. Oh God! I ought to have +him. He is mine. I can do more for him than any one else can--I can +make him happy and good. I know I can. God give him to me and I will +be your slave. God, give me Martin--God, give me Martin." + +She rose, as it were, from the depths of the sea, from great +darkness and breathlessness and exhaustion. For a moment she could +not see the room nor any detail, but only one pale face after +another, like a pattern on a wall, hiding something from her. + +She stood bewildered beside her aunts, not hearing the strains of +the last hymn nor the quaver of Aunt Anne's trembling voice beside +her. + +"God, give me Martin," was her last challenge in the strange pale +silence that floated around her. Then suddenly, as though she had +pushed open a door and gone through, she was back in the world +again, a flood of sound was about her ears, and in front of her the +red face of Mrs. Smith, her mouth wide open, like the mouth of an +eager fish, singing about "the Blood of the Lamb" with unctuous +satisfaction . . . + + + + +CHAPTER X + +THE PROPHET + + +The year 1907 had four more days of life: it crept to its grave +through a web and tangle of fog. It was not one of the regular +yellow devils who come and eat up London, first this part, and then +that, then disgorge a little, choking it all up only to snap at it +and swallow it down all bewildered a quarter of an hour after. This +was a cobweb fog spun, as it might be, by some malignant central +spider hidden darkly in his lair. The vapouring-like filmy threads +twisted and twined their way all over London, and for four days and +nights the town was a city of ghosts. Buildings loomed dimly behind +their masks of silver tissue, streets seemed unsubstantial, +pavements had no foundation, streams of water appeared to hang +glittering in mid-air, men and horses would suddenly plunge into +grey abysses and vanish from sight, church-bells would ring peals +high up in air, and there would be, it seemed, no steeple there for +them to ring from. As the sun behind the fog rose and set so the +mist would catch gold and red and purple into the vapours, strange +gleams of brass and silver as though behind its web armies flaunting +their colours were marching through the sky; down on the very earth +itself horses staggered and stumbled on the thin coating of greasy +mud that covered everything; men opened their doors to look out on +to the world, and instantly into the passages there floated such +strange forms and shadows in misty shape that it seemed as though +the rooms were suddenly invaded by a flock of spirits. + +Sometimes for half an hour the fog lifted and bright blue sky +gleamed like a miraculous lake suddenly discovered in the heart of +the boundless waste, then vanished again. Suddenly, with a whisk of +the immortal broom, the web was torn, the spider slain, the world +clear once more--but, in the obscurity and dusk, 1907 had seen his +chance and vanished. + +Warlock, long before this, had lost consciousness of external sights +and sounds. He could not have told any one when it was that the two +worlds had parted company. For many many years he had been conscious +of both existences, but during his youth and middle-age they had +seemed to mingle and go along together. He had believed in both +equally and had been a citizen of both. Then gradually, as time +passed, he had seemed to have less and less hold upon the actual +physical world. He saw it suddenly with darkened vision; his wife +and daughter, and indeed all human beings, except in so far as they +were souls to be saved for the Lord, became less and less realities. +Only Martin was flesh and blood, to be loved and longed for and +feared for just as he had always been. All the physical properties +of life--clothes, food, household possessions, money--became of less +and less importance to him. Had Amy not watched over him he would +have been many days without any food at all, and one day he come +into the living-room at breakfast-time clothed in a towel. All this +had come upon him with vastly increased power during the last +months. In Chapel, and whenever he had work to do in connection with +the Chapel, he was clear-headed and practical, but in things to do +with this world he was now worse than a child. + +He was conscious of this increasing difficulty to deal with both +worlds. It was because one world--the world of God--was opening out +before him so widely and with so varied and thrilling a beauty that +there was less and less time to be spared for the drab realities of +physical things. + +All his life he had been preparing, and then suddenly the call had +come. Shortly after Martin's return he had known in Chapel, one +evening, that God was approaching. It had happened that that day, +owing to his absorption in his work, he had eaten nothing, and there +had come to him, whilst praying to the congregation, a sensation of +faintness so strong that for a moment he thought he would fall from +his seat. Then it had passed, to give way to a strange, thrilling +sense of expectancy. It was as though a servant had opened the door +and had announced: "My master is coming, sir--" He had felt, indeed, +as though he had been lifted up, in the sheet of Paul the Apostle, +to meet his God. There had been the most wonderful sense of +elevation, a clearing of light, a gentler freshness in the air, a +sudden sinking to remoteness of human voices and mundane sounds. +From that moment in the Chapel life had been changed for him. He +never seemed to come down again from that mysterious elevation. +Human voices sounded far away from him; he could be urged, only with +the greatest difficulty, to take his food, and he frequently did not +recognise members of his own congregation when they came to see him. +He waited now, waited, waited, for this visitation that was +approaching him. He could have no doubts of it. + +Then one night he woke from a deep sleep. He was conscious that his +room was filled with a smoky light; in his heart was such an ecstasy +that be would have thought that the joy would kill him. + +Something spoke to him, telling him to prepare, that he had been +chosen, and that further signs would come to him. He fell on his +knees beside the bed and remained there in a trance until daylight. +He had heard the voice of God, he had seen His light, he had been +chosen as His servant. Some weeks later a second visitation came to +him, similar to the first, but telling him that at the last hour of +the present year God would come in His own person to save the world, +and that he must make this known to a few chosen spirits that they +might prepare . . . + +The whole brotherhood then was at length justified; they alone, out +of all men in the world, had believed in the Second Coming of the +Lord, and so God had chosen them. He had no doubt at all about his +visions at this time. They seemed to him as real and sure as the +daily traffic of the streets and the monotonous progress of the +clock. + +Eagerly, with the confident resolution of a child, he told his news +to the leaders of the Chapel, Thurston, Miss Avies, and one or two +others. Then a special meeting of the Inside Saints was called and, +in the simplest language, he described exactly what had occurred. He +did not at first perceive the effect that his news had. Then, dimly, +through the mist of his prayers and ecstasies, he realised that his +message had created confusion. There was in the first place the +question as to whether the whole congregation should be told. He +found that he could not decide about this, and when he left the +judgment to Thurston, Thurston told him that, in his opinion, "the +less that they knew about it the better." It was then that the first +suspicion came to him as to whether some of the Saints "doubted." He +questioned Thurston as to the effect of this message upon the +Saints. Thurston explained to him that "many of them had been very +troubled. They had not expected It to come so soon." Thurston +explained that they were, after all, only poor human clay like the +rest of mankind, and to prepare for a Second Coming in general, +something that might descend upon the world, say, in a hundred +years' time, was very different from a Judgment that might be +expected, definitely, in about three weeks. One or two of them, in +fact, had left the Chapel. Others begged for some clearer direction: +"Give it them a bit more clearly, Master. Tell 'em a few facts what +the Lord God looked like and 'ow He spoke and in what kind of way He +was coming. Supposing He wasn't to come after all . . ." + +It was then that the trouble that had been smouldering for so long +between Thurston and the Master burst into flame. For half an hour +the Master lost his temper like an ordinary human being. Thurston +said very little but listened with a quiet and sarcastic smile. Then +he went away. Warlock was left in a torment of doubt and misery. +That night he was in his room, until the dawn, on his knees, +wrestling with God. He accused himself because, during these latter +months, he had removed himself from human contact with his +congregation. He had been so intent upon God that he had forgotten +his flock. Now he hardly knew how to approach them. The thought of a +personal interview with the Miss Cardinals, or Miss Pyncheon, or Mr. +Smith filled him with a strange shy terror. He seemed to have +nothing more to say to them, and he blamed himself bitterly because +he had been intent upon his own salvation rather than theirs. + +Thurston's words sent him groping back through the details of the +visions. And there were no details. For himself there had been +enough in the light, the ecstasy, the contact, but these others who +had not themselves felt this, nor seen its glory, demanded more. + +He began then, in an agony of distress, to question himself as to +whether he had not dreamt his visions. He wrestled with God, +beseeching Him to come again and give him a clearer message. Night +after night passed and he waited for some further vision, but +nothing was granted him. Then he thought that perhaps he himself was +now cursed for leaving God. God had come to him and revealed Himself +to him in unmistakable signs, and yet he was doubting Him and +demanding further help. + +As the weeks passed he perceived more and more clearly that there +was every kind of division and trouble in the Chapel. Many members +left and wrote to him telling him why they had done so. In his own +household he felt that Amy no longer gave him any confidence. She +attended to him more carefully than before, watched over him as +though he were a baby, but made no allusion to the services or the +Chapel or any meeting. He seemed, as the weeks passed, to be +lonelier and lonelier, and he looked upon this as punishment for his +own earlier selfishness. He was pulled then two ways. On the one +hand it seemed to him that he would only hear God's full message if +he withdrew further and further from the world, on the other he felt +that he was letting his followers slip away from him now at the very +moment when he should be closest to them, advising, helping, +encouraging. This divided impulse was a torture, and as the weeks +went on he ate less and less and slept scarcely at all. He had been +for a long time past in delicate health owing to the weakness of his +heart, and now he began to look strange indeed, with his bright +gaunt face with its prominent cheek-bones, his eyes straining to see +beyond his actual vision, his flowing white beard. His doctor, a +cheerful, commonplace little man, a member of the Chapel, although +not a Saint, tried to do his best with him, but his visits only led +to scenes of irritation, and Warlock obeyed none of his commands. +After a visit on the afternoon of Christmas Eve he took Amy aside: + +"Look here," he said, "unless you keep a stricter eye on your father +than you have been doing he'll be leaving you altogether." + +She looked up at him with that odd dark impassivity that seemed to +remove her so deliberately from her fellow-beings. + +"It's very well to talk like that," she said. "But how is any one to +have any control over him? He listens to nothing that we say, and if +we insist he's in a frenzy of irritation." + +"Can your mother do nothing?" the doctor asked. + +"Mother?" Amy smiled. "No, mother can do nothing." + +"Well," said the doctor, "any sudden shock will kill him--I warn +you." + +When the fog came down upon the city Warlock was already in too +thick a fog of his own to perceive it. + +He was sure now of nothing. It seemed as though all the spirits of +the other world now were taunting him, but he felt that this was the +work of the Devil, who wished to destroy his faith before the Great +Day arrived. He thought now that the Devil was closely pursuing him, +and he seemed to hear first his taunting whisper and then the voice +of God encouraging him: "Well done, my good and faithful servant." + +He had lost now almost all consciousness of what he really expected +to happen when the Day arrived, but he was dimly aware that if +nothing happened at all his whole influence with his people would be +gone. Nevertheless this did not trouble him very greatly; the +congregation of the Chapel seemed now dimly remote. The only human +being who was not remote was Martin; his love for his son had not +been touched by his other struggles, it had been even intensified. +But the love had grown a terror, ever increasing, lest Martin should +leave him. He seemed to hear dimly, beyond the wall of the +mysterious world into whose regions he was ever more deeply passing, +sentences, vague, without human agency, accusing Martin of sins and +infidelities and riotous living. Sometimes he was tempted to go +further into this and challenge Martin's accusers, but fear held him +back. Martin had been a good son since his return to England, yes, +he had, and he had forsaken his evil ways and was going to be with +his father now until the end, his last refuge against loneliness. +Every one else had left him or was leaving him, but Martin was +there. Martin hadn't deceived him, Martin was a good boy . . . a +good boy . . . and then, as it seemed to him, with Martin's hand in +his own he would pass off into his world of strange dreams and +desperate prayer and hours of waiting, listening, straining for a +voice . . . + +During that last night before New Year's Eve an hour came to him +when he seemed to be left utterly alone. Exhausted, faint, dizzy +with want of sleep and food, he knelt before his bed; his room +seemed to be filled with devils, taunting him, tempting him, +bewildering and blinding him. He rose suddenly in a frenzy, striking +out, rushing about his room, crying . . . then at last, exhausted, +creeping back to his bed, falling down upon it and sinking into a +long dreamless sleep. + +They found him sleeping when they came to call him and they left +him. He did not wake until the early afternoon; his brain seemed +clear and his body so weak that it was with the greatest difficulty +that he washed and put on some clothes. + +The room was dark with the fog; lamps in the street below glimmered +uncertainly, and voices and the traffic of the street were muffled. +He opened his door and, looking out, heard in the room below +Martin's voice raised excitedly. Slowly he went down to meet him. + +Martin also had reached, on that last day of the year, the very end +of his tether. During the last ten days he had been fighting against +every weakness to which his character was susceptible. With the New +Year he felt that everything would be well; he could draw a new +breath then, find work somewhere away from London, have Maggie +perhaps with him, and drive a way out of all the tangle of his +perplexities. But even then he did not dare to face the future +thoroughly. Would his father let him go? Was he, after all his +struggles, to give way and ruin Maggie's position and future? Could +he be sure, if he look her away with him, that then he would keep +straight, and that his old temptations of women and drink and +general restlessness would be conquered? Perhaps. There had never +been a surer proof that his love for Maggie was a real and unselfish +love than his hesitation on that wretched day when he seemed utterly +deserted by mankind, when Maggie seemed the only friend he had in +the world. + +Everything was just out of reach, and some perverse destiny +prevented him from realising any desire that had a spark of honesty +and decency in it. It was not wonderful that in the midst of his +loneliness and unhappiness he should have been tempted back to the +old paths again, men, women, places that for more than three months +now he had been struggling to abandon. + +All that day he struggled with temptation. He had not seen Maggie +for a week, and during the last three days he had not heard from +her, the adventurous Jane having defied the aunts and left. + +At luncheon he asked about his father, whom he had not seen for two +days. + +"Father had a very bad night. He's asleep now." + +"There's something on to-night, isn't there?" he asked. + +"There's a service," Amy answered shortly. + +"Father oughtn't to go," he went on. "I suppose your friend Thurston +can manage." + +Amy looked at him. "Father's got to go. It's very important." + +"Oh, of course, if you want to kill father with all your beastly +services--" he broke in furiously. + +"It won't be--" Amy began, and then, as though she did not trust +herself to continue, got up and left the room. + +"Mother," he said, "why on earth don't you do something?" + +"I, dear?" she looked at him placidly. "In what way?" + +"They're killing father between them with all these services and the +rest of the nonsense." + +"Your father doesn't listen to anything I say, dear." + +"He ought to go away for a long rest." + +"Well, dear, perhaps he will soon. You know I have nothing to do +with the Chapel. That was settled years ago. I wouldn't interfere +for a great deal." + +Martin turned fiercely upon her saying: + +"Mother, don't you care?" + +"Care, dear?" + +"Yes, about father--his living and getting well again and being +happy as he used to be. What's happened to this place?" + +She looked at him in the strangest way. He suddenly felt that he'd +never seen her before. + +"There are a number of things, Martin, that you don't understand--a +number of things. You are away from us for years, you come back to +us and expect things to be the same." + +"You and Amy," he said, "both of you, have kept me out of everything +since I came back. I believe you both hate me!" + +She got up slowly from her seat, slowly put her spectacles away in +their case, rubbed her fat little hands together, then suddenly +licked inquisitively one finger as an animal might do. She spoke to +him over her shoulder as she went to the door: + +"Oh no, Martin, you speak too strongly." + +Left then to his own devices he, at last, wandered out into the +foggy streets. After a while he found himself outside a public-house +and, after a moment's hesitation, he went in. He asked the stout, +rubicund young woman behind the counter for a whisky. She gave him +one; he drank that, and then another. + +Afterwards he had several more, leaning over the bar, speaking to no +one, seeing no one, hearing nothing, and scarcely tasting the drink. +When he came out into the street again he knew that he was half +drunk--not so drunk that he didn't know what he was doing. Oh dear, +no. HE could drink any amount without feeling it. Nevertheless he +had drunk so little during these last weeks that even a drop . . . +How foggy the streets were . . . made it difficult to find your way +home. But he was all right, he could walk straight, he could put his +latch-key into the door at one try, HE was all right. + +He was at home again. He didn't stop to hang up his hat and coat but +went straight into the dining-room, leaving the door open behind +him. He saw that the meal was still on the table just as they'd left +it. Amy was there too. + +He saw her move back when he came in as though she were afraid to +touch him. + +"You're drunk!" she said. + +"I'm not. You're a liar, Amy. You've always been a liar all your +life." + +She tried to pass him, but he stood in the middle of the door. + +"No, you don't," he said. "We've got to have this out. What have you +been spreading scandal about me and Maggie Cardinal for?" + +"Let me go," she said again. + +"Tell me that first. You've always tried to do me harm. Why?" + +"Because I hate the sight of you," she answered quickly. "As you've +asked me, you shall have a truthful answer. You've never been +anything but a disgrace to us ever since you were a little boy. You +disgraced us at home and then abroad; now you've come back to +disgrace us here again." + +"That's a lie," he repeated. "I've not disgraced anybody." + +"Well, it won't be very long before you finish ruining that wretched +girl. The best you can do now is to marry her." + +"I can't do that," he said. "I'm married already." She did not +answer that hut stared at him with amazement. + +"But never mind that," he went on. "What if I am a bad lot? I don't +know what a bad lot is exactly, but if you mean that I've lived with +women and been drunk, and lost jobs because I didn't do the work, +and been generally on the loose, it's true, of course. But I meant +to live decently when I came home. Yes, I did. You can sneer as much +as you like. Why didn't you help me? You're my sister, aren't you? +And now I don't care what I do. You've all given me up. Well, give +me up, and I'll just go to bits as fast as I can go! If you don't +want me there are others who do, or at any rate the bit of money +I've got. You've kept me from the only decent girl I've ever known, +the one I could have been straight with--" + +"Straight with!" Amy broke in. "How were you going to be straight if +you're married already?" + +He would have answered her but a sound behind him made him turn. He +wheeled round and saw his father standing almost up against him. He +had only time for a horrified vision of the ghostlike figure, the +staring eyes, the open mouth, the white cheeks. The old man caught +his coat. + +"Martin, what was that? What did you say? . . . No, no . . . I can't +bear that now. I can't, I can't." + +He turned and made as though he would run up the stairs, catching +about him like a child the shabby old dressing-gown that he was +wearing. At the first step he stumbled, clutching the bannister to +save himself. + +Martin rushed to him, putting his arms round him, holding him +close to him. "It's all right, father . . . It's not true what +you heard . . . It's all right." + +His father turned, putting his arms round his neck. + +Martin half helped, half carried him up to his bedroom. He laid him +on his bed and then, holding his hand, sat by his side all through +the long dim afternoon. + +About, five Warlock suddenly revived, sat up, arid with the +assistance of Martin dressed properly, had some tea, and went down +to his study. He sat down in his chair, then suddenly looking up at +his son he said: + +"Did you and Amy have a quarrel this afternoon?" + +"No, father," said Martin. + +"That's right. I thought--I thought . . . I don't know . . . My +head's confused. You've been a good boy, Martin, haven't you? +There's no need for me to worry, is there?" + +"None, father," Martin said. + +After a while Martin said: + +"Father, don't go to Chapel to-night." + +Warlock smiled. + +"I must go. That's all right . . . Nothing to worry about." + +For some while he sat there, Martin's hand in his; Martin did not +know whether he were asleep or not. + +At about ten he ate and drank. At eleven he started with Amy and +Thurston for the Chapel. + + + + +CHAPTER XI + +THE CHARIOT OF FIRE + + +When Jane, scolded by Aunt Anne for an untidy appearance, gave +notice and at once departed, Maggie felt as though the ground was +giving way under her feet. + +A week until the New Year, and no opportunity of hearing from Martin +during that time. Then she laughed at herself: + +"You're losing your sense of proportion, my dear, over this. Laugh +at yourself. What's a week?" + +She did laugh at herself, but she had not very much to base her +laughter upon. Martin's last letters had been short and very uneasy. +She had already, in a surprising fashion for one so young, acquired +a very wise and just estimate of Martin's character. + +"He's only a boy," she used to say to herself and feel his elder by +at least twenty years. Nevertheless the thought of his struggling on +there alone was not a happy one. She longed, even though she might +not advise him, to comfort him. She was beginning to realise +something of her own power over him and to see, too, the strange +mixture of superstition and self-reproach and self-distrust that +overwhelmed him when she was not with him. She had indeed her own +need of struggle against superstition. Her aunts continued to treat +her with a quiet distant severity. Aunt Elizabeth, she fancied, +would like to have been kind to her, but she was entirely under the +influence of her sister, and there, too, Maggie was generous enough +to see that Aunt Anne behaved as she did rather from a stern sense +of duty than any real unkindness. Aunt Anne could not feel unkindly; +she was too far removed from human temper and discontent and +weakness. Nevertheless she had been deeply shocked at the revelation +of Maggie's bad behaviour, and it was a shock from which, in all +probability she would never recover. + +"WE'LL never be friends again." Maggie thought, watching her aunt's +austere composure from the other side of the dining-table. She was +sad at the thought of that, remembering moments--that first visit to +St. Dreot's, the departure in the cab, the night when she had sat at +her aunt's bedside--that had given glimpses of the kind human +creature Aunt Anne might have been had she never heard of the Inside +Saints. + +Maggie, during these last days, did everything that her aunts told +her. She was as good and docile as she could be. But, oh! there were +some dreary hours as she sat, alone, in that stuffy drawing-room, +trying to sew, her heart aching with loneliness, her needle always +doing the wrong thing, the clock heavily ticking, Thomas watching +her from the mat in front of the fire, and the family group sneering +at her from the wall-paper. + +It was during these hours that superstitious terrors gained upon +her. Could it be possible that all those women whom she had seen +gathered together in Miss Avies's room really expected God to come +when the clock struck twelve on the last night of the year? It was +like some old story of ghosts and witches that her nurse used to +tell her when she was a little girl at St. Dreot's. And yet, in that +dark dreary room, almost anything seemed possible. After all, if +there was a God, why should He not, one day, suddenly appear? And if +He wished to spare certain of His servants, why should He not +prepare them first before He came? There were things just as strange +in the Old and New Testament. But if He did come, what would His +Coming be like? Would every one be burnt to death or would they all +be summoned before some judgment and punished for the wicked things +they had done? Would her father perhaps return and give evidence +against her? And poor Uncle Mathew, how would he fare with all his +weaknesses? Her efforts at laughing at herself rescued her from some +of the more incredible of these pictures. Nevertheless the +uncertainty remained and only increased her loneliness. Had Martin +been there in five minutes they would, together, have chased all +these ghosts away. But he was not there. And at the thought of him +she would have to set her mouth very firmly, indeed, to prevent her +lips from trembling. She took out her ring and kissed it, and looked +at the already tattered copy of the programme of the play to which +they had been, and recalled every minute of their walks together. + +Christmas Day was a very miserable affair. There were no presents +and no festivities. They went to Chapel and Mr. Thurston preached +the sermon. Maggie did, however, receive one letter. It was from +Uncle Mathew. He wrote to her from some town in the north. He didn't +seem very happy, and asked her whether she could possibly lend him +five pounds. Alluding with a characteristic vagueness to "business +plans of the first importance that were likely to mature very +shortly." + +She told Aunt Anne that she wanted five pounds of her money, but she +did not say for what she needed them. + +Aunt Anne gave her the money at once without a word--as though she +said: "We have given up all control of you except to see that you +behave decently whilst you are still with us." + +When the fog arrived it seemed to penetrate every nook and corner of +the house. The daily afternoon walk that Maggie took with Aunt +Elizabeth was cancelled because of the difficulty of finding one's +way from street to street and "because some rude man might steal +one's money in the darkness," and Maggie was not sorry. Those walks +had not been amusing, Aunt Elizabeth having nothing to say and being +fully occupied with keeping an eye on Maggie, her idea apparently +being that the girl would suddenly dash off to freedom and +wickedness and be lost for ever. Maggie had no such intention and +developed during these weeks a queer motherly affection for both the +aunts, so lost they were and helpless and ignorant of the world! "My +dear," said Maggie to herself, "you're a bit of a fool as far as +common-sense goes, but you're nothing to what they are, poor dears." +She tried to improve herself in every way for their benefit, but her +memory was no better. She forgot all the things that were, in their +eyes, the most important--closing doors, punctuality for meals, neat +stitches, careful putting away of books and clothes. + +Once, during a walk, she said to Aunt Elizabeth: + +"I am trying, Aunt Elizabeth. Do you think Aunt Anne sees any +improvement?" + +And all Aunt Elizabeth said was: + +"It was a great shock to her, what you did. Maggie--a great shock +indeed!" + +When the last day of the year arrived Maggie was surprised at the +strange excitement that she felt. It was excitement, not only +because of the dim mysterious events that the evening promised, but +also because she was sure that this day would settle the loneliness +of herself and Martin. After this they would know where they stood +and what they must do. Old Warlock loomed in front of her as the +very arbiter of her destiny. On his action everything turned. Oh! if +only after this he were well enough for Martin to be happy and at +ease about him! She was tempted to hate him as she thought of all +the trouble that he had made for her. Then her mind went back to +that first day long ago when he had spoken to her so kindly and +bidden her come and see him as often as she could. How little she +had known then what the future held for her! And now around his tall +mysterious figure not only her own fate but that of every one else +seemed to hang. Her aunts, Amy, Miss Pyncheon, Miss Avies, Thurston, +that strange girl at the meeting, with them all his destiny was +involved and they with his. + +As the day advanced and the silver fog blew in little gusts about +the house, making now this corner now that obscure, drifting, so +that suddenly, when the door opened, the whole passage seemed full +of smoke, clearing, for a moment, in the street below, showing lamp- +posts and pavements and windows, and then blowing down again and +once more hiding the world, she felt, in spite of herself, that she +was playing a part in some malignant dream. "It can't be like this +really," she told herself. "If I were to go to tea now with Mrs. +Mark and sit in her pretty drawing-room and talk to that clergyman I +wouldn't believe a word of it." And yet it was true enough, her +share in it. As the afternoon advanced her sensations were very +similar to those that she had had when about to visit the St. +Dreot's dentist, a fearsome man with red hair and hands like a dog's +paws. She saw him now standing over her as she sat trembling in the +chair, a miserable little figure in a short untidy frock. She used +to repeat to herself then what Uncle Mathew had once told her: "This +time next year you'll have forgotten all about this," but when it +was a question of facing the immensities of the Last Day that +consolation was strangely inapt. It was dusk very early and she +longed for Martha to bring the lamp. + +At last it came and tea and Aunt Elizabeth. Aunt Anne had not +appeared all day. Then long dreary hours followed until supper, and +after that hours again until ten o'clock. + +She had not been certain, all this time, whether the aunts meant to +take her to the service with them. She had supposed that her +introduction to the meeting at Miss Avies's meant that they intended +to include her in this too, but now, as the evening advanced, in a +fit of nervous terror she prayed within herself that they would not +take her. If the end of the world were coming she would like to meet +it in her bed. To go out into those streets and that ugly unfriendly +Chapel was a horrible thing to do. If this were to be the end of the +world how she did wish that she might have been allowed to know +nothing about it. And those others--Miss Pyncheon and the rest who +devoutly believed in the event--how were they passing these last +hours? + +"Oh, it isn't true! It can't be true!" she said to herself. "It's a +shame to frighten them so!" + +By eleven o'clock the excitement of the day had wearied her so that +she fell fast asleep in the arm-chair beside the fire. She woke to +find Aunt Anne standing over her. + +"It's a quarter past eleven. It's time to put on your things," she +said. So she was to go! She rose and, in spite of herself, her limbs +were trembling and her teeth chattered. To her surprise Aunt Anne +bent forward and kissed her on the forehead. + +"Maggie," she said, "if I've been harsh to you during these weeks +I'm sorry. I've done what I thought my duty, but I wouldn't wish on +this night that we should have any unkindness in our hearts towards +one another." + +"Oh, that's all right," Maggie said awkwardly. + +She went up to put on her things; then the three of them went out +into the dark foggy street together. + +Because it was New Year's Eve there were many people about, voices +laughing and shouting through the mist and then some one running +with a flaring light, then some men walking singing in chorus. The +aunts said nothing as they went. Maggie's thoughts were given now to +wondering whether Martin would be there. She tied her mind to that, +but behind it was the irritating knowledge that her teeth were +chattering and her knees trembling and that she did not maintain her +courage as a Cardinal should. + +As they entered the Chapel the hoarse ugly clock over the door +grunted out half-past eleven. The Chapel seemed on Maggie's entering +it to be half in darkness, there was a thin splutter of gas over the +reading-desk at the far end and some more light by the door, but the +centre of the building was a shadowy pool. Only a few were present, +gathered together in the middle seats below the desk, perhaps in all +a hundred persons. Of these three-quarters were women. The aunts and +Maggie went into their accustomed seat some six rows from the front. +When Maggie rose from her knees and looked about her she recognised +at once that only the Inside Saints were here. + +Amongst the men she recognised Mr. Smith, Caroline's father, two old +men, brothers, who had followed Mr. Warlock from their youth, and a +young pale man who had once been to tea with her aunts. Martin she +saw at once was not there. + +For some time, perhaps for ten minutes, they all sat in silence, and +only the gruff comment of the clock sounded in the building. Then +the lights went up with a flare and Thurston, followed by Mr. +Warlock, entered. It was at that moment that Maggie had a +revelation. The faces around her seemed to be suddenly gathered in +front of her, and it was with a start of surprise that she suddenly +realised: "Oh, but they don't believe in this any more than I do!" +The faces around her were agitated, with odd humble beseeching +looks, as though they were helpless utterly and were hoping that +some one would suddenly come and lead them somewhere that they might +be comfortable again and at ease. + +There was not to-night, as there had been on other occasions (and +especially during that service that Mr. Crashaw had conducted), any +sign of religious and mystical excitement. The people seemed huddled +together in the cold and draughty place against their will, and the +very fact that the Chapel was only half full chilled the blood. No +drama of exultation here, no band of God's servants gloriously +preparing to meet Him, only the frightened open-mouthed gaze of a +little gathering of servant girls and old maids. That was Maggie's +first impression; then, when the service began, when the first hymn +had been sung and Thurston had stumbled into his extempore prayer. +Maggie found herself caught into a strange companionship with the +people around her. Not now ecstasy nor the excitement of religious +fanaticism nor the superstitious preparation for some awful events-- +none of these emotions now lifted her into some strained unnatural +sphere--no, nothing but a strange sympathy and kindness and +understanding that she had never known in all her life before. She +felt the hunger, the passionate appeal: "Oh God come! Prove Thy- +self! We have waited so long. We have resisted unbelievers, we have +fought our own doubts and betrayals, give us now a Sign! something +by which we may know Thee!" and with that appeal the conviction in +the hearts of almost all present that nothing would happen, that God +would give no sign, that the age of miracles was past. + +"Oh, why did He want to be so definite," she thought. "Why couldn't +He have left them as they were without forcing them to this." + +They were sitting down now, and Thurston, with his cheap sense of +the dramatic and false emphasis, was reading from the New Testament. +Maggie looked to where Mr. Warlock was, a little to the right of +Thurston, in his black gown, his head a little lowered, his hands on +his lap. + +When she saw him she was touched to the very heart. Why, he had aged +in the last month a hundred years! He looked, sitting there, so +frail and helpless that it seemed wonderful that he should have been +able to get there at all. + +His hair seemed to have an added intensity of whiteness to-night, +and his beard lay against the black cloth of his gown with a +contrast so sharp that it was unreal. Maggie fancied, as she watched +him, that he was bewildered and scarcely knew where he was. Once he +looked up and round about him; he put his hand to his brow and then +let it fall as though he had no longer any control over it. + +She was now so touched by the pathos of his helplessness that she +could think of nothing else and longed to go to him and comfort him. +Time stole on and it was now ten minutes to twelve. They sang +another hymn, but the voices were very weak and feeble and the words +quivered round the building in a ghostly whisper. Then Thurston came +to the Master and gave him his arm and led him to the reading-desk. +The old man seemed for a moment as though he would fall, then, +holding to the front of the desk, he spoke in a very weak and +faltering voice. Maggie could not catch many of his words: "My +children--only a little time--Our preparation now is finished . . . +God has promised . . . Not the least of these His little ones shall +perish . . . Let us not fear but be ready to meet Him as our Friend +. . . our Friend . . . God our Father . . ." Then in a stronger +voice: "Now during these last minutes let us kneel in silent +prayer." + +They all knelt down. Maggie had no thoughts, no desire except that +the time might pass; she seemed to kneel there asleep waiting for +the moment when some one should tell her that the time had gone and +she was safe. The moments dragged eternally; a thrilling suspense +like a flood of water pouring into an empty space had filled the +Chapel. No one moved. Suddenly into the heart of the silence there +struck the first note of the clock tolling the hour. With Maggie it +was as though that sound liberated her from the spell that had been +upon her. She looked up; she saw the master standing, his hands +stretched out, his face splendid with glory and happiness. + +He looked beyond them all, beyond the Chapel, beyond the world. He +gave one cry: + +"My God, Thou art come." Some other words followed but were caught +up and muffled. He fell forward, collapsing in a heap against the +desk. His head struck the wood and then he lay there perfectly +still. + +Maggie could only dimly gather what happened after the sound of that +fall. There seemed to her to be a long and terrible silence during +which the clock continued remorselessly to strike. The Chapel +appeared to be a place of shadows as though the gas had suddenly +died to dim haloes; she was conscious that people moved about her, +that Aunt Anne had left them, and that Aunt Elizabeth was saying to +her again and again: "How terrible! How terrible! How terrible!" + +Then as though it were some other person, Maggie found herself very +calmly speaking to Aunt Elizabeth. + +"Are we to wait for Aunt Anne?" she whispered. + +"Anne said we were to go home." + +"Then let's go," whispered Maggie. + +They went to the door, pushing, it seemed, through shadows who +whispered and forms that vanished as soon as one looked at them. + +Out in the open air Maggie was aware that she was trembling from +head to foot, but a determined idea that she must get Aunt Elizabeth +home at once drove her like a goad. Very strange it was out here, +the air ringing with the clamour of bells. The noise seemed +deafening, whistles blowing from the river, guns firing and this +swinging network of bells echoing through the fog. Figures, too, ran +with lights, men singing, women laughing, all mysteriously in the +tangled darkness. + +They were joined at once by Aunt Anne, who said: + +"God has called him home," by which Maggie understood that Mr. +Warlock was dead. + +They went home in silence. Inside the hall Aunt Elizabeth began to +cry. Aunt Anne put her arm around her and led her away; they seemed +completely to forget Maggie, leaving her standing in the dark hall +by herself. + +She found a candle and went up to her room. The noise in the streets +had ceased quite suddenly as though some angry voice had called the +world to order. + +Maggie undressed and lay down in her bed. She lay there staring in +front of her without closing her eyes. She watched the grey dawn, +then the half-light, then, behind her blind, bright sunshine. The +fog was no more. + +The strangest fancies and visions passed through her brain during +that time. She saw Mr. Warlock hanging forward like a sack of +clothes, the blood trickling stealthily across his beard. Poor old +man! What were the others all thinking now? Were they sorry or glad? +Were they disappointed or relieved? After all, he had, perhaps, +spoken the truth so far as he was himself concerned. God had come +for him. He was now it might be happy somewhere at peace and at +rest. Then like a flash of lightning across the darkness came the +thought of Martin. What had he said? "If anything happened to his +father--" + +The terror of that made her heart stop beating. She wanted instantly +to go to him and see what he was doing. She even rose from her bed, +stumbled in the darkness towards her dressing-table, then remembered +where she was and what time and went back and sat upon her bed. + +She sat there, her fingers tightly pressed together, staring in +front of her until the morning came. She felt at her heart a +foreboding worse than any pain that she had ever known. She +determined that, directly after breakfast, whatever the aunts would +say, she would go to his house and demand to see him. She did not +mind who might try to prevent her, she would fight her way through +them all. Only one look, one word of assurance from him, and then +she could endure anything. That she must have or she would die. + +At last Martha knocked on the door; she had her bath, dressed, still +with this terrible pain at her heart. + +She was alone at breakfast, she drank some coffee, then went up to +the drawing-room to think for a moment what course she should +pursue. The room was flooded with sunlight that struck the fire into +a dead, lifeless yellow. + +As she stood there she heard through the open door voices in the +hall. But before she had heard the voices she knew that it was +Martin. + +Martha was expostulating, her voice following his step up the hall. + +"I shall go and tell my mistress," Maggie heard. + +Then Martin came in. + +When she saw him she stood speechless where she was. The change in +him terrified her so that her heart seemed to leap into her throat +choking her. The colour had drained from his face, leaving it dry +and yellow. He had an amazing resemblance to his father, his eyes +had exactly the same bewildered expression as though he were lost +and yet he seemed quite calm, his only movement was one hand that +wandered up and down his waistcoat feeling the buttons one after the +other. + +He looked at her as though he did not know her, and yet he spoke her +name. + +"Maggie," he said, "I've come to say good-bye. You know what I said +before. Well, it's come true. Father is dead, and I killed him." + +With a terrible effort, beating down a terror that seemed personally +to envelop her, she said: + +"No, Martin. I saw him die. It wasn't you, Martin dear." + +"It was I," he answered. "You don't know. I came into the house +drunk and he heard what I said to Amy. He nearly died then. The +doctor in the evening said he must have had some shock." + +She tried to come to him then. She was thinking: "Oh, if I've only +got time I can win this. But I must have time. I must have time." + +He moved away from her, as he had done once before. + +"Anyway, it doesn't matter," he said. "I've killed him by the way +I've been behaving to him all these months. I'm going away where I +can't do any harm." + +She desperately calmed herself, speaking very quietly. + +"Listen, Martin. You haven't done him any harm. He's happier now +than he's been for years. I know he is. And that doesn't touch us. +You can't leave me now. Where you go I must go." + +"No," he answered. "No, Maggie. I ought to have gone before. I knew +it then, but I know it absolutely now. Everything I touch I hurt, so +I mustn't touch anything I care for." + +She put her hands out towards him; words had left her. She would +have given her soul for words and she could say nothing. + +She was surrounded with a hedge of fright and terror and she could +not pass it. + +He seemed to see then in her eyes her despair. For an instant he +recognised her. Their eyes met for the first time; she felt that she +was winning. She began eagerly to speak: "Listen, Martin dear. You +can't do me any harm. You can only hurt me by leaving me. I've told +you before. Just think of that and only that." + +The door opened and Aunt Anne came in. + +He turned to her very politely. "I beg your pardon for coming, Miss +Cardinal," he said. "I know what you must think of me, but it's all +right. I've only come to say good-bye to Maggie. It's all right. +Neither you nor Maggie will be bothered with me again." + +He turned to the open door. Aunt Anne stood aside to let him pass. +Maggie said: + +"Martin, don't go! Martin, don't leave me! Don't leave me, Martin!" + +He seemed to break then in his resolution. + +"It's better. It's better," he cried, as though he were shouting +himself down, and then pushing Aunt Anne with his arm he hurried out +almost running, his steps stumbling down the stairs. + +Maggie ran to the door. Her aunt stopped her, holding her back. + +"It's better, Maggie dear," she said very gently, repeating Martin's +words. + +The sound of the hall door closing echoed through the house. + +Maggie struggled, crying again and again: "Let me go! Let me go! I +must go with him! I can't live without him! Let me go!" + +She fought then, and with one hand free hit Aunt Anne's face, +twisting her body. Then, suddenly weak, so that she saw faintness +coming towards her like a cloak, she whispered: + +"Oh, Aunt Anne, let me go! Oh, Aunt Anne, let me go! Please, please, +let me go!" + +Suddenly the house was darkened, at her feet was a gulf of +blackness, and into it she tumbled, down, far down, with a last +little gasping sigh of distress. + + + + +PART III + +THE WITCH + + +CHAPTER I + +THE THREE VISITS + + +On a spring day, early in March of the next year, 1908, Mathew +Cardinal thought that he would go and discover how his niece was +prospering. He had seen nothing of her for a very long time. + +He did not blame himself for this, but then he never blamed himself +for anything. A fate, often drunken and always imbecile, was to +blame for everything that he did, and he pitied himself sincerely +for having to be in the hands of such a creature. He happened to be +just now very considerably frightened about himself, more frightened +than he had been for a very long time, so frightened in fact that he +had drunk nothing for weeks. For many years he had been leading a +see-saw existence, and the see-saw had been swung by that mysterious +force known as Finance. He had a real gift for speculation, and had +he been granted from birth a large income he might have ended his +days as a Justice of the Peace and a Member of Parliament. +Unfortunately he had never had any private means, and he had never +been able to make enough by his mysterious speculations to float him +into security--"Let me once get so far," he would say to himself, +"and I am a made man." But drink, an easy tolerance of bad company, +and a rather touching conceit had combined to divorce him from so +fine a destiny. He had risen, he had fallen, made a good thing out +of this tip, been badly done over that, and missed opportunity after +opportunity through a fuddled brain and an overweening self- +confidence. + +Last year for several months everything had succeeded; it was during +that happy period that he had visited Maggie. Perhaps it was well +for his soul that success had not continued. He was a man whom +failure improved, having a certain childish warmth of heart and +simplicity of outlook when things went badly with him. Success made +him abominably conceited, and being without any morality self- +confidence drove him to disastrous lengths. Now once more he was +very near destruction and he knew it, very near things like forging +and highway robbery, and other things worse than they. He knew that +he was very near; he peered over into the pit and did not wish to +descend. He was not a bad man, and had he not believed himself to be +a clever one all might yet have been well. The temptation of his +cleverness lured him on. A stroke of the pen was a very simple thing +. . . + +To save his soul he thought that he would go and see Maggie. His +affection for her, conceited and selfish though it was, was the most +genuine thing in him. For three-quarters of the year he forgot her, +but when life went badly he thought of her again--not that he +expected to get anything out of her, but she was good to him and she +knew nothing about his life, two fine bases for safety. + +"What have they been doing to her, those damned hypocrites, I +wonder," was his thought. He admired, feared, and despised his +sisters. "All that stuff about God" frightened him in spite of +himself, and he knew, in his soul, that Anne was no hypocrite. + +He rang the bell and faced Martha. He had dressed himself with some +care and was altogether more tidy just then, having a new mistress +who cared about outside appearances. Also, having been sober for +nearly two months, he looked a gentleman. + +"Is my niece at home?" he asked, blinking because he was frightened +of Martha. + +She did not seem to be prepared to let him in. + +"Miss Maggie has been very ill," she said, frowning at him. + +"Ill?" That really hurt him. He stammered, "Why? . . . When?" + +She moved aside then for him to pass into the hall. He came into the +dark stuffy place. + +"Yes," said Martha. "Just after Christmas. Brain-fever, the doctors +said. They thought she'd die for weeks. Had two doctors . . . You +can't see her, sir," she ended grumpily. + +Then Aunt Anne appeared, coming through the green-baize door. + +"Why, Mathew," she said. Mathew thought how ill she looked. + +"They're all ill here," he said to himself. + +"So Maggie's ill," he said, dropping his eyes before her as he +always did. + +"Yes," Aunt Anne answered. "She was very ill indeed, poor child. I'm +glad to see you, Mathew. It's a long time since you've been." + +He thought she was gentler to him than she had been, so, mastering +his fear of her, fingering his collar, he said: + +"Can't I see her?" + +"Well, I'm not . . . I think you might. It might do her good. She +wants taking out of herself. She comes down for an hour or two every +day now. I'll go and see." She left him standing alone there. He +looked around him, sniffing like a dog. How he hated the house and +everything in it! Always had . . . You could smell that fellow +Warlock's trail over everything. The black cat, Tom, came slipping +along, looked for a moment as though he would rub himself against +Mathew's stout legs, then decided that he would not. Mysterious this +place like a well, with its green shadows. No wonder the poor child +had been ill here. At the thought of her being near to death Mathew +felt a choke in his throat. Poor child, never had any fun all her +life and then to die in a green well like this. And his sisters +wouldn't care if she did, hard women, hard women. Funny how religion +made you hard, darn funny. Good thing he'd been irreligious all his +life. Think of his brother Charles! There was religion for you, +living with his cook and preaching to her next morning. Bad thing +religion! + +Aunt Anne returned, coming down the stairs with that queer halting +gait of hers. + +"Maggie's in the drawing-room," she said. "She'll like to see you." + +As they went up, Aunt Anne said: "Be careful with her, Mathew. She's +still very weak. Don't say anything to upset her?" + +He mumbled something in his throat. Couldn't trust him. Of course +they couldn't. Never had . . . Fine sort of sisters they were. + +Maggie was sitting by the fire, a shawl over her shoulders. By God, +but she looked ill. Mathew had another gulp in his throat. Poor kid, +but she did look ill. Poor kid, poor kid. + +"Sorry you've been bad, Maggie," he said. + +She looked up, smiling with pleasure, when she saw who it was. Yes, +she was really pleased to see him. But how different a smile from +the old one! No blood behind it, none of that old Maggie +determination. He was filled with compassion. He took a chair close +beside her and sat down, leaning towards her, his large rather +sheepish eye gazing at her. + +"What's been the matter?" he asked. + +"I don't know," Maggie said. "I was suddenly ill one day, and after +that I didn't know any more for weeks. But I'm much better now." + +"Well, I'm delighted to hear that anyway," he said heartily. He was +determined to cheer her up. "You'll be as right as rain presently." + +"Of course I shall. I've felt so lazy, as though I didn't want to do +anything. Now I must stir myself." + +"Have the old women been good to you?" he asked, dropping his voice. + +"Very," she answered. + +"Not bothering you about all their religious tommy-rot?" + +She looked down at her hands. + +"No," she said. + +"And that hypocritical minister of theirs hasn't been at you again?" + +"Mr. Warlock's dead," she answered very quietly. + +"Warlock dead!" Uncle Mathew half rose from his chair in his +astonishment. "That fellow dead! Well, I'm damned, indeed I am. That +fellow--! Well, there's a good riddance! I know it isn't good form +to speak about a man who's kicked the bucket otherwise than kindly, +but he was a weight on my chest that fellow was, with his long white +beard and his soft voice . . . Well, well. To be sure! Whatever will +my poor sisters do? And what's happened to that young chap, his son, +nice lad he was, took dinner with us that day last year?" + +"He's gone away," said Maggie. Mathew, stupid though he was, heard +behind the quiet of Maggie's voice a warning. He flung her a hurried +surreptitious look. Her face was perfectly composed, her hands still +upon her lap. Nevertheless he said to himself, "Danger there, my +boy! Something's happened there!" + +And yet his curiosity drove him for a moment further. + +"Gone, has he? Where to?" + +"He went abroad," said Maggie, "after his father's death. I don't +know where he's gone." + +"Oh, did he? Pity! Restless, I expect--I was at his age." + +There was a little pause between them when Maggie sat very quietly +looking at her hands. Then, smiling, she glanced up and said: + +"But tell me about yourself, Uncle Mathew. You've told me nothing." + +He fidgeted a little, shifting his thick legs, stroking his nose +with his finger. + +"I don't know that I've anything very good to tell you, my dear. +Truth is, I haven't been doing so very well lately." + +"Oh, Uncle, I'm sorry!" + +"It's nothing to make yourself miserable about, my dear. I always +turn my corners. Damn rocky ones they are sometimes too. +Everything's turned itself wrong these last weeks, either too soon +or too late. I don't complain, all the same it makes things a bit +inconvenient. Thank you for that five pounds you sent me, my dear, +very helpful it was I can tell you." + +"Do you want another five pounds?" she asked him. He struggled with +himself. His hesitation was so obvious that it was quite touching. +She put her hand on his knee. + +"Do have another five pounds, Uncle. It won't be difficult for me at +all. I've been spending nothing all these weeks when I've been ill. +Please do." + +He shook his head firmly. + +"No, my dear, I won't. As I came along I said to myself, 'Now, +you'll be asking Maggie for money, and when she says "Yes" you're +not to take it'--and so I'm not going to. I may be a rotter--but I'm +not a rotten rotter." + +He clung to his decision with the utmost resolve as though it were +his last plank of respectability. + +"I can't believe," he said to her with great solemnity, "that things +can really go wrong. I know too much. It isn't men like me who go +under. No. No." + +He saw then her white face and strange grey ghostly eyes as though +her soul had gone somewhere on a visit and the house was untenanted. +He felt again the gulp in his throat. He bent forward, resting his +fat podgy hand on her knee. + +"Don't you worry, Maggie dear. I've always noticed that things are +never bad for long. You've still got your old uncle, and you're +young, and there are plenty of fish in the sea . . . there are +indeed. You cheer up! It will be all right soon." + +She put her hands on his. + +"Oh I'm not--worrying." But as she spoke a strange strangled little +sob had crept unbidden into her throat, choking her. + +He thought, as he got up, "It's that damned young feller I gave +dinner to. I'd like to wring his neck." + +But he said no more, bent closer and kissed her, said he was soon +coming again, and went away. + +After he had gone the house sank into its grey quiet again. What was +Maggie thinking? No one knew. What was Aunt Anne thinking? No one +knew . . . But there was something between these two, Maggie and +Aunt Anne. Every one felt it and longed for the storm to burst. Bad +enough things outside with Mr. Warlock dead, members leaving right +and left, and the Chapel generally going to wrack and ruin, but +inside! + +Old Martha, who had never liked Maggie, felt now a strange, +uncomfortable pity for her. She didn't want to feel pity, no, not +she, pity for no one, and especially not for an ugly untidy girl +like that, but there it was, she couldn't help herself! Such a child +that girl, and she'd been as nearly dead as nothing, and now she was +suffering, suffering awful . . . Any one could see . . . All that +Warlock boy. Martha had seen him come stumbling down the stairs that +day and had heard Maggie's cry and then the fall. Awful noise it +made. Awful. She'd stood in the hall, looking up the stairs, her +heart beating like a hammer. Yes, just like a hammer! Then she'd +gone up. It wasn't a nice sight, the poor girl all in a lump on the +floor and Miss Anne just as she always looked before one of her +attacks, as though she were made of grey glass from top to toe . . . + +But Martha hadn't pitied Maggie then. Oh, no. Might as well die as +not. Who wanted her? No one. Not even her young man apparently. + +Better if she died. But slowly something happened to Martha. Not +that she was sentimental. Not in the least. But thoughts would steal +in--steal in just when you were at your work. The girl lying there +so good and patient--all the pots and pans winking at you from the +kitchen-wall. Must remember to order that ketchup--cold last night +in bed--think another blanket . . . yes, very good and patient. +Can't deny it. Always smiles just that same way. Smiles at every one +except Miss Arne. Won't smile at her. Wonder why not? Something +between those two. What about dinner? A little onion fry--that's the +thing these damp days--Onion fry--Onion Fry. ONION FRY . . . One +last look back before the world is filled with the sense, smell, and +taste of it.--Poor girl, so white and so patient--the young man will +never come back--never . . . never . . . ONION FRY. + +No; no one knew what Maggie was thinking. No one found out until +Maggie had her second visitor, Miss Avies. + +When Martha opened the door to Miss Avies she was astonished. Miss +Avies hadn't been near the house since old Warlock died. What was +she wanting here now, with her stiff back and bossy manner. + +"I don't know whether you can see--" + +"Oh nonsense, it's Maggie Cardinal I want to see. She's now in the +drawing-room sitting on a chair with a shawl on by the fire. Don't +tell me!" + +Martha quivered with anger. "The doctor's orders is--" + +"I'm going to be doctor to-day," she said, and strode inside. She +went upstairs and found Aunt Elizabeth sitting with Maggie. + +"How do you do, Miss Cardinal?" They shook hands, Miss Avies +standing over Aunt Elizabeth like the boa constrictor raised above +the mouse. + +"That's all right . . . No, I don't want to see your sister. And to +be quite honest, I don't want to see you either. It's your niece I +want to see. And alone--" + +"Certainly--it's only the doctor said--" + +"Not to excite her. I know. But I'm not going to excite her. I'm +going to give her some medicine. You come back in half an hour from +now. Will you? That's right. Thank you so much." + +Aunt Elizabeth, unhappy, uncomfortable, filled with misgivings, as +in these days she always was, left the room. + +"Well, there . . . that's right," said Miss Avies, settling herself +in the opposite side of the fire from Maggie and looking at her with +not unfriendly eyes. "How are you?" + +"Oh much better, thank you," said Maggie. "Ever so much better." + +"No, you're not," said Miss Avies. "And you're only lying when you +say you are. You'll never get better unless you do what I tell you-- +" + +"What's that?" asked Maggie. + +"Face things. Face everything. Have it all out. Don't leave a bit of +it alone, and then just keep what's useful." + +"I don't quite know what you mean," said Maggie--but the faint +colour had faded from her cheeks and her hands had run together for +protection. + +Miss Avies's voice softened--"I'm probably going away very soon," +she said, "going away and not coming back. All my work's over here. +But I wanted to see you before I went. You remember another talk we +had here?" + +"Very well," said Maggie. + +"You remember what I told you?" + +"You told me not to stay here," said Maggie. + +"Yes, I did." said Miss Avies. "and I meant it. The matter with you +is that you've been kept here all this time without any proper work +to do and that's been very bad for you and made you sit with your +hands folded in front of you, your head filling with silly fancies." + +Maggie couldn't help smiling at this description of herself. + +"Oh, you smile," said Miss Avies vigorously, "but it's perfectly +true." + +"Well, it's all right now." said Maggie, "because I am going away-- +as soon as ever I'm well enough." "What to do?" asked Miss Avies. + +"I don't quite know yet," said Maggie. + +"Well, I know," said Miss Avies. "You're going away to brood over +that young man." + +Maggie said nothing. + +"Oh I know . . . It seems cruel of me to speak of it just when +you've had such a bad time, but it's kindness really. If I don't +force you to think it all out and face it properly you'll be burying +it in some precious spot and always digging it up to look at it. You +face it, my girl. You say to yourself--well, he wasn't such a +wonderful young man after all. I can lead my life all right without +him--of course I can. I'm not going to be dependent on him and sigh +and groan and waste away because I can't see him. I know what it is. +I've been through it myself." + +Then there was a pause; then Maggie suddenly looked up and smiled. + +"But you're quite wrong, Miss Avies. I've no intention of not facing +Martin, and I've no intention either of having my life ruined +because he's not here. At first, when I was very ill, I was unhappy, +and then I saw how silly I was." + +"Why?" said Miss Avies with great pleasure. "You've got over it +already! I must say I'm delighted because I never thought much of +Martin Warlock if you want to know, my dear. I always thought him a +weak young man, and he wouldn't have done you any good. I'm +delighted--indeed I am." + +"That's not true either," said Maggie quietly. "If by getting over +it you mean that I don't love Martin you're quite wrong. I loved him +the first moment I saw him and I shall love him in just the same way +until I die. I don't think it matters what he does or where he is so +far as loving him goes. But that doesn't mean I'm sitting and +pining. I'm not." + +Miss Avies looked at her with displeasure. + +"It's the same thing then," she said. "You may fancy you're going to +lead an ordinary life again, but all the time you'll just be waiting +for him to come back." + +"No," said Maggie, "I shall not. I've had plenty of time for +thinking these last weeks, and I've made up my mind to his never +coming back--never at all. And even if he did come back he mightn't +want me. So I'm not going to waste time about it. I shall find work +and make myself useful somewhere, but I shall always love Martin +just as I do now." + +"You're rery young," said Miss Avies, touched in spite of herself. +"Later on you'll find some one much better than young Warlock." + +"Perhaps I shall," said Maggie. "But what's the use of that if he +isn't Martin? I've heard people say that before--some one's 'better' +or 'stronger' or 'wiser.'--But what has that got to do with it? I +love Martin because he's Martin. He's got a weak character you say. +That's why he wants me, and I want to be wanted more than anything +on earth." + +"Why, child," said Miss Avies, astonished. "How you've grown these +last weeks!" + +"Do you want to know how I love Martin," said Maggie, "so that there +shall be no mistake about it? Well, I can't tell you. I couldn't +tell any one. I don't know how I love him, but I know that I shall +never change or alter all my life--even though he never comes back +again. I've given over being silly," she went on. "There were days +and days at first when I just wanted to die. But now I'm going to +make my own life and have a good time--and never stop loving Martin +for one single second." + +"Supposing," said Miss Avies, "some one wanted to marry you? Would +you?" + +"It would depend," said Maggie; "if I liked him and he really wanted +me and I could help him I might. Only, of course, I'd tell him about +Martin first." + +She went on after a little pause: "You see, Miss Avies, I haven't +been very happy with my aunts, and I always thought it was their +fault that I wasn't. But during these weeks when I've been lying in +bed I saw that it was my own fault for being so gloomy about +everything. Now that I've got Martin--" + +"Got him!" interrupted Miss Avies; "why, you've only just lost him!" + +"No, I haven't," answered Maggie. "He didn't go away because he +hated me or was tired of me, he went away because he didn't want to +do me any harm, and I think he cared for me more just at that minute +than he'd ever done before. So I've nothing to spoil my memory of +him. I daresay we wouldn't have got on well, together, I don't think +I would ever have fascinated him enough to keep him with me for very +long--but now I know that he loved me at the very moment he went +away and wasn't thinking how ugly I was or what a nasty temper I had +or how irritating I could be." + +"But, my dear child," said Miss Avies, astonished. "How can you say +you loved one another if you were always quarrelling and expecting +to part?" "We weren't always quarrelling," said Maggie. "We weren't +together enough, but if we had been it wouldn't have meant that we +didn't love one another. I don't think we'd ever been very happy, +but being happy together doesn't seem to me the only sign of love. +Love seems to me to be moments of great joy rising from every kind +of trouble and bother. I don't call tranquillity happiness." + +"Well, you have thought things out," said Miss Avies, "and all of us +considering you so stupid--" + +"I'm not going to squash myself into a corner any more," said +Maggie. "Why should I? I find I'm as good as any one else. I made +Martin love me--even though it was only for a moment. So I'm going +to be shy no longer." + +"And here was I thinking you heart-broken," said Miss Avies. + +"I'm going out into the world," said Maggie half to herself. "I'm +going to have adventures. I've been in this house long enough. I'm +going to see what men and women are really like--I know this isn't +real here. And I want to discover about religion too. Since Martin +went away I've felt that there was something in it. I can't think +what and the aunts can't think either; none of you know here, but +some one must have found out something. I'm going to settle what it +all means." + +"You've got your work cut out," said Miss Avies. "I'll come and see +you again one day soon." + +"Yes, do," said Maggie. + +When Miss Avies had gone Maggie realised that she had been talking +with bravado--in fact she hid her head in the cushion of the chair +and cried for at least five minutes. Then she sat up and wiped her +eyes because she heard Aunt Anne coming. When Aunt Anne came towards +her now she was affected with a strange feeling of sickness. She +told herself that that was part of her illness. She did not hate +Aunt Anne. For some weeks, when she had risen slowly from the +nightmare that the first period of her illness had been, she hated +Aunt Anne, hated her fiercely, absorbingly, desperately. Then +suddenly the hatred had left her, and had she only known it she was +from that moment never to hate any one again. A quite new love for +Martin was suddenly born in her, a love that was, as yet, like the +first faint stirring of the child in the mother's womb. This new +love was quite different from the old; that had been acquisitive, +possessive, urgent, restless, and often terribly painful; this was +tranquil, sure, utterly certain, and passive. The immediate fruit of +it was that she regarded all human creatures with a lively interest, +an interest too absorbing to allow of hatred or even active dislike. +Her love for Martin was now like a strong current in her soul +washing away all sense of irritation and anger. She regarded people +from a new angle. What were they all about? What were they thinking? +Had they too had some experience as marvellous as her meeting with +and parting from Martin? Probably; and they too were shy of speaking +of it. Her love for Martin slowly grew, a love now independent of +earthly contact and earthly desire, a treasure that would be hers +so long as life lasted, that no one could take from her. + +She no longer hated Aunt Anne, but she did not intend to live with +her any more. So soon as she was well enough she would go. That +moment of physical contact when Aunt Anne had held her back made any +more relation between them impossible. There was now a great gulf +fixed. + +The loneliness, the sense of desperate loss, above all the agonising +longing for Martin, his step, his voice, his smile--she faced all +these and accepted them as necessary companions now on her life's +journey, but she did not intend to allow them to impede progress. +She wondered now about everybody. Her own experience had shown her +what strange and wonderful things occur to all human beings, and, in +the face of this, how could one hate or grudge or despise? She had a +fellowship now with all humanity. + +But she was as ignorant about life as ever. The things that now she +wanted to know! About Aunt Anne, for instance. How had she been +affected by Mr. Warlock's death and the disappointment of her +expectations? The Chapel now apparently was to be taken over by +Thurston, who had married Amy Warlock and was full of schemes and +enterprises. Maggie knew that the aunts went now very seldom to +Chapel, and the Inside Saints were apparently in pieces. Was Aunt +Anne utterly broken by all this? She did not seem to be so. She +seemed to be very much as she had been, except that she was in her +room now a great deal. Her health appeared, on the whole, to be +better than it had been. And what was Aunt Elizabeth thinking? And +Martha? And Miss Avies? And Caroline Smith? . . . + +No, she must get out into the world and discover these things for +herself. She did not know how the way of escape would come, but she +was certain of its arrival. + +It arrived, and through her third visitor. Her third visitor was +Mrs. Mark. + +When Katherine Mark came in Maggie was writing to Uncle Mathew. She +put aside her writing-pad with a little exclamation of surprise. +Mrs. Mark, the very last person in all the world whom she had +expected to see! As she saw her come in she had a swift intuition +that this was Destiny now that was dealing with her, and that a new +scene, involving every sort of new experience and adventure, was +opening before her. More than ever before she realised how far +Katherine Mark was from the world in which she, Maggie, had during +all these months been living. Katherine Mark was Real--Real in her +beautiful quiet clothes, in her assurance, her ease, the sense that +she gave that she knew life and love and business and all the +affairs of men at first hand, not only seen through a mist of +superstition and ignorance, or indeed not seen at all. + +"This is what I want," something in Maggie called to her. + +"This will make me busy and quiet and sensible--at last--" + +When Katherine Mark sat down and took her hand for a moment, smiling +at her in the kindliest way, Maggie felt as though she had known her +all her life. + +"Oh! I'm so glad you've come!" she cried spontaneously; and then, as +though she felt she'd gone too far, she blushed and drew back. + +But Katherine held her hand fast. + +"I wrote," she said, "some weeks ago to you, and your aunt answered +the letter saying you were very ill. Then, as I heard nothing of +you, I was anxious and came to see what had happened. You've not +kept your word, Maggie, you know. We were to have been great +friends, and you've never been near me." + +At the use of her Christian name Maggie blushed with pleasure. + +"I couldn't come," she said. "I didn't want to until--until--until +some things had settled themselves." + +"Well--and they have?" asked Katherine. + +"Yes--they have," said Maggie. + +"What's been the matter?" asked Katherine. + +"I was worried about something, and then I was ill," said Maggie. + +"And you're not worried now?" said Katherine. + +"I'm not going to give in to it, anyway," said Maggie. "As soon as +I'm well, I'm off. I'll find some work somewhere." + +"I've got a plan," said Katherine. "It came into my head the moment +I saw you sitting there. Will you come and stay with us for a +little?" + +That sense that Maggie had had when she saw Katherine of fate having +a hand in all of this deepened now and coloured her thoughts, so +that she could feel no surprise but only a curious instinct that she +had been through all this scene before. + +"Stay with you!" she cried. "Oh, I should love to!" + +"That's good," said Katherine. "Your aunts won't mind, will they?" + +"They can't keep me," said Maggie. "I'm free. But they won't want +to. Our time together is over--" + +"I'll come and fetch you to-morrow," said Katherine. "You shall stay +with us until you're quite well, and then we'll find some work for +you." + +"Why are you good to me like this?" Maggie asked. + +"I'm not good to you," Katherine answered, laughing. "It's simply +selfish. It will be lovely for me having you with me." + +"Oh, you don't know," said Maggie, throwing up her head. + +"No, I don't think I'll come. I'm frightened. I'm not what you +think. I'm untidy and careless and can't talk to strangers. Perhaps +I'll lose you altogether as a friend if I come." + +"You'll never do that," said Katherine, suddenly bending forward and +kissing her. "I don't change about people. It's because I haven't +any imagination, Phil says." + +"I shall make mistakes," Maggie said. "I've never been anywhere. But +I don't care. I can look after myself." + +The thought of her three hundred pounds (which were no longer three +hundred) encouraged her. She kissed Katherine. + +"I don't change either," she said. + +She had a strange conversation with Aunt Anne that night, strange as +every talk had always been because of things left unsaid. They faced +one another across the fireplace like enemies who might have been +lovers; there had been from the very first moment of this meeting a +romantic link between them which had never been defined. They had +never had it out with one another, and they were not going to have +it out now; but Maggie, who was never sentimental, wondered at the +strange mixture of tenderness, pity, affection, irritation and +hostility that she felt. + +"Aunt Anne, I'm going away to-morrow," said Maggie. + +"To-morrow!" Aunt Anne looked up with her strange hostile arrogance. +"Oh no, Maggie. You're not well yet." + +"Mrs. Mark," said Maggie, "the lady I told you about, is coming in a +motor to fetch me. She will take me straight to her house, and then +I shall go to bed." + +Aunt Anne said nothing. + +"You know that it's better for me to go," said Maggie. "We can't +live together any more after what happened. You and Aunt Elizabeth +have been very very good to me, but you know now that I'm a +disappointment. I haven't ever fitted into the life here. I never +shall." + +"The life here is over," said Aunt Anne. "Everything is over--the +house is dead. Of course you must go. If you feel anger with me now +or afterwards remember that I have lost every hope or desire I ever +had. I don't want your pity. I want no one's pity. I wanted once +your affection, but I wanted it on my own terms. That was wrong. I +do not want your affection any longer; you were never the girl I +thought you. You're a strange girl, Maggie, and you will have, I am +afraid, a very unhappy life." + +"No, I will not," said Maggie. "I will have a happy life." + +"That is for God to say," said Aunt Anne. + +"No, it is not," said Maggie. "I can make my own happiness. God +can't touch it, if I don't let Him." + +"Maggie, you're blasphemous," said Aunt Anne, but not in anger. + +"I'm not," said Maggie. "When I came here first I didn't believe in +God, but now--I'm not sure. There's something strange, which may be +God for all I know. I'm going to find out. If He has the doing of +everything then He's taken away all I cared for, and I'm not going +to give Him the satisfaction of seeing that it hurt; if He didn't do +it, then it doesn't matter." + +"You'll believe in Him before you die, Maggie," said Aunt Anne. +"It's in you, and you won't escape it. I thought it was I who was to +bring you to Him, but I was going too fast. The Lord has His own +time. You'll come to Him afterwards." + +"Oh," cried Maggie. "I'm so glad I'm going somewhere where it won't +be always religion, where they'll think of something else than the +Lord and His Coming. I want real life, banks and motor-cars and +shops and clothes and work . . ." + +She stopped suddenly. + +Aunt Anne was doing what Maggie had never seen her do before, even +in the worst bouts of her pain--she was crying . . . cold solitary +lonely tears that crept slowly, reluctantly down her thin cheeks. + +"I meant to do well. In everything I have done ill . . . Everything +has failed in my hands--" + +Once again, as long before at St. Dreot's, Maggie could do nothing. + +There was a long miserable silence, then Aunt Anne got up and went +away. + +Next day Katherine came in a beautiful motor-car to fetch Maggie. +Maggie had packed her few things. Bound her neck next her skin was +the ring with three pearls . . . + +She said good-bye to the house: her bedroom beneath which the motor- +omnibuses clanged, the sitting-room with the family group, the +passage with the Armed Men, the dark hall with the green baize door +. . . then good-bye to Aunt Elizabeth (two kisses), Aunt Anne (one +kiss), Martha, Thomas the cat, the parrot . . . all, everything, +good-bye, good-bye, good-bye! + +May I never see any of you again. Never, never, never, never! . . . + +She was helped into the car, rugs were wrapped round her, there was +a warm cosy smell of rich leather, a little clock ticked away, a +silver vase with red and blue flowers winked at her, and Katherine +was there close beside her . . . + +Never again, never again! And yet how strange, as they turned the +corner of the street down into the Strand, Maggie felt a sudden pang +of regret, of pathos, of loneliness, as though she were leaving +something that had loved her dearly, and leaving it without a word +of friendliness. + +"Poor dear!" She wanted to return, to tell it . . . to tell it what? +She had made her choice. She was plunging now into the other half of +the world, and plunging not quite alone, because she was taking +Martin with her. + +"I do hope you won't mind, dear," said Katherine. "My cousin Paul-- +the clergyman you met once--is staying with us. He and his sister. +No one else." + +"Oh, I shan't mind," said Maggie. Her fingers, inside her blouse, +tightly clutched the little pearl ring. + + + + +CHAPTER II + +PLUNGE INTO THE OTHER HALF + + +For a week Maggie was so comfortable that she could think of nothing +but that. It must be remembered that she had never before known what +comfort was, never at St. Dreot's, never at Aunt Anne's, and these +two places had been the background of all her life. + +She had never conceived of the kind of way that she now lived. Her +bedroom was so pretty that it made her almost cry to look at it: the +wall-paper scattered with little rosy trees, the soft pink cretonne +on the chairs, the old bureau with a sheet of glass covering its +surface that was her dressing-table, the old gold mirror--all these +things were wonders indeed. She was ordered to have breakfast in +bed; servants looked after her with a kindliness and ease and +readiness to help that she had never dreamed of as possible. The +food was wonderful; there was the motor ready to take her for a +drive in the afternoon, and there was the whole house at her +service, soft and cosy and ordered so that it seemed to roll along +upon its own impulse without any human agency. + +"I believe if every one went away and left it," she thought, "it +would go on in exactly the same way." + +Figures gradually took their places in front of this background. The +principals at first were Katherine and Philip, Henry and Millicent, +Katherine's brother and sister, Mr. Trenchard senior, Katherine's +father, Lady Rachel Seddon, Katherine's best friend, and Mr. +Faunder, Katherine's uncle. She saw at once that they all revolved +around Katherine; if Katherine were not there they would not hold +together at all. They were all so different--so different and yet so +strangely alike. There was, for instance, Millicent Trenchard, whom +Maggie liked best of them all after Katherine. Millie was a young +woman of twenty-one, pretty, gay, ferociously independent, +enthusiastic about one thing after another, with hosts of friends, +male and female, none of whom she took very seriously. The love of +her life, she told Maggie almost at once, was Katherine. She would +never love any one, man or woman, so much again. She lived with her +mother and father in an old house in Westminster, and Maggie +understood that there had been some trouble about Katherine's +marriage, so that, although it happened three years ago, Mrs. +Trenchard would not come to see Katherine and would not allow +Katherine to come and see her. + +Then there was Henry, a very strange young man. He was at Cambridge +and said to be very clever. He did indeed seem to lead a mysterious +life of his own and paid very little attention to Maggie, asking her +once whether she did not think The Golden Ass wonderful, and what +did she think of Petronius; and when Maggie laughed and said that +she was glad to say she never read anything, he left her in an +agitated horror. Lady Rachel Seddon was very grand and splendid, and +frightened Katherine. She was related to every kind of duke and +marquis, and although that fact did not impress Maggie in the least, +it did seem to remove Lady Rachel into quite another world. + +But they were all in another world--Maggie discovered that at once. +They had, of course, every sort of catch-word and allusion and joke +that no one but themselves and the people whom they brought into the +house understood; Katherine was kindness itself. Philip too (he +seemed to Maggie a weak, amiable young man) took a lot of trouble +about her, but they did not belong to her nor she to them. + +"And why should they?" said Maggie to herself. "I must look on it as +though I were staying at a delightful hotel and were going on with +my journey very soon." + +There was somebody, however, who did not belong any more than Maggie +did, and very soon he became Maggie's constant companion--this was +the Rev. Paul Trenchard, Kathorine's cousin. + +From the very moment months ago, when Maggie and he had first met in +Katherine's drawing-room, they had been friends. He had liked her, +Maggie felt, at once. She on her side was attracted by a certain +childlike simplicity and innocence. This very quality, she soon saw, +moved the others, Philip and Henry and Mr. Trenchard senior, to +derision. They did not like the Rev. Paul. They chaffed him, and he +was very easily teased, because he was not clever and did not see +their jokes. This put Maggie up in arms in his defence at once. But +they had all the layman's distrust of a parson. They were all polite +to him, of course, and Maggie discovered that in this world +politeness was of the very first importance, so that you really +never said what you thought nor did what you wanted to. They frankly +could not understand why Katherine asked the parson to stay, but +because they loved Katherine they were as nice to him as their +natures would allow them to be. Paul did not apparently notice that +they put him outside their life. He was always genial, laughed a +great deal when there WAS no reason to laugh at all, and told simple +little stories in whose effect he profoundly believed. He was +supported in his confidence by his sister Grace, who obviously +adored him. She too was "outside" the family, but she seemed to be +quite happy telling endless stories of Paul's courage and cleverness +and popularity. She did indeed believe that Skeaton-on-Sea, where +Paul had his living, was the hub of the universe, and this amused +all the Trenchard family very much indeed. It must not be supposed +that Paul and his sister were treated unkindly. They were shown the +greatest courtesy and hospitality, but Maggie knew that that was +only because it was the Trenchard tradition to do so, and not from +motives of affection or warmth of heart. + +They could be warm-hearted; it was wonderful to see the way that +they all adored Katherine, and they had many friends for whom they +would do anything, but the Rev. Paul seemed to them frankly an ass, +and they would be glad when he went away. + +He did not seem to Maggie an ass. She thought him the kindest person +she had ever known, kinder even than Katherine, because with +Katherine there was the faintest suspicion of patronage; no, not of +patronage--that was unfair . . . but of an effort to put herself in +exactly Maggie's place so that she might understand perfectly what +were Maggie's motives. With Paul Trenchard there was no effort, no +deliberate slipping out of one world into another one. He was +frankly delighted to tell Maggie everything--all about Skeaton-on- +Sea and its delights, about the church and its marvellous east +window, about the choir and the difficulties with the choir-boys and +the necessity for repairing the organ, about the troubles with the +churchwardens, especially one Mr. Bellows, who, in his cantankerous +and dyspeptic objections to everything that any one proposed, became +quite a lively figure to Maggie's imagination, about the St. John's +Brotherhood which had been formed to keep the "lads" out of the +public-houses and was doing so well, about the Shakespeare Reading +Society and a Mrs. Tempest (who also became a live figure in +Maggie's brain), "a born tragedian" and wonderful as Lady Macbeth +and Katherine of Aragon. Skeaton slowly revealed itself to Maggie as +a sunny sparkling place, with glittering sea, shining sand, and dark +cool woods, full of kindliness, too, and friendship and good-humour. +Paul and Grace Trenchard seemed to be the centre of this sunshine. +How heartily Paul laughed as he recounted some of the tricks and +escapades of his "young scamps." "Dear fellows," he would say, "I +love them all . . ." and Grace sat by smiling and nodding her head +and beaming upon her beloved brother. + +To Maggie, fresh from the dark and confused terrors of the Chapel, +it was all marvellous. Here was rest indeed, here, with Martin +cherished warmly in her heart, she might occupy herself with duties +and interests. Here surely she would be useful to "somebody." She +heard a good deal of an old Mr. Toms, "a little queer in his head, +poor man," who seemed to figure in the outskirts of Skeaton society +as a warning and a reassurance. ("No one in Skeaton thinks of him in +any way but tenderly.") Maggie wondered whether he might not want +looking after . . . + +The thought gradually occurred to her that this kindly genial +clergyman might perhaps find her some work in Skeaton. He even +himself hinted at something . . . She might be some one's secretary +or housekeeper. + +About Grace Trenchard Maggie was not quite so sure. She was kindness +itself and liked to hold Maggie's hand and pat it--but there was no +doubt at all that she was just a little bit tiresome. Maggie rebuked +herself for thinking this, but again and again the thought arose. +Grace was in a state of perpetual wonder, everything amazed her. You +would not think to look at her flat broad placidity that she was a +creature of excitement, and it might be that her excitement was +rather superficial. She would say: "Why! Just fancy, Maggie! . . . +To-day's Tuesday!" Then you wondered what was coming next and +nothing came at all. She had endless stories about her adventures in +the streets of London, and these stories were endless because of all +the details that must be fitted in, and then the details slipped out +of her grasp and winked at her maliciously as they disappeared. The +fact was perhaps that she was not very clever, but then Maggie +wasn't very clever either, so she had no right to criticise Miss +Trenchard, who was really as amiable as she could be. Henry +Trenchard said once to Maggie in his usual scornful way: + +"Oh, Grace! . . . She's the stupidest woman in Skeaton, which means +the stupidest woman in the world." + +The Trenchards, Maggie thought, were rather given to scorning every +one save themselves. Even Philip, who was not a Trenchard, had +caught the habit. Katherine, of course, despised no one and liked +every one, but that was rather tiresome too. + +In fact at the end of her first week Maggie thought that as soon as +possible she would find a room for herself somewhere and start to +earn her living. She discovered that she was developing a new +sensitiveness. When she was living with the aunts she had not minded +very seriously the criticisms made upon her; she had indeed been +disappointed when Aunt Anne had not admired her new dress, and she +had hated Amy Warlock's rudeness, but that was because Martin had +been involved. This new sensitiveness worried her; she hated to care +whether people laughed at the way she came into a room or whether +she expressed foolish opinions about books and pictures. She had +always said just what she thought, but now, before Philip's kindly +attention and Mr. Trenchard senior's indulgence (he wrote books and +articles in the papers), she hated her ignorance. Paul Trenchard +knew frankly nothing about Art. "I know what I like," he said, "and +that's enough for me." He liked Watts's pictures and In Memoriam and +Dickens, and he heard The Messiah once a year in London if he could +leave his parish work. He laughed about it all. "The souls of men! +The souls of men!" he would say. "That is what I'm after, Miss +Cardinal. You're not going to catch them with the latest neurotic +novel, however well it's written." + +Oh, he was kind to her! He was kinder and kinder and kinder. She +told him everything--except about Martin. She told him all about her +life at St. Dreot's and her father and Uncle Mathew, the aunts and +the Chapel. + +He was frankly shocked by the Chapel. "That's not the way to get +into heaven," he said. "We must be more patient than that. The daily +round, the daily task, that's the kind." + +His physical presence began to pervade all her doings. He was +not handsome, but so clean, so rosy, and so strong. No mystery +about him, no terrors, no invasions from the devil. Everything +was clear and certain. He knew just where he was and exactly +whither he was going. One afternoon, when they were out in the +motor together, he took Maggie's hand under the rug and he held +it so calmly, so firmly, with so kindly a benevolence that she +could not be frightened or uncomfortable. He was like a large +friendly brother . . . + +One day he called her Maggie. He blushed and laughed. "I'm so +sorry," he said. "It slipped out. I caught it from Katherine." + +"Oh, please, . . . never mind," she answered. "Miss Cardinal's so +stiff." + +"Then you must call me Paul," he said. + +A little conversation that Maggie had after this with Millicent +showed her in sharp relief exactly where she stood in relation to +the Trenchard family. They had been out in the motor together. +Millie had been shopping and now they were rolling back through the +Park. + +"Are you happy with us, Maggie?" Millicent suddenly asked. + +"Very happy," Maggie answered. + +"Well, I hope you are," said Millicent. "I don't think that as a +family we're very good at making any one happy except ourselves. I +think we're very selfish." + +"No, I don't think you're selfish," said Maggie, "but I think you're +sufficient for yourselves. I don't fancy you really want any one +from outside." + +"No, I don't think the others do. I do though. You don't suppose I'm +going to stay in the Trenchard bosom for ever, do you? I'm not, I +assure you. But what you've said means that you don't really feel at +home with us." + +"I don't think I want to feel at home with you," Maggie answered. "I +don't belong to any of you. Contrast us, for instance. You've got +everything--good looks, money, cleverness, position. You can get +what you like out of life. I've got nothing. I'm plain, poor, +awkward, uneducated--and yet you know I wouldn't change places with +any one. I'd rather be myself than any one alive." + +"Yes, you would," said Millicent, nodding her head. "That's you all +over. I felt it the moment you came into the house. You're +adventurous. We're not. Katherine was adventurous for a moment when +she married Philip, but she soon slipped back again. But you'll do +just what you want to always." + +"I shall have to," said Maggie, laughing. "There's no one else to do +it for me. It isn't only that I don't belong to you--I've never +belonged to any one, only one person--and he's gone now. I belong to +him--and he'll never come back." + +"Were you frightfully in love?" asked Millie, deeply interested. + +"Yes," said Maggie. + +"He oughtn't to have gone away like that," said Millicent. + +"Yes, he ought," said Maggie. "He was quite right. But don't let's +bother about that. I've got to find some place now where I can work. +The worst of it is I'm so ignorant. But there must be something that +I ran do." + +"There's Paul," said Millie. + +"What do you mean?" asked Maggie. + +"Oh, he cares like anything for you. You must have noticed. It began +after the first time he met you. He was always asking about you. Of +course every one's noticed it." + +"Cares for me," Maggie repeated. + +"Yes, of course. He's wanted to marry for a long time. Tired of +Grace bossing him, I expect. That doesn't sound very polite to you, +but I know that he cares for you apart from that--for yourself, I +mean. And I expect Grace is tired of housekeeping." + +Maggie's feelings were very strange. Why should he care about her? +Did she want him to care? A strange friendly feeling stole about her +heart. She was not alone then, after all. Some one wanted her, +wanted her so obviously that every one had noticed it--did not want +her as Martin had wanted her, against his own will and judgment. If +he did offer her his home what would she feel? + +There was rest there, rest and a real home, a home that she had +never in all her life known. Of course she did not love him in the +least. His approach did not make her pulses beat a moment faster, +she did not long for him to come when he was not there--but he +wanted her! That was the great thing. He wanted her! + +"Of course if he asked you, you wouldn't really think of marrying +him?" said Millicent. + +"I don't know," said Maggie slowly. + +"What! Marry him and live in Skeaton!" Millicent was frankly amazed. +"Why, Skeaton's awful, and the people in it are awful, and Grace is +awful. In the summer it's all nigger-minstrels and bathing-tents, +and in the winter there isn't a soul--" Millicent shivered. + +Maggie smiled. "Of course it seems dull to you, but my life's been +very different. It hasn't been very exciting, and if I could really +help him--" she broke off. "I do like him," she said. "He's the +kindest man I've ever met. Of course he seems dull to you who have +met all kinds of brilliant people. I hate brilliant people." + +The car was in Bryanston Square. Just before it stopped Millie bent +over and kissed Maggie. + +"I think you're a darling," she said. + +But Millie didn't think Maggie "a darling" for long--that is, she +did not think about her at all for long; none of the family did. + +So quiet was Maggie, so little in any one's way that, at the end of +a fortnight, she made no difference to any one in the house. She was +much better now, looking a different person, colour in her cheeks +and light in her eyes. During her illness they had cut her hair and +this made her look more than ever like a boy. She wore her plain +dark dresses, black and dark blue; they never quite fitted and, with +her queer odd face, her high forehead, rather awkward mouth, and +grave questioning eyes she gave you the impression that she had been +hurried into some disguise and was wearing it with discomfort but +amusement. Some one who met her at the Trenchards at this time said +of her: "What a funny girl! She's like a schoolboy dressed up to +play a part in the school speeches." Of course she was not playing a +part, no one could have been more entirely natural and honest, but +she was odd, strange, out of her own world, and every one felt it. + +It was, perhaps, this strangeness that attracted Paul Trenchard. He +was, above everything, a kindly man-kindly, perhaps a little through +laziness, but nevertheless moved always by distress or misfortune in +others. Maggie was not distressed--she was quite cheerful and +entirely unsentimental--nevertheless she had been very ill, was +almost penniless, had had some private trouble, was au orphan, had +no friends save two old aunts, and was amazingly ignorant of the +world. + +This last was, perhaps, the thing that struck him most of all. He, +too, was ignorant of the world, but he didn't know that, and he was +amazed at the things that Maggie brushed aside as unimportant. He +found that he was beginning to think of her as "my little heathen." +His attitude was the same as that of a good missionary discovering a +naked but trusting native. + +The thought of training this virgin mind was delightful to him. + +He liked her quaintness, and one day suddenly, to his own surprise, +when they were alone in the drawing-room, he kissed her, a most +chaste kiss, gently on the forehead. + +"Oh. my dear child--" he said in a kind of dismay. + +She looked up at him with complete confidence. So gentle a kiss had +it been that it had been no more than a pressure of the hand. + +A few days later Katherine spoke to her. She came up to her bedroom +just as Maggie was beginning to undress. Maggie stood in front of +the glass, her evening frock off, brushing her short thick hair +before the glass. + +"Have you made any plans yet, dear?" asked Katherine. + +Maggie shook her head. + +"No." she said. "Not yet." + +Katherine hesitated. + +"I've got a confession to make," she said at last. + +Maggie turned to look at her with her large childish eyes. + +"Oh, I do hope you've done something wrong," she said, laughing," +something really bad that I should have to 'overlook.'" + +"What do you mean?" asked Katherine. + +Maggie only said: "We'd be more on a level then." + +"I don't think it's anything very bad. But the truth is, Maggie, +that I didn't ask you here only for my own pleasure and to make you +well. There was a third reason." + +"I know," said Maggie; "Paul." + +"My dear!" said Katherine, amazed. "How did you guess? I never +should have done." + +"Paul's asked you to find out whether I like him," said Maggie. + +"Yes," said Katherine. + +"Well, I do like him." said Maggie. + +"Don't think that I've been unfair," said Katherine. They were +sitting now side by side on Maggie's bed and Katherine's hand was on +Maggie's knee. "I'll tell you exactly how it happened. Paul was +interested in you from the moment that he saw you at my house ever +so long ago. He asked ever so many questions about you, and the next +time he stayed he wanted me to write and ask you to come and stay. +Well, I didn't. I knew from what you told me that you cared for +somebody else, and I didn't want to get Paul really fond of you if +it was going to be no good. You see, I've known Paul for ages. He's +nearly ten years older than I, but he used to come and stay with us +at Garth, when he was at Cambridge and before he was a clergyman." + +"I'm very fond of him. I know the others think he's stupid simply +because he doesn't know the things that they do, but he's good and +kind and honest, and just exactly what he seems to be." + +"I like him," repeated Maggie, nodding her head. + +"He's been wanting to be married," went on Katherine, "for some +time. I'm going to tell you everything so that I shall have been +perfectly fair. Grace wants him to be married too. All her life +she's looked after him and he's always done exactly what she told +him. He's rather lazy and it's not hard for some one to get an +influence over him. Well, she's not really a very good manager. She +thinks she is, but she isn't. She arranges things and wants things +to stay just where she puts them, but she arranges all the wrong +unnecessary things. Still, it's easy to criticise, and I'm not a +very good manager myself. I think she's growing rather tired of it +and would like some one to take it off her hands. Of course Paul +must marry the right person, some one whom she can control and +manage, and some one who won't transplant her in Paul's affection. +That's her idea. But it's all nonsense, of course. You can't have +your cake and eat it. She simply doesn't understand what marriage is +like. When Paul marries she'll learn more about life in a month than +she's learnt in all her days. Well, Maggie, dear, she thinks you're +just the girl for Paul. She thinks she can do what she likes with +you. She thinks you're nice, of course, but she's going to 'form' +you and 'train' you. You needn't worry about that, you needn't +really, if you care about Paul. You'd manage both of them in a week. +But there it is--I thought I ought to warn you about Grace." + +"As to Paul, I believe you'd be happy. You'd have your home and your +life and your friends. Skeaton isn't so bad if you live in it, I +believe, and Paul could get another living if you weren't happy +there." + +Did Katherine have any scruples as she pursued her argument? A real +glance at Maggie's confiding trustful gaze might have shaken her +resolve. This child who knew so little about anything--was Skeaton +the world for her? But Katherine had so many philanthropies that she +was given to finishing one off a little abruptly in order to make +ready for the next one. + +She was interested just now in a scheme for adopting illegitimate +babies. She thought Maggie an "angel" and she just longed for her to +be happy. Nevertheless Maggie was very ignorant, and it was a little +difficult to see what trade or occupation she would be able to +adopt. She was nearly well now and Katherine did not know quite what +to do with her. Here was an admirable marriage, something that would +give a home and children and friends. What could be better? She had +just passed apparently through a love affair that could have led to +no possible good--solve the difficulty, make Maggie safe for life, +and pass on to the illegitimate babies! + +"Of course, I don't love him," said Maggie, staring in front of her. + +"But you like him," said Katherine. "It isn't as though Paul were a +very young man. He wouldn't expect anything very romantic. He isn't +really a romantic man himself." + +"And I shall always love Martin," pursued Maggie. + +Katherine's own romance had fulfilled itself so thoroughly that it +had almost ceased to be romantic. The Trenchard blood in her made +her a little impatient of unfulfilled romances. + +"Don't you think, Maggie, dear," she said gently, "that it would be +better to forget him?" + +"No, I don't," said Maggie, moving away from Katherine. "And I +should have to tell Paul about him. I'd tell Paul the exact truth, +that if I married him it was because I liked him and I thought we'd +be good friends. I see quite clearly that I can't sit for ever +waiting for Martin to come back, and the sooner I settle to +something the better. If Paul wants a friend I can be one, but I +should never love him--even though Martin wasn't there. And as to +the managing, I'm dreadfully careless and forgetful." + +"You'd soon learn," said Katherine. + +"Do you think I should?" asked Maggie. "I don't know, I'm sure. As +to Grace, I think we'd get on all right. There's a greater +difficulty than that though." + +"What?" asked Katherine as Maggie hesitated. + +"Religion," said Maggie. "Paul's a clergyman and I don't believe in +his religion at all. Two months ago I'd have said I hated all +religion--and so would you if you'd had a time like me. But since +Martin's gone I'm not so sure. There's some-thing I want to find out +. . . But Paul's found out everything. He's quite sure and certain. +I'd have to tell him I don't believe in any of his faith." + +"Tell him. of course," said Katherine. "I think he knows that +already. He's going to convert you. He looks forward to it. If he +hadn't been so lazy he'd have been a missionary." + +"Tell me about Skeaton," said Maggie. + +"I've only been there once," said Katherine. "Frankly, I didn't like +it very much, but then I'm so used to the Glebeshire sea that it all +seemed rather tame. There was a good deal of sand blowing about the +day I was there, but Paul's house is nice with a garden and a +croquet-lawn, and--and--Oh! very nice, and nice people next door I +believe." + +"I'm glad it's not like Glebeshire," said Maggie. "That's a point in +its favour. I want to be somewhere where everything is quiet and +orderly, and every one knows their own mind and all the bells ring +at the right time and no one's strange or queer, and--most of all-- +where no one's afraid of anything. All my life I've been with people +who were afraid and I've been afraid myself. Now Paul and Grace are +not afraid of anything." + +"No, they're not," said Katherine, laughing. + +Suddenly Maggie broke out: + +"Katherine! Tell me truly. Does Paul want me, does he need me? Does +he indeed?" + +The storm of appeal in Maggie's voice made Katherine suddenly shy; +there was a hint at loneliness and desolation there that was +something beyond her reach. She wanted to help. She was suddenly +frightened at her urging of Paul's suit. Something seemed to say to +her: "Leave this alone. Don't take the responsibility of this. You +don't understand . . ." + +But another voice said: "Poor child . . . all alone, penniless, +without a friend. What a chance for her! Paul such a kind man." + +So she kissed Maggie, and said: "He wants you dreadfully, Maggie +dear." + +Maggie's cheeks flushed. + +"That's nice," she said in her most ordinary voice. "Because no one +ever has before, you know." + +Paul's proposal came the very next day. It came after luncheon in a +corner of the drawing-room. + +Maggie knew quite well that it was coming. She was lying in a long +chair near the fire, a shawl over her knees. It was a blustering day +at the end of February. The windows rattled, and the wind rushing +down the chimney blew the flame into little flags and pennants of +colour. + +Paul came and stood by the fire, warming his hands, his legs spread +out. Maggie looked at him with a long comprehensive glance that took +him in from head to foot. She seemed to know then that she was going +to marry him. A voice seemed to say to her: "Look at him well. This +is the man you're going to live with. You'd better realise him." + +She did realise him; his white hair, his rosy cheeks, his boyish +nose and mouth and rounded chin, his broad chest, thick long legs +and large white hands--soft perhaps, but warm and comfortable and +safe. Maggie could think of little else as she looked at him but of +how nice it would be to lay her head back on that broad chest, feel +his arms around her, and forget--forget--forget! + +That was what she needed--forgetfulness and work . . . She did not +love him--no, not one little atom. She had never felt less +excitement about anybody, but she liked him, respected him, and +trusted him. And he wanted her, wanted her desperately, Katherine +had said, that was the chief thing of all. + +"Maggie!" he said suddenly, turning round to her. "Would you ever +think of marrying me ?" + +She liked that directness and simplicity, characteristic of him. + +She looked up at him. + +"I don't think I'd be much of a success, Paul," she said. + +He saw at once from that that she did not intend instantly to refuse +him. His rosy cheeks took on an added tinge of colour and he caught +a chair, drew it up to her long one and sat down, bending eagerly +towards her. + +"Leave that to me," he said. + +"I oughtn't to think of it," she answered, shaking her head. "And +for very good reasons. For one thing I'm not in love with you, for +another I'm not religious, and for a third I'm so careless that I'd +never do for your wife." + +"Of course I knew about the first," he said eagerly. "I knew you +didn't love me, but that will come, Maggie. It MUST come . . ." + +Maggie shook her head. "I love some one else," she said, "and I +always will. But he's gone away and will never come back. I've made +up my mind to that. But if he did come back and wanted me I couldn't +promise that I wouldn't--" She broke off. "You can see that it +wouldn't do." + +"No, I can't see," he said, taking her hand. "I can see that you +like me, Maggie. I can see that we're splendid friends. If your +other--friend--has left you altogether, then--well, time makes a +great difference in those things. I think after we'd been together a +little--Oh, Maggie, do!" he broke off just like a boy. "Do! We suit +each other so well that we MUST be happy, and then Grace likes you-- +she likes you very much. She does indeed." + +"Let's leave Grace out of this," Maggie said firmly. "It's between +you and me, Paul. It's nobody else's affair. What about the other +two objections? I don't believe in your faith at all, and I'm +unpunctual and forgetful, and break things." + +Strangely she was wanting him urgently now to reassure her. She +realised that if now he withdrew she would be faced with a +loneliness more terrible than anything that she had known since +Martin had left her. The warm pressure of his hand about hers +reassured her. + +"Maggie dear," he said softly, "I love you better because you're +young and unformed. I can help you, dear, and you can help me, of +course; I'm a dreadful old buffer in many ways. I'm forty, you know, +and you're such a child. How old are you, Maggie?" + +"Twenty," she said. + +"Twenty! Fancy! And you can like an old parson--well, well . . . If +you care for me nothing else matters. God will see to the rest." + +"I don't like leaving things to other people," Maggie said slowly. +"Now I suppose I've shocked you. But there you are; I shall always +be shocking you." + +"Nothing that you can say will shock me," he answered firmly. "Do +you know that that's part of the charm you have for me, you dear +little wild thing? If you will come and live with me perhaps you +will see how God works, how mysterious are His ways, and what He +means to do for you--" + +Maggie shivered: "Oh, now you're talking like Aunt Anne. I don't +want to feel that I'm something that some one can do what he likes +with. I'm not." + +"No. I know you're not," Paul answered eagerly. "You're very +independent. I admire that in you--and so does Grace--" + +"Would Grace like us to marry?" asked Maggie. + +"It's the desire of her heart," said Paul. + +"But how can you want to marry me when you know I don't love you ?" + +"Love's a strange thing. Companionship can make great changes. You +like me. That is enough for the present. I can be patient. I'm not +an impetuous man." + +He was certainly not. He was just a large warm comfortable +creature far, far from the terrified and strangely travelled soul +of Martin . . . Insensibly, hardly realising what she did, Maggie +was drawn towards Paul. He drew close to her, moved on to the sofa, +and then with one arm about her let her head rest against his chest. +Maggie could neither move nor speak. She only felt a warm comfort, +an intense desire for rest. + +Very, very gently he bent down and kissed her forehead. The clock +ticked on. The flames of the fire spurted and fell. Maggie's eyes +closed, she gave a little sigh, and soon, her cheek against his +waistcoat, like a little child, was fast asleep. + +The engagement was a settled thing. Every one in the house was +relieved. Maggie herself felt as though she had found lights and +safety, running from a wood full of loneliness and terror. She was +sharp enough to see how relieved they all were that she was +'settled.' They were true kindly people, and now they were more kind +to her than ever: that showed that they had been uneasy about her. +She was 'off their hands now.' + +Maggie, when she saw this in the faces of Philip and Mr. Trenchard, +and even of Millicent, was glad that she was engaged. She was +somebody's now; she had friends and a home and work now, and she +would banish all that other world for ever. For ever? . . . How +curious it was that from the moment of her engagement her aunts, +their house, the Chapel, and the people around it began to press +upon her attention with a pathos and sentiment that she had never +felt before. She went to see the aunts, of course, and sat in the +old drawing-room for half-an-hour, and they were kind and distant. +They were glad that she was to be married; they hoped that she would +be happy. Aunt Anne looked very ill, and there was a terrible air of +desertion about the house as though all the life had gone out of it. +Maggie came away very miserable. Then she said to herself: "Now, +look here. You're in a new house now. You've got to think of nothing +but that--nothing, nothing, nothing . . ." + +She meant Martin. She might think of Martin (how indeed could she +help it?) but she was not to long for him. No, no . . . not to long +for him. She did wish that she could go to sleep more quickly when +she went to bed. + +Paul and Grace were very kind to her. Paul was just the big elder +brother that she loved him to be. No more sentiment than that. A +kiss morning, a kiss evening, that was all. Grace behaved to them +both with a motherly indulgence. Maggie saw that she considered that +she had arranged the whole affair. There were signs that she +intended to arrange everything for Maggie. Well, it was rather +pleasant just now to have things arranged for you. Maggie had only +one wish--that Grace would not take so long to explain everything. +Maggie always ran ahead of her long before she had finished her +involved sentences and then had to curb her impatience. However one +would get used to Grace; one would have to because she was going to +live with them after they were married. Maggie had hoped that it +would be otherwise, but it was at once obvious that neither Paul nor +Grace dreamt of being separated. + +The wedding was to be as soon as possible, and very, very quiet. In +a little church close by, no bridesmaids, everything very simple. +Maggie was glad of that. She would have hated a church full of +staring people. She enjoyed immensely buying her trousseau. Paul was +very generous with his money; it was evident that Grace thought him +too generous. Maggie and Katherine went together to buy things, and +Katherine was a darling. Maggie fancied that Katherine was not quite +easy in her mind about her share in the affair. + +"You won't expect Skeaton to be wildly exciting, Maggie dear, will +you?" she said. "You'll find plenty to do and there are lots of nice +people, I'm sure, and you'll come up and stay with us here." + +"I think it sounds delightful," said Maggie. "If you'd lived for +years in St. Dreot's, Katherine, you wouldn't talk about other +places being dull. It isn't excitement I want. It's work." + +"Don't you let Grace bully you," said Katherine. + +"Bully me? Grace?" Maggie was very astonished. "Why, she's the +kindest old thing. She wants me to do everything." + +"So she says," said Katherine doubtfully. "But she's very jealous of +Paul. How much she'll really like giving up her authority when it +comes to the point I don't know. You stick up to her. Paul's weak." + +"I don't think he is." said Maggie rather indignantly. "Grace always +does what he says." "Yes, just now," said Katherine. + +And Maggie had one funny little conversation with Henry Trenchard. +That wild youth catching her alone one day said abruptly: + +"What the devil have you done it for?" + +"Done what?" asked Maggie, her heart beating a little faster. +Strangely Henry reminded her of Martin. He alone of all the +Trenchards had something that was of that other world. + +"Engaged yourself to Paul," said Henry. + +"Why shouldn't I?" asked Maggie. + +"You don't love him--of course you couldn't. You're not his sort in +the least. You're worth a million Pauls." + +This was so odd for Henry, who was certainly not given to +compliments, that Maggie burst out laughing. + +"Yes, you may laugh," said Henry. "I know what I'm talking about. +Have you ever seen Paul asleep after dinner?" + +"No," said Maggie. + +"I wish you had. That might have saved you. Have you ever seen Grace +lose her temper?" + +"No," said Maggie, this time a little uneasily. + +"Look here," he came close to her, staring at her with those eyes of +his that could be very charming when he liked. "Break it off. Say +you think it's a mistake. You'll be miserable." + +"Indeed I shan't," said Maggie, tossing her head. "Whatever happens +I'm not going to be miserable. No one can make me that." + +"So you think," Henry frowned. "I can't think what you want to be +married for at all. These days women can have such a good time, +especially a woman with character like you. If I were a woman I'd +never marry." + +"You don't understand," said Maggie. "You haven't been lonely all +your life as I have, and you're not afraid of making yourself cheap +and--and--looking for some one who doesn't want--you. It's so easy +for you to talk. And Paul wants me--really he does--" + +"Yes, he does," said Henry slowly. "He's in love with you all right. +I'm as sorry for Paul as I am for you." + +Maggie laughed. "It's very kind of you to be sorry," she said, "but +you needn't trouble. I believe we can look after ourselves." + +For a quarter of an hour after this conversation she was a little +uneasy. He was a clever boy, Henry; he did watch people. But then he +was very young, It was all guesswork with him. + +She became now strangely quiescent; her energy, her individuality, +her strength of will seemed, for the time, entirely to have gone. +She surrendered herself to Grace and Paul and Katherine and they did +what they would with her. + +Only once was she disturbed. Two nights before the wedding she +dreamt of Martin. It did not appear as a dream at all. It seemed to +her that she had been asleep and that she suddenly woke. She was +gazing, from her bed, into her own room, but at the farther end of +it instead of the wall with the rosy trees and the gold mirror was +another room. This room was strange and cheerless with bare boards, +a large four-poster bed with faded blue hangings, two old black +prints with eighteenth-century figures and a big standing mirror. In +front of the bed, staring into the mirror, was Martin, He was +dressed shabbily in a blue reefer coat. He looked older than when +she had seen him last, was stouter and ill, with white puffy cheeks +and dark shadows under his eyes. She saw him very clearly under the +light of two candles that wavered a little in the draught. + +He was staring into the mirror, absorbed apparently in what he saw +there. She cried his name and he seemed to start and turn towards +the door listening. Then the picture faded. She woke to find herself +sitting up in bed crying his name . . . + +In the morning she drove this dream away from her, refusing to think +of it or listen to it, but somewhere far down in her soul something +trembled. + +The wedding was over so quickly that she scarcely realised it. There +was the stuffy little church, very empty and dusty, with brass +plates on the wall. She could hear, in the street, rumblings of +carts and the rattle of wheels; somewhere a barrel-organ played. The +clergyman was a little man who smiled upon her kindly. When Paul put +the ring on her finger she started as though for a moment she awoke +from a dream. She was glad that he looked so clean and tidy. Grace +was wearing too grand a hat with black feathers. In the vestry Paul +kissed her, and then they walked down the aisle together. She saw +Katherine and Millie and Henry. Her fingers caught tightly about +Paul's stout arm, but she would have been more at home she thought +with Uncle Mathew just then. + +It was a nice bright spring day, although the wind blew the dust +about. They had a meal in Katherine's house and some one made a +speech, and Maggie drank some champagne. She hoped she looked nice +in her grey silk dress, and then caught sight of herself in a glass +and thought she was as ever a fright. + +"My little wild thing--mine now," whispered Paul. She thought that +rather silly; she was not a wild thing, but simply Maggie Cardinal. +Oh, no! Maggie Trenchard . . . She did not feel Maggie Trenchard at +all and she did not suppose that she ever would. + +They were to have a fortnight alone at Skeaton before Grace came. +Maggie was glad of that. Paul was really nicer when Grace was not +there. + +They were all very kind to her. They had given her good presents-- +Millie some silver brushes, Henry some books, Philip a fan, and +Katherine a most beautiful dressing-bag. Maggie had never had such +things before. But she could have wished for something from her own +people. She had written to Uncle Mathew but had not heard from him. + +At the very last moment, on the morning of the wedding day, a +present came from the aunts--an old box for handkerchiefs. The cover +was inlaid with sea-shells and there was a little looking-glass +inside. + +Very soon it was all over and then to her own intense surprise she +was alone in the train with Paul. What had she expected? She did not +know--but somehow not this. + +They were in a first-class carriage. Paul was doing the thing nobly. +He sat close to her, his broad knee against her dress. How broad his +knee was, a great expanse of black shining cloth. He took her hand +and rested it on the expanse, and, at the touch of the stuff and the +throb of the warm flesh beneath it, she shivered a little and would +wish to have drawn her hand away. He seemed so much larger than she +had expected; from his knee to his high shining white collar was an +immense distance and midway there was a thick gold watch-chain +rising and falling as he breathed. He smelt very faintly of tooth- +powder. + +But on the whole she was comfortable; only the thin gold ring round +her finger felt strange. Deep in a little pocket inside her blouse +was the ring with the three little pearls. + +"I do hope, Maggie darling," he said, "you don't think it strange +our not going somewhere else for our honeymoon. My lads will be +expecting me back--I was kept longer in London than I should have +been--by you, you little witch. My witch now--" + +He put his arm round her waist and urged her head towards his coat. +But her hat, her beautiful hat that had cost so much more than she +had ever spent on a hat before, was in the way. It struck into his +chin. They were both uncomfortable and then, thank heaven, the train +slowed down; they were at a station and some one got into their +carriage, a stout man, all newspaper and creases to his trousers. +That, in the circumstances, was a great relief and soon Maggie +dozed, seeing the telegraph wires and the trees like waving hands +through a mist of sleep. + +As she fell asleep she realised that this was only the second time +in all her life that she had been in a train. Some one bawled in her +car "Skeaton! Skeaton!" and she looked up to find a goat-faced +porter gazing at her through the window. She was on a storm-driven +platform, her husband's arm was through hers, she was being helped +into an old faded cab. Now they were driving down a hill, under a +railway-arch, along a road with villas and trees, trees and villas, +and then villas alone. What a wind! The bare branches were in a +frenzy, and from almost every villa blew little pennons of white +curtains. "They like to have their windows open any way," she +thought. Paul said very little; he was obviously nervous of how she +would take it all. She took it all very well. + +"What pretty houses!" she said. "And here are the shops!" + +Only a few--a sweet-shop, a grocer's, a stationer's with "Simpson's +Library" on the door, a post-office. + +"The suburbs," said Paul. + +What a wind! It rolled up the road like a leaping carpet, you could +almost see its folds and creases. No one about--not a living soul. + +"The cab I ordered never came. Lucky thing there was one there," +said Paul. + +Not a soul about. Does any one live here? She could not see much +through the window, and she could hear nothing because the glass +rattled so. + +"Here we are!" The cab stopped with a jerk. Here they were then. A +gate swung to behind them, there was a little drive with bushes on +either side of it and then the house. + +Not a very handsome house, Maggie thought. A dull square grey with +chimneys like ears in exactly the right places. Some pieces of paper +were whirled up and down by the wind, they danced about the horse's +feet. She noticed that the door-handles needed polishing. A +cavernous hall, a young girl with untidy hair and a yelping dog +received them. + +"That's Mitch!" said Paul. "Dear old Mitch. How are you, dear old +fellow? Down Mitch! Down! There's a good dog." + +The young girl was terrified of Maggie. She gulped through her nose. + +"I've put tea in the study, sir," she said. + +"Tea at once, little woman, eh?" said Paul. "I'm dying for some. +Thank you, Emily. All well? That's right. Dear, dear, It IS nice to +be home again." + +Yes, he was nervous, poor Paul. She felt a great tenderness for him, +but she could not say the right words. She should have said: "It is +nice," but it was not. The hall was so cold and dark, and all over +the house windows were rattling. + +They went straight into the study. What a room! It reminded Maggie +at once, in its untidiness and discomfort, of her father's, study, +and that thought struck a chill into her very heart, so that she had +to pause for a moment and control herself. There were piles of +newspapers heaped up against the shelves; books run to the ceiling, +old, old books with the covers tumbling off them. On the stone +mantelpiece was a perfect litter--old pipes, bundles of letters, a +ball of string, some yellow photographs, a crucifix and a small +plant dead and shrivelled in its pot. + +"Now then, darling. Hurrah for some tea!" + +She poured it out and he watched her in an ecstasy. Strangely she +began to be frightened and a little breathless, as though the walls +of the room were slowly closing in. The tea had been standing a long +time, it was very strong and chill. + +The house was a firing-ground of rattle and whirs, but there were no +human sounds anywhere. There was dust all over the room. + +They had said nothing for some time. + +He spoke suddenly, his voice husky and awkward, as though he were +trying a new voice for the first time. + +"Maggie!" he said. "Don't sit so far away. Come over here." + +She crossed over to him. He, with an arm that seemed to be suddenly +of iron, pulled her on to his knee. She was rebellious. Her whole +body stiffened. She did not want this, she did not want this! Some +voice within cried out: "Take care! Take care!" . . . He pressed her +close to him; he kissed her furiously, savagely, her eyes, her +mouth, her cheek. She could feel his heart pounding beneath his +clothes like a savage beast. His hands were all about her; he was +crushing her so that she was hurt, but she did not feel that at all; +there was something else . . . + +With all her might she fought down her resistance. This was her +duty. She must obey. But something desolate and utterly, utterly +lonely crept away and cried bitterly, watching her surrender. + + + + +CHAPTER III + +SKEATON-ON-SEA + + +She was swinging higher, higher, higher--swinging with that +delightful rhythm that one knows best in dreams, lazily, idly, and +yet with purpose and resolve. She was swinging far above the pain, +the rebellion, the surrender. That was left for ever; the time of +her tears, of her loneliness was over. Above her, yet distant, was a +golden cloud, soft, iridescent, and in the heart of this lay, she +knew, the solution of the mystery; when she reached it the puzzle +would be resolved, and in a wonderful tranquillity she could rest +after her journey. Nearer and nearer she swung; the cloud was a +blaze of gold so that she must not look, but could feel its warmth +and heat already irradiating about her. Only to know! . . . to +connect the two worlds, to find the bridge, to destroy the gulf! + +Then suddenly the rhythm changed. She was descending again; slowly +the cloud diminished, a globe of light, a ball of fire, a dazzling +star. The air was cold, her eyes could not penetrate the dark; with +a sigh she awoke. + +It was early morning, and a filmy white shadow pervaded the room. +For a moment she did not know where she was; she saw the ghostly +shadows of chairs, of the chest of drawers, of a high cupboard. Then +the large picture of "The Crucifixion," very, very dim, reminded +her. She knew where she was; she turned and saw her husband sleeping +at her side, huddled, like a child, his face on his arm, gently +breathing, in the deepest sleep. She watched him. There had been a +moment that night when she had hated him, hated him so bitterly that +she could have fought him and even killed him. There had been +another moment after that, when she had been so miserable that her +own death seemed the only solution, when she had watched him tumble +into sleep and had herself lain, with burning eyes and her flesh dry +and hot, staring into the dark, ashamed, humiliated. Then the old +Maggie had come to her rescue, the old Maggie who bade her make the +best of her conditions whatever they might be, who told her there +was humour in everything, hope always, courage everywhere, and that +in her own inviolable soul lay her strength, that no one could +defeat her did she not defeat herself. + +Now, most strangely, in that early light, she felt a great +tenderness for him, the tenderness of the mother for the child. She +put out her hand, touched his shoulder, stroked it with her hand, +laid her head against it. He, murmuring in his sleep, turned towards +her, put his arm around her and so, in the shadow of his heart, she +fell into deep, dreamless slumber. + +At breakfast that morning she felt with him a strange shyness and +confusion. She had never been shy with him before. At the very first +she had been completely at her ease; that had been one of his +greatest attractions for her. But now she realised that she would be +for a whole fortnight alone with him, that she did not know him in +the least, and that he himself was strangely embarrassed by his own +discoveries that he was making. + +So they, both of them, took the world that was on every side of +them, put it in between them and left their personal relationship to +wait for a better time. + +Maggie was childishly excited. She had, for the first time in her +life, a house of her own to order and arrange; by the middle of that +first afternoon she had forgotten that Paul existed. + +She admitted to herself at once, so that there should be no pretence +about the matter, that the house was hideous. "Yes, it's hideous," +she said aloud, standing in the middle of the dining-room and +looking about her. It never could have been very much of a house, +but they (meaning Paul and Grace) had certainly not done their best +for it. + +Maggie had had no education, she had not perhaps much natural taste, +but she knew when things and people were sympathetic, and this house +was as unsympathetic as a house could well be. To begin with, the +wall-papers were awful; in the dining-room there was a dark dead +green with some kind of pink flower; the drawing-room was dressed in +a kind of squashed strawberry colour; the wall-paper of the +staircases and passages was of imitation marble, and the three +bedrooms were pink, green, and yellow, perfect horticultural shows. + +It was the distinctive quality of all the wall-papers that nothing +looked well against them, and the cheap reproductions in gilt +frames, the religious prints, the photographs (groups of the Rev. +Paul at Cambridge, at St. Ermand's Theological College, with the +Skeaton Band of Hope) were all equally forlorn and out of place. + +It was evident that everything in the house was arranged and +intended to stay for ever where it was, the chairs against the +walls, the ornaments on the mantelpieces, the photograph-frames, the +plush mats, the bright red pots with ferns, the long blue vases, and +yet the impression was not one of discipline and order. Aunt Anne's +house had been untidy, but it had had an odd life and atmosphere of +its own. This house was dead, utterly and completely dead. The +windows of the dining-room looked out on to a lawn and round the +lawn was a stone wall with broken glass to protect it. "As though +there were anything to steal!" thought Maggie. But then you cannot +expect a garden to look its best at the beginning of April. "I'll +wait a little," thought Maggie. "And then I'll make this house +better. I'll destroy almost everything in it." + +About mid-day with rather a quaking heart Maggie penetrated the +kitchen. Here were gathered together Alice the cook, Emily the +housemaid, and Clara the between maid. + +Alice was large, florid, and genial. Nevertheless at once Maggie +distrusted her. No servant had any right to appear so wildly +delighted to see a new mistress. Alice had doubtless her own plans. +Emily was prim and conceited, and Clara did not exist. Alice was +ready to do everything that Maggie wanted, and it was very apparent +at once that she had not liked "Miss Grace." + +"Ah, that'll be much better than the way Miss Grace 'ad it, Mum. In +their jackets, Mum, very well. Certainly. That would be better." + +"I think you'd better just give us what seems easiest for dinner, +Cook," said Maggie, thereby handing herself over, delivered and +bound. + +"Very well, Mum--I'm sure I'll do my best," said Alice. + +Early on that first afternoon she was taken to see the Church. For a +desperate moment her spirits failed her as she stood at the end of +the Lane and looked. This was a Church of the newest red brick, and +every seat was of the most shining wood. The East End window was +flaming purple, with a crimson Christ ascending and yellow and blue +disciples amazed together on the ground. Paul stood flushed with +pride and pleasure, his hand through Maggie's arm. + +"That's a Partright window," he said with that inflection that +Maggie was already beginning to think of as "his public voice." + +"I'm afraid, Paul dear," said Maggie, "I'm very ignorant." + +"Don't know Partright? Oh, he's the great man of the last thirty +years--did the great East window of St. Martin's, Pontefract. We had +a job to get him I can tell you. Just look at that purple." + +"On the right you'll see the Memorial Tablet to our brave lads who +fell in the South African War--Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori- +-very appropriate. Brave fellows, brave fellows! Just behind you, +Maggie, is the Mickleham Font, one of the finest specimens of modern +stone-work in the county--given to us by Sir Joseph Mickleham-- +Mickleham Hall, you know, only two miles from here. He used to +attend morning service here frequently. Died five years ago. Fine +piece of work!" + +Maggie looked at it. It was enormous, a huge battlement of a font in +dead white stone with wreaths of carved ivy creeping about it. + +"It makes one feel rather shivery," said Maggie. + +"Now you must see our lectern," said Paul eagerly. + +And so it continued. There was apparently a great deal to be said +about the Lectern, and then about the Choir-Screen, and then about +the Reredos, and then about the Pulpit, and then about the Vestry, +and then about the Collecting-Box for the Poor, and then about the +Hassocks, and finally about the Graveyard . . . To all this Maggie +listened and hoped that she made the proper answers, but the truth +of the matter was that she was cold and dismayed. The Chapel had +been ugly enough, but behind its ugliness there had been life; now +with the Church as with the house there was no life visible. Paul, +putting his hand on her shoulder, said: + +"Here, darling, will be the centre of our lives. This is our temple. +Round this building all our happiness will revolve." + +"Yes, dear," said Maggie. She was taken then for a little walk. They +went down Ivy Road and into Skeaton High Street. Here were the +shops. Mr. Bloods, the bookseller's, Tunstall the butcher, Toogood +the grocer, Father the draper, Minster the picture-dealer, Harcourt +the haberdasher, and so on. Maggie rather liked the High Street; it +reminded her of the High Street in Polchester, although there was no +hill. Out of the High Street and on to the Esplanade. You should +never see an Esplanade out of the season, Katherine had once said to +Maggie. That dictum seemed certainly true this time. There could be +no doubt that this Esplanade was not looking its best under the +blustering March wind. Here a deserted bandstand, there a railway +station, here a dead haunt for pierrots, there a closed and barred +cinema house, here a row of stranded bathing-machines, there a +shuttered tea-house--and not a living soul in sight. In front of +them was a long long stretch of sand, behind them to right and left +the huddled tenements of the town, in front of them, beyond the +sand, the grey sea--and again not a living soul in sight. The +railway line wound its way at their side, losing itself in the hills +and woods of the horizon. + +"There are not many people about, are there?" said Maggie. Nor could +she wonder. The East wind cut along the desolate stretches of +silence, and yet how strange a wind! It seemed to have no effect at +all upon the sea, which rolled in sluggishly with snake-like motion, +throwing up on the dim colourless beach a thin fringe of foam, +baring its teeth at the world in impotent discontent. + +"Oh! there's a boy!" cried Maggie, amazed at her own relief. "How +often do the trains come in?" she asked. + +"Well, we don't have many trains in the off-season," said Paul. +"They put on several extra ones in the summer." + +"Oh, what's the sand doing?" Maggie cried. + +She had seen sand often enough in her own Glebeshire, but never sand +like this. Under the influence of the wind it was blowing and +curving into little spirals of dust; a sudden cloud, with a kind of +personal animosity rose and flung itself across the rails at Maggie +and Paul. They were choking and blinded--and in the distance clouds +of sand rose and fell, with gusts and impulses that seemed personal +and alive. + +"What funny sand!" said Maggie again. "When it blows in Glebeshire +it blows and there's a perfect storm. There's a storm or there +isn't. Here--" She broke off. She could see that Paul hadn't the +least idea of what she was speaking. + +"The sand is always blowing about here," he said. "Now what about +tea?" + +They walked back through the High Street and not a soul was to be +seen. + +"Does nobody live here?" asked Maggie. + +"The population," said Paul quite gravely, "is eight thousand, four +hundred and fifty-four." + +"Oh, I see," said Maggie. + +They had tea in the dusty study again. + +"I'm going to change this house," said Maggie. + +"Change it?" asked Paul. "What's my little girl going to do?" + +"She's going to destroy ever so many things," said Maggie. + +"You'd better wait," said Paul, moving a little away, "until Grace +comes back, dear. You can consult with her." + +Maggie said nothing. + + Next day Mrs. Constantine, Miss Purves, and Mrs. Maxse came to tea. +They had tea in the drawing-room all amongst the squashed +strawberries. Three large ferns in crimson pots watched them as they +ate. Maggie thought: "Grace seems to have a passion for ferns." She +had been terribly nervous before the ladies' arrival--that old +nervousness that had made her tremble before Aunt Anne at St. +Dreot's, before the Warlocks, before old Martha. But with it came as +always her sense of independence and individuality. + +"They can't eat me," she thought. It was obvious at once that they +did not want to do anything of the kind. They were full of kindness +and curiosity. Mrs. Constantine took the lead, and it was plain that +she had been doing this all her life. She was a large black and red +woman with clothes that fitted her like a uniform. Her hair was of a +raven gleaming blackness, her cheeks were red, her manner so assured +and commanding that she seemed to Maggie at once like a policeman +directing the traffic. The policeman of Christian Skeaton she was, +and it did not take Maggie two minutes to discover that Paul was +afraid of her. She had a deep bass voice and a hearty laugh. + +"I can understand her," thought Maggie, "and I believe she'll +understand me." + +Very different Miss Purves. If Mrs. Constantine was the policeman of +Skeaton, Miss Purves was the town-crier. She rang her bell and +announced the news, and also insisted that you should tell her +without delay any item of news that you had collected. + +In appearance she was like any old maid whose love of gossip has led +her to abandon her appearance. She had obviously surrendered the +idea of attracting the male, and flung on her clothes--an old black +hat, a grey coat and skirt--with a negligence that showed that she +cared for worthier things. She gave the impression that there was no +time to be lost were one to gather all the things in life worth +hearing. + +If Mrs. Constantine stood for the police and Miss Purves the town- +crier, Mrs. Maxse certainly represented Society. She was dressed +beautifully, and she must have been very pretty once. Her hair was +now grey, but her cheeks had still a charming bloom. She was +delicate and fragile, rustling and scented, with a beautiful string +of pearls round her neck (this, in the daytime, Maggie thought very +odd), and a large black hat with a sweeping feather. Her voice was a +little sad, a little regretful, as though she knew that her +beautiful youth was gone and was making the best of what she had. + +She told Maggie that "she couldn't help" being an idealist. + +"I know it's foolish of me," she said in her gentle voice, smiling +her charming smile. "They all tell me so. But if life isn't meant to +be beautiful, where are we? Everything must have a meaning, mustn't +it, Mrs. Trenchard, and however often we fail--and after all we are +only human--we must try, try again. I believe in seeing the best in +people, because then they live up to that. People are what we make +them, don't you think?" + +"The woman's a fool," thought Maggie. Nevertheless, she liked her +kindness. She was so strangely driven. She wished to think of Martin +always, never to forget him, but at the same time not to think of +the life that was connected with him. She must never think of him as +some one who might return. Did that once begin all this present life +would be impossible--and she meant to make this new existence not +only possible but successful. Therefore she was building, so hard as +she could, this new house; the walls were rising, the rooms were +prepared, every window was barred, the doors were locked, no one +from outside should enter, and everything that belonged to it--Paul, +Grace, the Church, these women, Skeaton itself, her household +duties, the servants, everything and every one was pressed into +service. She must have so much to do that she could not think, she +must like every one else so much that she could not want any one +else--that other world must be kept out, no sound nor sight of it +must enter . . . If even she could forget Martin. What had he said +to her. "Promise me whatever I am, whatever I do, you will love me +always"--and she had promised. Here she was married to Paul and +loving Martin more than ever! As she looked at Mrs. Constantine she +wondered what she would say did she know that. Nevertheless, she had +not deceived Paul . . . She had told him. She would make this right. +She would force this life to give her what she needed, work and +friends and a place in the world. Her face a little white with her +struggle to keep her house standing, she turned to her guests. She +was afraid that she did not play the hostess very well. She felt as +though she were play-acting. She repeated phrases that she had heard +Katherine Mark use, and laughed at herself for doing so. She +suspected that they thought her very odd, and she fancied that Mrs. +Constantine looked at her short hair with grave suspicion. + +Afterwards, when she told Paul this, he was rather uncomfortable. + +"It'll soon be long again, dear, won't it?" he said. + +"Don't you like it short then?" she asked. + +"Of course I like it, but there's no reason to be unusual, is there? +We don't want to seem different from other people, do we, darling?" + +"I don't know," said Maggie. "We want to be ourselves. I don't think +I shall ever grow my hair long again. It's so much more comfortable +like this." + +"If I ask you, dear," said Paul. + +"No, not even if you ask me," she answered, laughing. + +She noticed then, for the first time, that he could look sulky like +a small school-boy. + +"Why, Paul," she said. "If you wanted to grow a beard I shouldn't +like it, but I shouldn't dream of stopping you." + +"That's quite different," he answered. "I should never dream of +growing a beard. Grace won't like it if you look odd." + +"Grace isn't my teacher," said Maggie with a sudden hot hostility +that surprised herself. + +She discovered, by the way, very quickly that the three ladies had +no very warm feelings for Grace. They showed undisguised pleasure at +the thought that Maggie would now be on various Committees instead +of her sister-in-law. + +"It will be your place, of course, as wife of the vicar," said Mrs. +Constantine. "Hitherto Miss Trenchard--" + +"Oh, but I couldn't be on a Committee," cried Maggie. "I've never +been on one in my life. I should never know what to do." + +"Never been on a Committee!" cried Miss Purves, quivering with +interest. "Why, Mrs. Trenchard, where have you been all this time?" + +"I'm only twenty," said Maggie. They certainly thought it strange of +her to confess to her age like that. "At home father never had any +Committees, he did it all himself, or rather didn't do it." + +Mrs. Constantine shook her head. "We must all help you," she said. +"You're very young, my dear, for the responsibilities of this +parish." + +"Yes, I am," said Maggie frankly. "And I'll be very glad of anything +you can tell me. But you mustn't let me be Treasurer or Secretary of +anything. I should never answer any of the letters, and I should +probably spend all the money myself." + +"My dear, you shouldn't say such things even as a joke," said Mrs. +Constantine. + +"But it isn't a joke," said Maggie. "I'm terribly muddleheaded, and +I've no idea of money at all. Paul's going to teach me." + +Paul smiled nervously. + +"Maggie will soon fit into our ways," he said. + +"I'm sure she will." said Mrs. Constantine very kindly, but as +though she were speaking to a child of ten. + +The bell rang and Mr. Flaunders the curate came in. He was very +young, very earnest, and very enthusiastic. He adored Paul. He told +Maggie that he thought that he was the very luckiest man. in the +world for having, so early in his career, so wonderful a man as Paul +to work under. He had also adored Grace, but very quickly showed +signs of transferring that adoration to Maggie. + +"Miss Trenchard's splendid," he said. "I do admire her so, but +you'll be a great help to us all. I'm so glad you've come." + +"Why, how do you know?" asked Maggie. "You've only seen me for about +two minutes." + +"Ah, one can tell," said Mr. Flaunders, sighing. + +Maggie liked his enthusiasm, but she couldn't help wishing that his +knees wouldn't crack at unexpected moments, that he wasn't quite so +long and thin, and that he wouldn't leave dried shaving-soap under +his ears and in his nostrils. She was puzzled, too, that Paul should +be so obviously pleased with the rather naif adoration. "Paul likes +you to praise him," she thought a little regretfully. + +So, for the moment, these people, the house and the Church, fitted +in her World. For the rest of the fortnight she was so busy that she +never went on to the beach nor into the woods. She shopped every +morning, feeling very old and grown-up, she went to tea with Mrs. +Constantine and Mrs. Maxse, and she sat on Paul's knee whenever she +thought that he would like her to. She sat on Paul's knee, but that +did not mean that, in real intimacy, they approached any nearer to +one another. During those days they stared at one another like +children on different sides of a fence. They were definitely +postponing settlement, and with every day Maggie grew more restless +and uneasy. She wanted back that old friendly comradeship that there +had been before their marriage. He seemed now to have lost +altogether that attitude to her. Then on the very day of Grace's +return the storm broke. It was tea-time and they were having it, as +usual, in his dusty study. They were sitting someway apart--Paul in +the old leather armchair by the fire, his thick body stretched out, +his cheerful good-humoured face puckered and peevish. + +Maggie stood up, looking at him. + +"Paul, what's the matter?" she asked. + +"Matter," he repeated. "Nothing." + +"Oh yes, there is . . . You're cross with me." + +"No, I'm not. What an absurd idea!" He moved restlessly, turning +half away, not looking at her. She came close up to him. + +"Look here, Paul. There is something the matter. We haven't been +married a fortnight yet and you're unhappy. Whatever else we married +for we married because we were going to be friends. So you've just +got to tell me what the trouble is." + +"I've got my sermon to prepare," he said, not looking at her, but +half rising in his chair. "You'd better go, darling." + +"I'm not going to," she answered, "until you've told me why you're +worrying." + +He got up slowly and seemed then as though he were going to pass +her. Suddenly he turned, flung his arms round her, catching her, +crushing her in his arms, kissing her wildly. + +"Love . . . love me . . . love me," he whispered. "That's what's the +matter. I didn't know myself before I married you, Maggie. All these +years I've lived like a fish and I didn't know it. But I know it +now. And you've got to love me. You're my wife and you've got to +love me." + +She would have given everything that she had then to respond. She +felt an infinite tenderness and pity for him. But she could not. He +felt that she could not. He let her go and turned away from her. She +thought for a moment wondering what she ought to say, and then she +came up to him and gently put her hand on his shoulder. + +"Be patient, Paul," she said. "You know we agreed before we married +that we'd be friends at any rate and let the rest come. Wait . . ." + +"Wait!" he turned round eagerly, clutching her arm. "Then there is a +chance, Maggie? You can get to love me--you can forget that other +man?" + +She drew back. "No, you know I told you that I should never do that. +But he'll never come back nor want me again and I'm very fond of +you, Paul--fonder than I thought. Don't spoil it all now by going +too fast--" + +"Going too fast!" he laughed. "Why, I haven't gone any way at all. I +haven't got you anywhere. I can hardly touch you. You're away from +me all the time. You're strange--different from every one . . ." + +"I don't know anything about women. I've learnt a lot about myself +this week. It isn't going to be as easy as I thought." + +She went up to him, close to him, and said almost desperately: "We +MUST make this all right, Paul. We can if we try. I know we can." + +He kissed her gently with his old kindness. "What a baby you are. +You didn't know what you were in for . . . Oh, we'll make it all +right." + +They sat close together then and drank their tea. After all, Grace +would be here in an hour! They both felt a kind of relief that they +would no longer be alone. + +Grace would be here in an hour! Strange how throughout all these +last days Maggie had been looking forward to that event with dread. +There was no definite reason for fear; in London Grace had been +kindness itself and had shown real affection for Maggie. Within the +last week she had written two very affectionate letters. What was +this, then, that hung and hovered? It was in the very air of the +house and the garden and the place. Grace had left her mark upon +everything and every one, even upon the meagre person of Mitch the +dog. Especially upon Mitch, a miserable creeping fox-terrier with no +spirits and a tendency to tremble all over when you called him. He +had attached himself to Maggie, which was strange, because animals +were not, as a rule, interested in her. Mitch followed her about, +looking up at her with a yellow supplicating eye. She didn't like +him and she would be glad when Grace collected him again--but why +did he tremble? + +She realised, in the way that she had of seeing further than her +nose, that Grace was going to affect the whole of her relations with +Paul, and, indeed, all her future life. She had not realised that in +London. Grace had seemed harmless there and unimportant. Already +here in Skeaton she seemed to stand for a whole scheme of life. + +Maggie had moved and altered a good many of the things in the house. +She had discovered a small attic, and into this she had piled pell- +mell a number of photographs, cheap reproductions, cushions, worsted +mats, and china ornaments. She had done it gaily and with a sense of +clearing the air. + +Now as Grace's hour approached she was not so sure. + +"Well, I'm not afraid," she reassured herself with her favourite +defiance. "She can't eat me. And it's my house." + +Paul had not noticed the alterations. He was always blind to his +surroundings unless they were what he called "queer." + +There was the rattle of the cab-wheels on the drive and a moment +later Grace was in the hall. + +"Dear Paul--Maggie, dear . . ." + +She stood there, a very solid and assured figure. She was square and +thick and reminded Maggie to-day of Mrs. Noah; her clothes stood cut +out around her as though they had been cut in wood. She had her +large amiable smile, and the kiss that she gave Maggie was a wet, +soft, and very friendly one. + +"Now I think I'll have tea at once without taking my hat off. In +Paul's study? That's nice . . . Maggie, dear, how are you? Such a +journey! But astonishing! Just fancy! I got into Charing Cross and +then--! Why! Here's the study! Fancy! . . . Maggie, dear, how are +you? Well? That's right. Why, there's tea! That's right. Everything +just as it was. Fancy! . . ." She took off her gloves, smiled, +seated herself more comfortably, then began to look about the room. +Suddenly there came: "Why, Paul, where's the Emmanuel football +group?" + +There was a moment's silence. Maggie felt her heart give a little +bump, as it seemed to her, right against the roof of her mouth. Paul +(so like him) had not noticed that the football group had vanished. +He stared at the blank place on the wall where it had once been. + +"Why, Grace . . . I don't know. I never noticed it wasn't there." + +"I took it down," said Maggie. "I thought there were too many +photographs. It's in the attic." + +"In the attic? . . . Fancy! You put it away, did you, Maggie? Well, +fancy! Shan't I make the tea, Maggie, dear? That tea-pot, it's an +old friend of mine. I know how to manage it." + +They changed seats. Grace was as amiable as ever, but now her eyes +flashed about from place to place all around the room. + +"Why, this is a new kind of jam. How nice! As I was saying, I got +into Charing Cross and there wasn't a porter. Just fancy! At least +there was a porter, an old man, but when I beckoned to him he +wouldn't move. Well, I was angry. I can tell you, Paul, I wasn't +going to stand that, so I-what nice jam, dear. I never knew +Mitchell's had jam like this!" + +"I didn't get it at Mitchell's," said Maggie. "I've changed the +grocer. Mitchell hasn't got anything, and his prices are just about +double Brownjohn's . . ." + +"Brownjohn!" Grace stared, her bread and jam suspended. "Brownjohn! +But, Maggie dear, he's a dissenter." + +"Oh. Maggie!" said Paul. "You should have told me!" + +"Why!" said Maggie, bewildered. "Father never minded about +dissenters. Our butcher in St. Dreot's was an atheist and--" + +"Well, well," said Grace, her eyes still flashing about like +goldfish in a pool. "You didn't know, dear. Of course you didn't. +I'm sure we can put it right with Mitchell, although he's a +sensitive man. I'll go and see him in the morning. I am glad I'm +back. Well, I was telling you . . . Where was I? . . . about the +porter--" + +Something drove Maggie to say: + +"I'd rather have a good grocer who's a dissenter than a bad one who +goes to church--" + +"Maggie," said Paul, "you don't know what you're saying. You don't +realise what the effect in the parish would be." + +"Of course she doesn't," said Grace consolingly. "She'll understand +in time. As I was saying, I was so angry that I caught the old man +by the arm and I said to him, 'If you think you're paid to lean up +against a wall and not do your duty you're mightily mistaken, and if +you aren't careful I'll report you--that's what I'll do,' and he +said--what were his exact words? I'll remember in a minute. I know +he was very insulting, and the taxi-cabman--why, Paul, where's +mother's picture?" + +Grace's eyes were directed to a large space high above the +mantelpiece. Maggie remembered that there had been a big faded oil- +painting of an old lady in a shawl and spectacles, a hideous affair +she had thought it. That was now reposing in the attic. Why had she +not known that it was a picture of Paul's mother? She would never +have touched it had she known. Why had Paul said nothing? He had not +even noticed that it was gone. + +Paul stared, amazed and certainly--yes, beyond question--frightened. + +"Grace--upon my word--I've been so busy since my return--" + +"Is that also in the attic?" asked Grace. + +"Yes, it is," said Maggie. "I'm so sorry. I never knew it was your +mother. It wasn't a very good painting I thought, so I took it down. +If I had known, of course, I never would have touched it. Oh Grace, +I AM so sorry." + +"It's been there," said Grace, "for nearly twenty years. What I mean +to say is that it's always been there. Poor mother. Are there many +things in the attic, Maggie?" + +At that moment there was a feeble scratching on the door. Paul, +evidently glad of anything that would relieve the situation, opened +the door. + +"Why, it's Mitch!" cried Grace, forgetting for the moment her +mother. "Fancy! It's Mitch! Mitch, dear! Was she glad to see her old +friend back again? Was she? Darling! Fancy seeing her old friend +again? Was she wanting her back?" + +Mitch stood shivering in the doorway, then, with her halting step, +the skin of her back wrinkled with anxiety, she crossed the room. +For a moment she hesitated, then with shamefaced terror, slunk to +Maggie, pressed up against her, and sat there huddled, staring at +Grace with yellow unfriendly eyes. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + +GRACE + + +Not in a day and not in a night did Maggie find a key to that +strange confusion of fears, superstitions, and self-satisfactions +that was known to the world as Grace Trenchard. Perhaps she never +found it, and through all the struggle and conflict in which she was +now to be involved she was fighting, desperately, in the dark. Fight +she did, and it was this same conflict, bitter and tragic enough at +the time, that transformed her into the woman that she became . . . +and through all that conflict it may be truly said of her that she +never knew a moment's bitterness--anger, dismay, loneliness, even +despair-bitterness never. + +It was not strange that Maggie did not understand Grace; Grace never +understood herself nor did she make the slightest attempt to do so. +It would be easy enough to cover the ground at once by saying that +she had no imagination, that she never went behind the thing that +she saw, and that she found the grasping of external things quite as +much as she could manage. But that is not enough. Very early indeed, +when she had been a stolid-faced little girl with a hot desire for +the doll possessed by her neighbour, she had had for nurse a woman +who rejoiced in supernatural events. With ghost stories of the most +terrifying kind she besieged Grace's young heart and mind. The child +had never imagination enough to visualise these stories in the true +essence, but she seized upon external detail-the blue lights, the +white shimmering garments, the moon and the church clock, the +clanking chain and the stain of blood upon the board. + +These things were not for her, and indeed did she allow her fancy to +dwell, for a moment, upon them she was besieged at once by so horrid +a panic that she lost all control and self-possession. She therefore +very quickly put those things from her and thenceforth lived in the +world as in a castle surrounded by a dark moat filled with horrible +and slimy creatures who would raise a head at her did she so much as +glance their way. + +She decided then never to look, and from a very early age those +quarters of life became to her "queer," indecent, and dangerous. All +the more she fastened her grip upon the things that she could see +and hold, and these things repaid her devotion by never deceiving +her or pretending to be what they were not. She believed intensely +in forms and repetitions; she liked everything to be where she +expected it to be, people to say the things that she expected them +to say, clocks to strike at the right time, and trains to be up to +the minute. With all this she could never be called an accurate or +careful woman. She was radically stupid, stupid in the real sense of +the word, so that her mind did not grasp a new thought or fact until +it had been repeated to her again and again, so that she had no +power of expressing herself, and a deep inaccuracy about everything +and every one which she endeavoured to cover by a stream of aimless +lies that deceived no one. She would of course have been very +indignant had any one told her that she was stupid. She hated what +she called "clever people" and never had them near her if she could +help it. She was instantly suspicious of any one who liked ideas or +wanted anything changed. With all this she was of an extreme +obstinacy and a deep, deep jealousy. She clung to what she had with +the tenacity of a mollusc. What she had was in the main Paul, and +her affection for him was a very real human quality in her. + +He was exactly what she would have chosen had she been allowed at +the beginning a free choice. He was lazy and good-tempered so that +he yielded to her on every possible point, he was absolutely +orthodox and never shocked her by a thought or a word out of the +ordinary, he really loved her and believed in her and said, quite +truly, that he would not have known what to do without her. + +It seems strange then that it should have been in the main her +urgency that led to the acquisition of Maggie. During the last year +she had begun to be seriously uneasy. Things were not what they had +been. Mrs. Constantine and others in the parish were challenging her +authority, even the Choir boys were scarcely so subservient as they +had been, and, worst of all, Paul himself was strangely restive and +unquiet. He talked at times of getting married, wondered whether +she, Grace, wouldn't like some one to help her in the house, and +even, on one terrifying occasion, suggested leaving Skeaton +altogether. A momentary vision of what it would be to live without +Paul, to give up her kingdom in Skeaton, to have to start all over +again to acquire dominion in some new place, was enough for Grace. + +She must find Paul a wife, and she must find some one who would +depend upon her, look up to her, obey her, who would, incidentally, +take some of the tiresome and monotonous drudgery off her shoulders. +The moment she saw Maggie she was resolved; here was just the +creature, a mouse of a girl, no parents, no money, no appearance, +nothing to make her proud or above herself, some one to be moulded +and trained in the way she should go. To her great surprise she +discovered that Paul was at once attracted by Maggie: had she ever +wondered at anything she would have wondered at this, but she +decided that it was because she herself had made the suggestion. +Dear Paul, he was always so eager to fall in with any of her +proposals. + +Her mind misgave her a little when she saw that he was really in +love. What could he see in that plain, gauche, uncharming creature? +See something he undoubtedly did. However, that would wear off very +quickly. The Skeaton atmosphere was against romance and Paul was too +lazy to be in love very long. Once or twice in the weeks before the +wedding Grace's suspicions were aroused. + +Maggie seemed to be an utter little heathen; also it appeared that +she had had some strange love affair that she had taken so seriously +as actually to be ill over it. That was odd and a little alarming, +but the child was very young, and once married-there she'd be, so to +speak! + +It was not, in fact, until that evening of her arrival in Skeaton +that she was seriously alarmed. To say that that first ten minutes +in Paul's study alarmed her is to put it mildly indeed. As she +looked at the place where her mother's portrait had been, as she +stared at the trembling Mitch cowering against Maggie's dress, she +experienced the most terrifying, shattering upheaval since the day +when as a little girl of six she had been faced as she had fancied, +with the dripping ghost of her great-uncle William. Not at once, +however, was the battle to begin. Maggie gave way about everything. +She gave way at first because she was so confident of getting what +she wanted later on. She never conceived that she was not to have +final power in her own house; Paul had as yet denied her nothing. +She moved the pictures and the pots and the crochet work down from +the attic and replaced them where they had been-or, nearly replaced +them. She found it already rather amusing to puzzle Grace by +changing their positions from day to day so that Grace was +bewildered and perplexed. + +Grace said nothing--only solidly and with panting noises (she +suffered from shortness of breath) plodded up and down the house, +reassuring herself that all her treasures were safe. + +Maggie, in fact, enjoyed herself during the weeks immediately +following Grace's return. Paul seemed tranquil and happy; there were +no signs of fresh outbreaks of the strange passion that had so +lately frightened her. Maggie herself found her duties in connection +with the Church and the house easier than she had expected. Every +one seemed very friendly. Grace chattered on with her aimless +histories of unimportant events and patted Maggie's hand and smiled +a great deal. Surely all was very well. Perhaps this was the life +for which Maggie was intended. + +And that other life began to be dim and faint-even Martin was a +little hidden and mysterious. Strangely she was glad of that; the +only way that this could be carried through was by keeping the other +out of it. Would the two worlds mingle? Would the faces and voices +of those spirits be seen and heard again? Would they leave Maggie +now or plan to steal her back? The whole future of her life depended +on the answer to that . . . + +During those weeks she investigated Skeaton very thoroughly. She +found that her Skeaton, the Skeaton of Fashion and the Church, was a +very small affair consisting of two rows of villas, some detached +houses that trickled into the country, and a little clump of villas +on a hill over the sea beyond the town. There were not more than +fifty souls all told in this regiment of Fashion, and the leaders of +the fifty were Mrs. Constantine, Mrs. Maxse, Miss Purves, a Mrs. +Tempest (a large black tragic creature), and Miss Grace Trenchard- +and they had for their male supporters Colonel Maxse, Mr. William +Tempest, a Mr. Purdie (rich and idle), and the Reverend Paul. Maggie +discovered that the manners, habits, and even voices and gestures of +this sacred Fifty were all the same. The only question upon which +they divided was one of residence. The richer and finer division +spent several weeks of the winter abroad in places like Nice and +Cannes, and the poorer contingent took their holiday from Skeaton in +the summer in Glebeshire or the Lake District. The Constantines and +the Maxses were very fine indeed because they went both to Cannes in +the winter and Scotland in the summer. It was wonderful, considering +how often Mrs. Constantine was away from Skeaton, how solemn and +awe-inspiring an impression she made and retained in the Skeaton +world. Maggie discovered that unless you had a large house with +independent grounds outside the town it was impossible to remain in +Skeaton during the summer months. Oh! the trippers! . . .Oh! the +trippers! Yes, they were terrible-swallowed up the sands, eggshells, +niggers, pierrots, bathing-machines, vulgarity, moonlight embracing, +noise, sand, and dust. If you were any one at all you did not stay +in Skeaton during the summer months-unless, as I have said, you were +so grand that you could disregard it altogether. + +It happened that these weeks were wet and windy and Maggie was blown +about from one end of the town to the other. There could be no +denying that it was grim and ugly under these conditions. It might +be that when the spring came there would be flowers in the gardens +and the trees would break out into fresh green and the sands would +gleam with mother-of-pearl and the sea would glitter with sunshine. +All that perhaps would come. Meanwhile there was not a house that +was not hideous, the wind tore screaming down the long beaches +carrying with it a flurry of tempestuous rain, whilst the sea itself +moved in sluggish oily coils, dirt-grey to the grey horizon. Worst +of all perhaps were the deserted buildings at other times dedicated +to gaiety, ghosts of places they were with torn paper flapping +against their sides and the wind tearing at their tin-plated roofs. +Then there was the desolate little station, having, it seemed, no +connection with any kind of traffic-and behind all this the woods +howled and creaked and whistled, derisive, provocative, the only +creatures alive in all that world. + +Between the Fashion and the Place the Church stood as a bridge. + +Centuries ago, when Skeaton had been the merest hamlet clustered +behind the beach, the Church had been there-not the present +building, looking, poor thing, as though it were in a perpetual +state of scarlet fever, but a shabby humble little chapel close to +the sea sheltered by the sandy hill. + +The present temple had been built about 1870 and was considered very +satisfactory. It was solid and free from draughts and took the +central heating very well. The graveyard also was new and shiny, +with no bones in it remoter than the memories of the present +generation could compass. The church clock was a very late addition +-put up by subscription five years ago-and its clamour was so up to +date and smart that it was a cross between the whistle of a steam- +engine and a rich and prosperous dinner-bell. + +All this was rightly felt to be very satisfactory. As Miss Purves +said: "So far as the dear Church goes, no one had any right to +complain about anything." + +When Maggie had first arrived in Skeaton her duties with regard to +the Church were made quite plain to her. She was expected to take +one of the classes in Sunday school, to attend Choir practice on +Friday evening, to be on the Committees for Old Women's Comforts, +Our Brave Lads' Guild, and the Girls' Friendly Society, to look +after the flowers for the Altar, and to attend Paul's Bible Class on +Wednesdays. + +She had no objection to any of these things-they were, after all, +part of her "job." She found that they amused her, and her life must +be full, full, full." No time to think--No time to think," some +little voice far, far within her cried. But on Grace's return +difficulties at once arose. Grace had, hitherto, done all these +things. She had, as she called it, "Played a large part in the life +of our Church." She was bored with them all, the Choir practices, +the Committees, the Altar flowers, and the rest; she was only too +pleased that Maggie should do the hard work--it was quite fair that +she, Grace, should have a rest. At the same time she did not at all +want to surrender the power that doing these things had given her. +She did not wish Maggie to take her place, but she wanted her to +support the burden-very difficult this especially if you are not +good at "thinking things out." + +Grace never could "think things out." It seemed as though her +thoughts loved wilfully to tease and confuse her. Then when she was +completely tangled, and bewildered, her temper rose, slowly, +stealthily, but with a mighty force behind it; suddenly as a flood +bursts the walls that have been trying to resist it, it would sweep +the chambers of her mind, submerging, drowning the flock of panic- +stricken little ideas. + +She then would "lose her temper" so much to her own surprise that +she at once decided that some one else must be responsible. A few +days after her return she decided that she "must not let these +things go," so she told Maggie that she would attend the Committee +of Old Women's Comforts and be responsible for the Choir practice. +But on her return to these functions she found that she was bored +and tired and cross; they were really intolerable, she had been +doing them for years and years and years. It was too bad that Maggie +should suffer her to take them on her shoulders. What did Maggie +think she was a clergyman's wife for? Did Maggie imagine that there +were no responsibilities attached to her position? + +Grace did not say these things, but she thought them. She did not of +course admit to herself that she wanted Maggie both to go and not to +go. She simply knew that there was a "grievance" and Maggie was +responsible for it. But at present she was silent . . . + +The next factor in the rapidly developing situation was Mr. Toms. +One day early in April Maggie went for a little walk by herself +along the lane that led to Marsden Wood. Marsden Wood was the most +sinister of all the woods; there had once been a murder there, but +even had there not, the grim bleakness of the trees and bushes, the +absence of all clear paths through its tangles and thickets made it +a sinister place. She turned at the very edge of the wood and set +her face back towards Skeaton. + +The day had been wild and windy with recurrent showers of rain, but +now there was a break, the chilly April sun broke through the clouds +and scattered the hedges and fields with primrose light. + +Faintly and with a gentle rhythm the murmur of the sea came across +the land and the air was sweet with the sea-salt and the fresh scent +of the grass after rain. Maggie stood for a moment, breathing in the +spring air and watching the watery blue thread its timid way through +banks of grey cloud. A rich gleam of sunlight struck the path at her +feet. + +She saw then, coming towards her, a man and a woman. The woman was +ordinary enough, a middle-aged, prim, stiffly dressed person with a +pale shy face, timid in her walk and depressed in mouth and eyes. +The man was a stout, short, thick-set fellow with a rosy smiling +face. At once Maggie noticed his smile. He was dressed very smartly +in a black coat and waist-coat and pepper-and-salt trousers. His +bowler was cocked a little to one side. She passed them and the +little round man, looking her full in the face, smiled so happily +and with so radiant an amiability that she was compelled to respond. +The woman did not look at her. + +Long after she had left them she thought of the little man's smile. +There was something that, in spite of herself, reminded her both of +Uncle Mathew and Martin. She felt a sudden and warm kinship, +something that she had not known since her arrival in Skeaton. Had +she not struggled with herself every kind of reminiscence of her +London life would have come crowding about her. This meeting was +like the first little warning tap upon the wall . . . + +On her return she spoke of it. + +"Oh," said Paul, "that must have been poor little Mr. Toms with his +sister." + +"Poor?" asked Maggie. + +"Yes. He's queer in his head, you know," said Paul. "Quite harmless, +but he has the strangest ideas." + +Maggie noticed then that Grace shivered and the whole of her face +worked with an odd emotion of horror and disgust. + +"He should have been shut up somewhere," she said. "It's disgraceful +letting him walk about everywhere just like any one else." + +"Shut up!" cried Maggie. "Oh, no! I don't think any one ought to be +shut up for anything." + +"My dear Maggie!" said Paul in his fatherly protecting voice. "No +prisons? Think what would become of us all." + +"Oh!" said Maggie impatiently, "I'm not practical of course, I don't +know what one should do, but I do know that no one should be shut +up." + +"Chut-chut--" said Grace. + +Now this "Chut, chut," may seem a very little thing, but very little +things are sometimes of great importance. Marriages have been +wrecked on an irritating cough and happy homes ruined by a shuffle. +Grace had said "Chut, chut," for a great many years and to many +people. It expressed scorn and contempt and implied a vast store of +superior knowledge. Grace herself had no idea of the irritating +nature of this exclamation, she would have been entirely amazed did +you explain to her that it had more to do with her unpopularity in +Skeaton than any other thing. She had even said "Chut, chut," to +Mrs. Constantine. + +But she said it to Maggie more than to any other person. When she +had been in the house a few days she said to her brother: + +"Paul, Maggie's much younger than I had supposed." + +"Oh, do you think so?" said Paul. + +"Yes, I do. She knows nothing about anything. She's been nowhere. +She's seen nobody . . . Poor child." + +It was the "poor child" position that she now, during these first +weeks, adopted. She was very, very kind to Maggie. As she explained +to Mrs. Maxse, she really was very fond of her--she was a GOOD girl. +At the same time . . . Well! . . . Mrs. Maxse would understand that +Paul can hardly have known what he was marrying. Ignorance! +Carelessness! Strange ideas! Some one from the centre of Africa +would have known more . . . and so on. Nevertheless, she was a GOOD +girl . . . Only she needed guidance. Fancy, she had taken quite a +fancy to poor Mr. Toms! Proposed to call on his sister. Well, one +couldn't help that. Miss Toms was a regular communicant . . . +Nevertheless . . . she didn't realise, that was it. Of course, she +had known all kinds of queer people in London. Paul and Grace had +rescued her. The strangest people. No, Maggie was an orphan. She had +an uncle, Grace believed, and two aunts who belonged to a strange +sect. Sex? No, sect. Very queer altogether. + +Mrs. Maxse went home greatly impressed. + +"The girl's undoubtedly queer," she told her husband. + +"The parson's got a queer sort of wife," Colonel Maxse told his +friends in the Skeaton Conservative Club. "He rescued her from some +odd sort of life in London. No. Don't know what it was exactly. +Always was a bit soft, Trenchard." + +Maggie had no idea that Skeaton was discussing her. She judged other +people by herself. Meanwhile something occurred that gave her quite +enough to think about. + +She had understood from Grace that it was expected of her that she +should be at home on one afternoon in the week to receive callers. +She thought it a silly thing that she should sit in the ugly +drawing-room waiting for people whom she did not wish to see and who +did not wish to see her, but she was told that it was one of her +duties, and so she would do it. No one, however, had any idea of the +terror with which she anticipated these Friday afternoons. She had +never been a very great talker, she had nothing much to say unless +to some one in whom she was interested. She was frightened lest +something should happen to the tea, and she felt that they were all +staring at her and asking themselves why her hair was cut short and +why her clothes didn't fit better. However, there it was. It was her +duty. + +One Friday afternoon she was sitting alone, waiting. The door opened +and the maid announced Mrs. Purdie. Maggie remembered that she had +been told that Mr. Alfred Purdie was the richest man in Skeaton, +that he had recently married, and was but now returned from his +honeymoon. + +Mrs. Purdie entered and revealed herself as Caroline Smith. For a +moment, as Maggie looked upon that magnificent figure, the room +turned about her and her eyes were dim. She remembered, as though +some one were reminding her from a long way off, that Caroline had +once told her that she was considering the acceptance of a rich +young man in Skeaton. + +She remembered that at the time she had thought the coincidence of +Caroline and Paul Trenchard strange. But far stronger than any such +memory was the renewed conviction that she had that fate did not +intend to leave her alone. She was not to keep the two worlds apart, +she was not to be allowed to forget. + +The sight of Caroline brought Martin before her so vividly that she +could have cried out. Instead she stood there, quietly waiting, and +showed no sign of any embarrassment. + +Caroline was dressed in peach-coloured silk and a little black hat. +She was not confused in the least. She seized Maggie's hand and +shook it, talking all the time. + +"Well now, I'm sure you're surprised to see me," she said, "and +perhaps you're not too glad either. Alfred wanted to come too, but I +said to him, 'No, Alfred, this will be just a little awkward at +first, for Maggie Trenchard's got a grievance, and with some reason, +too, so you'd better let me manage it alone the first meeting.' +Wasn't I right? Of course I was. And you can just say right out now, +Maggie, exactly what's in your mind. It's not my fault that we're +both in the same town. I'm sure you'd much rather never set eyes on +me again, and I'm sure I can quite understand if you feel like that. +But there it is. I told you long ago in London that Alfred was after +me, and I was in two minds about it-but of course I didn't dream you +were going to marry a parson. You could have knocked me down with +less than a feather when I saw it in the Skeaton News, 'That can't +be my Margaret Cardinal,' I said, and yet it seemed so strange the +two names and all. Well, and then I found it really WAS the same. I +WAS astonished. You of all people the wife of a parson! However, you +know your own mind best, and I'm sure Mr. Trenchard's a very lucky +man. So you can just start off and curse me, Maggie, as much as you +like." + +The strange thing was that as Maggie listened to this she felt a +desire to embrace rather than curse. Of course Caroline had done her +harm, she had, perhaps ruined Martin's life as well as her own, but +the mistake had been originally Maggie's in trusting Caroline with +more confidence than her volatile nature would allow her to hold. +And now, as she looked at Caroline and saw that pretty pink and +white face, the slim beautiful body, the grace and gaiety, and +childish amiability, her whole soul responded. Here was a friend, +even though an indiscreet one, here was some one from home, the one +human being in the whole of Skeaton who knew the old places and the +old people, the Chapel, and the aunts--and Martin. She knew at once +that it would have been far safer had Caroline not been there, that +the temptation to discuss Martin would be irresistible, that she +would yield to it, and that Caroline was in no way whatever to be +trusted-she realised all these things, and yet she was glad. + +"I don't want to curse you, Caroline," said Maggie. "Sit down. Tea +will be here in a minute. I was very unhappy about what you did, but +that's all a long time ago now, and I was to blame too." + +"Oh, that's just sweet of you," said Caroline, running over and +giving Maggie an impulsive kiss. "I said to Alfred, 'Maggie may be +angry. I don't know how she'll receive me, I'm sure. She had the +sweetest nature always, and it isn't like her to bear a grudge. But +whatever way it is, I'll have to take it, because the fact is I +deserve it.' But there you are, simply angelic and I'm ever so glad. +The fact is I was ridicilous in those days. I don't wonder you lost +your patience with me, and it was just like your honest self to be +so frank with me. But marriage has just taught me everything. What I +say is, every one ought to be married; no one knows anything until +they're married. It's amazing what a difference it makes, don't you +think so? Why, before I was married I used to chatter on in the most +ridicilous way (Caroline always said ridicilous) and now-but there I +go, talking of myself, and it's you I want to hear about. Now, +Maggie, tell me--" But the sudden entrance of Grace and Paul +checked, for the moment, these confidences. Caroline did not stay +long this first time. She talked a little, drank some tea, ate a +biscuit, smiled at Paul and departed. She felt, perhaps, that Grace +did not approve of her. Grace had not seen her before, certainly she +would not approve of the peach-coloured dress and the smile at Paul. +And then the girl talked too much. She had interrupted Grace in the +middle of one of her stories. + +When Caroline had departed (after kissing Maggie affectionately) +Grace said: + +"And so you knew her before, Maggie?" + +"I knew her in London," said Maggie. + +"I like her," said Paul. "A bright young creature." + +"Hum!" said Grace. + +That was a wonderful spring evening, the first spring evening of the +year. The ugly garden swam in a mist faintly cherry-colour; through +the mist a pale evening sky, of so rich a blue that it was almost +white, was shadowing against a baby moon sharply gold. The bottles +on the wall were veiled by the evening mist; a thrush sang in the +little bush at the end of the lawn. + +Paul whispered to Maggie: "Come out into the garden." + +She went with him, frightened; she could feel his arm tremble +against her waist; his cold hard fingers caught hers. No current ran +from her body to his. They were apart, try as she may. When they had +walked the length of the lawn he caught her close to him, put his +hand roughly up to her neck and, bending her head towards his, +kissed her. She heard his words, strangled and fierce. + +"Love me, Maggie-love me-you must--" + +When he released her, looking back towards the dark house, she saw +Grace standing there with a lamp in her hand. + +Against her will she shared his feeling of guilt, as, like children +caught in a fault, they turned back towards the house. + + + + +CHAPTER V + +THE BATTLE OF SKEATON + +FIRST YEAR + + +Afterwards, when Maggie looked back she was baffled. She tried to +disentangle the events between that moment when Grace, holding the +lamp in her hand, blinked at them as they came across the lawn, and +that other most awful moment when, in Paul's study, Grace declared +final and irrevocable war. + +Between those two events ran the history of more than two years, and +there was nothing stranger than the way that the scene in the garden +and the scene in the study seemed to Maggie to be close together. +What were the steps, she used to ask herself afterwards, that led to +those last months of fury and tragedy and disaster? Was it my fault? +Was it hers? Was it Paul's? What happened? If I had not done this or +that, if Grace had not said--no, it was hopeless. She would break +off in despair. Isolated scenes appeared before her, always bound, +on either side, by that prologue and that finale, but the scenes +would not form a chain. She could not connect; she would remain +until the end bewildered as to Grace's motives. She never, until the +day of her death, was to understand Grace. + +"She was angry for such little things," she said afterwards. + +"She hated me to be myself." The two years in retrospect seemed to +have passed with incredible swiftness, the months that followed them +were heavy and slow with trouble. But from the very first, that is, +from the moment when Grace saw Paul kiss Maggie in the evening +garden, battle was declared. Maggie might not know it, but it was +so-and Grace knew it very well. + +It may be said, however, in Grace's defence that she gave Maggie +every chance. She marvelled at her own patience. For two years after +that moment, when she decided that Maggie was "queer," and that her +beloved Paul was in real danger of his losing his soul because of +that "queerness," she held her hand. She was not naturally a patient +woman-she was not introspective enough to be that--and she held no +brief for Maggie. Nevertheless for two whole years she held her hand +. . . + +They were, all three, in that ugly house, figures moving in the +dark. Grace simply knew, as the months passed, that she disliked and +feared Maggie more and more; Paul knew that as the months passed- +well, what he knew will appear in the following pages. And Maggie? +She only knew that it needed all her endurance and stubborn will to +force herself to accept this life as her life. She must-she must. To +give way meant to run away, and to run away meant to long for what +she could not have, and loneliness and defeat. She would make this +into a success; she would care for Paul although she could not give +him all that he needed. She would and she could . . . Every morning +as she lay awake in the big double-bed with the brass knobs at the +bed-foot winking at her in the early light she vowed that she would +justify her acceptance of the man who lay sleeping so peacefully +beside her. Poor child, her battle with Grace was to teach her how +far her will and endurance could carry her . . . + +Grace, on her side, was not a bad woman, she was simply a stupid +one. She disliked Maggie for what seemed to her most admirable +reasons and, as that dislike slowly, slowly turned into hatred, her +self-justification only hardened. + +Until that moment, when she saw a faded patch of wall-paper on the +wall instead of her mother's portrait, she had no doubts whatever +about the success of what she considered her choice. Maggie was a +"dear," young, ignorant, helpless, but the very wife for Paul. Then +slowly, slowly, the picture changed. Maggie was obstinate, Maggie +was careless, Maggie was selfish, idle, lazy, irreligious-at last, +Maggie was "queer." + +Then, when in the dusk of that summer evening, she saw Paul kiss +Maggie, as the moths blundered about her lamp, her stolid +unimaginative heart was terrified. This girl, who was she? What had +she been before they found her? What was this strange passion in +Paul isolating him from her, his sister? This girl was dangerous to +them all-a heathen. They had made a terrible mistake. Paul had been +from the first bewitched by some strange spell, and the, his sister, +had aided the witch. + +And yet, to her credit be it remembered, for two years, she fought +her fears, superstitions, jealousies, angers. That can have been no +easy thing for a woman who had always had her own way. But Maggie +helped her. There were many days during that first year at any rate +when Grace thought that the girl was, after all, only the simple +harmless child that she had first found her. + +It was so transparently clear that Maggie bore no malice against any +one in the world, that when she angered Grace she did so always by +accident, never by plan-it was only unfortunate that the accidents +should occur so often. + +Maggie's days were from the very first of the utmost regularity. +Breakfast at 8.30, then an interview with the cook (Grace generally +in attendance here), then shopping (with Grace), luncheon at 1.30, +afternoon, paying calls or receiving them, dinner 7.45, and after +dinner, reading a book while Paul and Grace played bezique, or, if +Paul was busy upon a sermon or a letter (he wrote letters very +slowly), patience with Grace. This regular day was varied with +meetings, choir practices, dinner-parties, and an occasional Penny +Reading. + +In this framework of the year it would have appeared that there was +very little that could breed disturbance. There were, however, +little irritations. Maggie would have given a great deal could she +have been allowed to interview the cook in the morning alone. + +It would seem impossible to an older person that Grace's presence +could so embarrass Maggie; it embarrassed her to the terrible extent +of driving every idea out of her head. + +When Maggie had stammered and hesitated and at last allowed, the +cook to make a suggestion, Grace would say. "You mustn't leave it +all to cook, dear. Now what about a nice shepherd's pie?" + +The cook, who hated Grace, would toss her head. + +"Impossible to-day, Mum . . . Quite impossible." + +"Oh, do you think so?" Maggie would say. + +This was the cook's opportunity. + +"Well, for you, Mum, I'll see if it can't be managed. Difficult as +it is." + +Grace's anger boiled over. + +"That woman must go," she insisted. + +"Very well," said Maggie. + +Cook after cook appeared and vanished. They all hated Grace. + +"You're not very good at keeping servants, are you, Maggie, dear?" +said Grace. + +Then there was the shopping. Grace's conversation was the real +trouble here. Grace's stories had seemed rather a joke in London, +soon, in Skeaton, they became a torture. From the vicarage to the +High Street was not far, but it was far enough for Grace's narrative +powers to stretch their legs and get a healthy appetite for the +day's work. Grace walked very slowly, because of her painful +breathing. Her stout stolid figure in its stiff clothes (the skirt +rather short, thick legs in black stockings and large flat boots), +marched along. She had a peculiar walk, planting each foot on the +ground with deliberate determination as though she were squashing a +malignant beetle, she was rather short-sighted, but did not wear +glasses, because, as she said to Maggie, "one need not look peculiar +until one must." Her favourite head-gear was a black straw hat with +a rather faded black ribbon and a huge pin stuck skewer-wise into +it. This pin was like a dagger. + +She peered around her as she walked, and for ever enquired of +Maggie, "who that was on the other Bide of the road." Maggie, of +course, did not know, and there began then a long cross-questioning +as to colour, clothes, height, smile or frown. Nothing was too small +to catch Grace's interest but nothing caught it for long. Maggie, at +the end of her walk felt as though she were beset by a whirl of +little buzzing flies. She noticed that Paul had, from, long habit, +learnt to continue his own thoughts during Grace's stories, and she +also tried to do this, but she was not clever at it because Grace +would suddenly stop and say, "Where was I, Maggie?" and then when +Maggie was confused regard her suspiciously, narrowing her eyes into +little thin points. The shopping was difficult because Grace would +stand at Maggie's elbow and say: "Now, Maggie, this is your affair, +isn't it? You decide what you want," and then when Maggie had +decided, Grace simply, to show her power, would say: "Oh, I don't +think we'd better have that . . . No, I don't think we'll have that. +Will you show us something else, please?"-and so they had to begin +all over again. + +Nevertheless, throughout their first summer Maggie was almost happy; +not QUITE happy, some silent but persistent rebellion at the very +centre of her heart prevented her complete happiness. What she +really felt was that half of her-the rebellious, questioning, +passionate half of her-was asleep, and that at all costs, whatever +occurred, she must keep it asleep. That was her real definite memory +of her first year-that, through it all, she was wilfully, +deliberately drugged. + +Every one thought Paul very strange that summer. Mr. Flaunders, the +curate, told Miss Purves that he was very "odd." "He was always the +most tranquil man-a sunny nature, as you know, Miss Purves. Well +now, I assure you, he's never the same from one minute to another. +His temper is most uncertain, and one never can tell of what he's +thinking. You know he took the Collects in the wrong order last +Sunday, and last night he read the wrong lesson. Two days ago he was +quite angry with me because I suggested another tune for 'Lead +Kindly Light'-unlike himself, unlike himself." + +"To what do you attribute this, Mr. Flaunders?" said Miss Purves. +"You know our vicar so well." + +"I'm sure I can't tell what it is," said Mr. Flaunders, sighing. + +"Can it be his marriage?" said Miss Purves. + +"I'm sure," said Mr. Flaunders, flushing, "that it can be nothing to +do with Mrs. Trenchard. That's a fine woman, Miss Purves, a fine +woman." + +"She seems a little strange," said Miss Purves. "Why doesn't she let +her hair grow? It's hardly Christian as it is." + +"It's her health, I expect," said Mr. Flaunders. + +Paul was very gentle and good to Maggie all that summer, better to +her than any human being had ever been before. She became very fond +of him, and yet it was not, apparently, her affection that he +wanted. He seemed to be for ever on the verge of asking her some +question and then checking himself. He was suddenly silent; she +caught him looking at her in odd, furtive ways. + +He made love to her and then suddenly checked himself, going off, +leaving her alone. During these months she did everything she could +for him. She knew that she was not satisfying him, because she could +give him only affection and not love. But everything that he wanted +her to do she did. And they never, through all those summer months, +had one direct honest conversation. They were afraid. + +She began to see, very clearly, his faults. His whole nature was +easy, genial, and, above all, lazy. He liked to be liked, and she +Was often astonished at the pleasure with which he received +compliments. He had a conceit of himself, not as a man but as a +clergyman, and she knew that nothing pleased him so much as when +people praised his "good-natured humanity." + +She saw him "play-acting," as she called it, that is, bringing +forward a succession of little tricks, a jolly laugh, an +enthusiastic opinion, a pretence of humility, a man-of-the-world +air, all things not very bad in themselves, but put on many years +ago, subconsciously as an actor puts on powder and paint. She saw +that he was especially sensitive to lay opinion, liked to be thought +a good fellow by the laymen in the place. To be popular she was +afraid that he sometimes sacrificed his dignity, his sincerity and +his pride. But he was really saved in this by his laziness. He was +in fact too lazy to act energetically in his pursuit of popularity, +and the temptation to sink into the dirty old chair in his study, +smoke a pipe and go to sleep, hindered again and again his ambition. +He had, as so many clergymen have, a great deal of the child in him, +a remoteness from actual life, and a tremendous ignorance of the +rough-and-tumble brutality and indecency of things. It had not been +difficult for Grace, because of his laziness, his childishness, and +his harmless conceited good-nature to obtain a very real dominion +over him, and until now that dominion had never seriously been +threatened. + +Now, however, new impulses were stirring in his soul. Maggie saw it, +Grace saw it, before the end of the summer the whole parish saw it. +He was uneasy, dissatisfied, suffering under strange moods whose +motives he concealed from all the world. In his sleep he cried +Maggie's name with a passion that was a new voice in him. When she +awoke and heard it she trembled, and then lay very still . . . + +And what a summer that was! To Maggie who had never, even in London, +mingled with crowds it was an incredible invasion. The invasion was +incredible, in the first place, because of the suddenness with which +it fell upon Skeaton. One day Maggie noticed that announcements +were pasted on to the Skeaton walls of the coming of a pierrot +troupe . . . "The Mig-Mags." There was a gay picture of fine +beautiful pierrettes and fine stout pierrots all smiling together in +a semi-circle. Then on another hoarding it was announced that the +Theatre Royal, Skeaton, would shortly start its summer season, and +would begin with that famous musical comedy, "The Girl from Bobo's." + +Then the Pier Theatre put forward its claim with a West End comedy. +The Royal Marine Band announced that it would play (weather +permitting) in the Pergola on the Leas every afternoon, 4.20-6. +Other signs of new life were the Skeaton Roller-Skating Rink, The +Piccadilly Cinema, Concerts in the Town Hall, and Popular Lectures +in the Skeaton Institute. There was also a word here and there about +Wanton's Bathing Machines, Button's Donkeys, and Milton and Rowe's +Char-a-bancs. + +Then, on a sunny day in June the invasion began. The little railway +by the sea was only a loop-line that connected Skeaton with Lane-on- +Sea, Frambell, and Hooton. The main London line had its Skeaton +station a little way out of the town, and the station road to the +beach passed the vicarage. Maggie soon learnt to know the times when +the excursion trains would pour their victims on to the hot, dry +road. Early in the afternoon was one time, and she would see them +eagerly, excitedly hurrying to the sea, fathers and mothers and +babies, lovers and noisy young men and shrieking girls. Then in the +evening she would see them return, some cross, some too tired to +speak, some happy and singing, some arguing and disputing, babies +crying-all hurrying, hurrying lest the train should be missed. At +first she would not penetrate to the beach. She understood from Paul +and Grace that one did not go to the beach during the summer months; +at any rate, not the popular beach. There was Merton Sand two miles +away. One might go there . . . it was always deserted. This +mysterious "one" fascinated Maggie's imagination. So many times a +day Grace said "Oh, I don't think one ought to." Maggie heard again +and again about the trippers, "Oh, one must keep away from there, +you know." + +In fact the Skeaton aristocracy retired with shuddering gestures +into its own castle. Life became horribly dull. The Maxses, the +Constantines, and the remainder of the Upper Ten either went away or +hid themselves in their grounds. + +Once or twice there would be a tennis party, then silence . . . + +This summer was a very hot one; the little garden was stifling and +the glass bottles cracked in the sun. + +"I want to get out. I want to get out," cried Maggie-so she went +down to the sea. She went surreptitiously; this was the first +surreptitious thing she had done. She gazed from the Promenade that +began just beyond the little station and ran the length of the town +down upon the sands. The beach was a small one compared with the +great stretches of Merton and Buquay, and the space was covered now +so thickly with human beings that the sand was scarcely visible. It +was a bright afternoon, hot but tempered with a little breeze. The +crowd bathed, paddled, screamed, made sand-castles, lay sleeping, +flirting, eating out of paper bags, reading, quarrelling. Here were +two niggers with banjoes, then a stout lady with a harmonium, then a +gentleman drawing pictures on the sand; here again a man with sweets +on a tray, here, just below Maggie, a funny old woman with a little +hut where ginger-beer and such things were sold. The noise was +deafening; the wind stirred the sand curiously so that it blew up +and about in little wreaths and spirals. Everything and everybody +seemed to be covered with the grit of this fine small sand; it was +in Maggie's eyes, nose, and mouth as she watched. + +She hated the place--the station, the beach, the town, and the +woods--even more than she had done before. She hated the place--but +she loved the people. + +The place was sneering, self-satisfied, contemptuous, inhuman, like +some cynical, debased speculator making a sure profit out of the +innocent weaknesses of human nature. As she turned and looked she +could see the whole ugly town with the spire of St. John's-Paul's +church, raised self-righteously above it. + +The town was like a prison hemmed in by the dark woods and the oily +sea. She felt a sudden terrified consciousness of her own +imprisonment. It was perhaps from that moment that she began to be +definitely unhappy in her own life, that she realised with that +sudden inspiration that is given to us on occasion, how hostile +Grace was becoming, how strange and unreal was Paul, and how far +away was every one else! + +Just below her on the sand a happy family played-some babies, two +little boys digging, the father smoking, his hat tilted over his +eyes against the sun, the mother finding biscuits in a bag for the +youngest infant. It was a very merry family and full of laughter. +The youngest baby looked up and saw Maggie standing all alone there, +and crowed. Then all the family looked up, the boys suspended their +digging, father tilted back his hat, the mother shyly smiled. + +Maggie smiled back, and then, overcome by so poignant a feeling of +loneliness, tempted, too, almost irresistibly to run down the steps, +join them on the sand, build castles, play with the babies, she +hurried away lest she should give way. + +"I must be pretending at being married," she thought to herself. "I +don't feel married at all. I'm not natural. If I were sitting on the +sand digging I'd be quite natural. No wonder Grace thinks me +tiresome. But how does one get older and grown up? What is one to +do?" + +She did not trust herself to go down to the sands again that summer. +The autumn came, the woods turned to gold, the sea was flurried with +rain, and the Church began to fill the horizon. The autumn and the +winter were the times of the Church's High Festival. Paul, as though +he were aware that he had, during these last months, been hovering +about strange places and peering into dark windows, busied himself +about the affairs of his parish with an energy that surprised every +one. + +Maggie was aware of a number of young women of whom before she had +been unconscious. Miss Carmichael, Misses Mary and Jane Bethel, Miss +Clarice Hendon, Miss Polly Jones . . . some of these pretty girls, +all of them terribly modern, strident, self-assured, scornful, it +seemed to Maggie. At first she was frightened of them as she had +never been frightened of any one before. They did look at her, of +course, as though they thought her strange, and then they soon +discovered that she knew nothing at all about life. + +Their two chief employments, woven in, as it were, to the web of +their church assistance, were Love and Mockery-flirtations, broken +engagements, refusals, acceptances, and, on the other hand, jokes +about everybody and everything. Maggie soon discovered that Grace +was one of their favourite Aunt Sallies; this made her very angry, +and she showed so plainly her indignation on the first occasion of +their wit that they never laughed at Grace in Maggie's presence +again. + +Maggie felt, after this, very tender and sympathetic towards Grace, +until she discovered that her good sister-in-law was quite unaware +that any one laughed at her and would have refused to believe it had +she been told. At the same time there went strangely with this +confidence an odd perpetual suspicion. Grace was for ever on guard +against laughter, and nothing made her more indignant than to come +into a room and see that people suddenly ceased their conversation. +Maggie, however, did try this autumn to establish friendly relations +with Grace. It seemed to her that it was the little things that were +against the friendliness rather than the big ones. How she seriously +blamed herself for an irritation that was really childish. Who, for +instance, a grown woman and married, could do other than blame +herself for being irritated by Grace's habit of not finishing her +sentences. Grace would say: + +"Maggie, did you remember to-oh well, it doesn't matter--" + +"Remember what, Grace?" + +"No, really it doesn't matter. It was only that--" + +"But Grace, do tell me, because otherwise you'll be blaming me for +something I ought to have done." + +"Blaming you! Why, Maggie, to hear you talk any one would think that +I was always scolding you. Of course if that's what you feel--" + +"No, no, I don't. But I'm so careless. I forget things so. I don't +want to forget something that I ought to do." + +"Yes, you are careless, Maggie. That's quite true. It's one of your +faults." + +(Strange how willing we are ourselves to admit a fault and irritated +when a friend agrees about it with us.) + +"Oh, I'm not always careless," said Maggie. + +"Often you are, dear, aren't you? You must learn. I'm sure you'll +improve in time. I wonder whether-but no, I decided I wouldn't +bother, didn't I? Still perhaps, after all--No, I daresay it's wiser +to leave it alone." + +Another little thing that the autumn emphasised was Grace's +inability to discover when a complaint or a remonstrance was +decently deceased. One evening Paul, going out in a hurry, asked +Maggie to give Grace the message that Evensong would be at 6.30 +instead of 7 that day. Maggie forgot to give the message and Grace +arrived at the Church during the reading of the second lesson. + +"Oh Grace, I'm so sorry!" said Maggie. + +"It doesn't matter," said Grace; "but how you could forget, Maggie, +is so strange! Do try not to forget things. I know it worries Paul. +For myself I don't care, although I do value punctuality and memory- +I do indeed. What I mean is that it isn't for my own happiness that +I mind--" + +"I don't want to forget," said Maggie. "One would think to hear you, +Grace, that you imagine I like forgetting." + +"Really, Maggie," said Grace, "I don't think that's quite the way to +speak to me." + +And again and again throughout the long winter this little episode +figured. + +"You'll remember to be punctual, won't you, Maggie? Not like the +time when you forgot to tell me." + +"You'll forgive me reminding you, Maggie, but I didn't want it to be +like the time you forgot to give me--" + +"Oh, you'd better not trust to Maggie, Paul. Only the other day when +you gave her the message about Evensong--" + +Grace meant no harm by this. Her mind moved slowly and was entangled +by a vast quantity of useless lumber. She was really shocked by +carelessness and inaccuracy because she was radically careless and +inaccurate herself but didn't know it. + +"If there's one thing I value it's order." she would say, but in +struggling to remember superficial things she forgot all essentials. +Her brain moved just half as slowly as everything else. + +That winter was warm and muggy, with continuous showers of warm rain +that seamed to change into mud in the air as it fell. + +The Church was filled with the clammy mist of its central heating. +Maggie, as she sat through service after service, watched one +headache race after another. The air was full of headache; she asked +once that a window might be kept open. "That would mean Death in +Skeaton. You don't understand the Skeaton air," said Grace. + +"That's because I don't get enough of it," said Maggie. She found +herself looking back to the Chapel services with wistful regret. +What had there been there that was not here? Here everything was +ordered, arranged, in decent sequence, in regular symmetry and +progression. And yet no one seemed to Maggie to listen to what they +were saying, and no one thought of the meaning of the words that +they used. + +And if they did, of what use would it be? The affair was all +settled; heaven was arrayed, parcelled out, its very streets and +courts mapped and described. It was the destination of every one in +the building as surely as though they were travelling to London by +the morning express. They were sated with knowledge of their +destiny--no curiosity, no wonder, no agitation, no fear. Even the +words of the most beautiful prayers had ceased to have any meaning +because the matter had been settled so long ago and there was +nothing more to be said. How that Chapel had throbbed with +expectation, with amaze, with curiosity, with struggle! Foolish much +of it perhaps, stifling it had seemed then in its superstition. +Maggie had been afraid then, so afraid that she could not sleep at +nights. How she longed now for that fear to return to her! + +At this point she would discover that she was beckoning back to her +the figures of that other world. They must not come . . . the two +worlds must not join or she was lost . . . she turned her back from +her memories and her desires. + +During this winter there were the two affairs of Mr. Toms and +Caroline. + +Maggie carried out her resolve of calling on Mr. Toms. She did it +one dark afternoon a few days before Christmas, moved, it must be +confessed, partly by a sense of exasperation with Grace. Grace had +been that day quite especially tiresome. She had a cold, and a new +evening dress had cost twice as much as it ought to have done. Mitch +had broken into eczema, and Mrs. Constantine had overruled her at a +committee meeting. With a flood of disconnected talk she had +overwhelmed Maggie until the girl felt as though her head had been +thrust into a bag of flour. Through it all there had been an +undercurrent of complaint as though Maggie were responsible. + +Early in the afternoon Grace declared that her head was splitting +and retired to her bedroom. Maggie, in a state of blinded and +deafened exasperation, remembered Mr. Toms and decided to call on +him. She found a neat little house standing in a neat little garden +near the sea just beyond the end of the Promenade, or The Leas, as +the real Skeatonian always called it. Miss Toms and Mr. Toms were +sitting in a very small room with a large fire, a pale grey +wallpaper, and a number of brightly-painted wooden toys arranged on +a shelf running round the room. The toys were of all kinds--a farm, +cows and sheep, tigers and lions, soldiers and cannon, a church and +a butcher's shop, little green tufted trees, and a Noah's ark. Mr. +Toms was sitting, neat as a pin, smiling in an armchair beside the +fire, and Miss Toms near him was reading aloud. + +Maggie saw at once that her visit embarrassed Miss Toms terribly. It +was an embarrassment that she understood perfectly, so like her own +feelings on so many occasions. This put her at once at her ease, and +she was the old, simple, direct Maggie, her face eager with kindness +and understanding. Mr. Toms smiled perpetually but shook hands like +the little gentleman he was. + +Maggie, studying Miss Toms' face, saw that it was lined with +trouble--an ugly face, grave, severe, but brave and proud. Maggie +apologised for not coming before. + +"I would have come--" she began. + +"Oh, you needn't apologise," said Miss Toms brusquely. "They don't +call on us here, and we don't want them to." + +"They don't call," said Mr. Toms brightly, "because they know I'm +queer in the head, and they're afraid I shall do something odd. They +told you I was queer in the head, didn't they?" + +Strangely enough this statement of his "queerness," although it +brought a lump into Maggie's throat, did not disturb or confuse her. + +"Yes," she said, "they did. I asked who you were after I had seen +you in the road that day." + +"I'm not in the least dangerous," said Mr. Toms. "You needn't be +afraid. Certain things seem odd to me that don't seem odd to other +people--that's all." + +"The fact is, Mrs. Trenchard," said Miss Toms, speaking very fast +and flushing as she spoke, "that we are very happy by ourselves, my +brother and I. He is the greatest friend I have in the world, and I +am his. We are quite sufficient for one another. I don't want to +seem rude, and it's kind of you to have come, but it's better to +leave us alone--it is indeed." + +"Well, I don't know," bald Maggie, smiling. "You see, I'm a little +queer myself--at least I think that most of the people here are +coming to that conclusion. I'm sure I'm more queer than your +brother. At any rate I can't do you any harm, and we may as well +give it a trial, mayn't we?" + +Mr. Toms clapped his hands with so sudden a noise that Maggie +jumped. + +"That's right," he said. "That's the way I like to hear people talk. +You shall judge for yourself, and WE'LL judge for ourselves." His +voice was very soft and pleasant. The only thing at all strange +about him was his smile, that came and went like the ripple of +firelight on the wall. "You'd like to know all about us, wouldn't +you? Well, until ten years ago I was selling corn in the City. Such +a waste of time! But I took it very seriously then and worked, +worked, worked. I worked too hard, you know, much too hard, and then +I was ill--ill for a long time. When I was better corn didn't seem +to be of any importance, and people thought that very odd of me. I +was confused sometimes and called people by their wrong names, and +sometimes I said what was in my head instead of saying what was in +my stomach. Every one thought it very odd, and if my dear sister +hadn't come to the rescue they would have locked me up--they would +indeed!" + +"Shut me up and never let me walk about--all because I didn't care +for corn any more." + +He laughed his little chuckling laugh. "But we beat them, didn't we, +Dorothy? Yes, we did--and here we are! Now, you tell us your +history." + +Miss Toms had been watching Maggie's face intently while her brother +spoke, and the clear steady candour of Maggie's eyes and her calm +acceptance of all that the little man said must have been +reassuring. + +"Now. Jim," she said, "don't bother Mrs. Trenchard. You can't expect +her to tell us her history when she's calling for the first time." + +"Why not expect me to?" said Maggie. "I've got no history. I lived +in Glebeshire most of my life with my father, who was a clergyman. +Then he died and I lived with two aunts in London. Then I met Paul +and he married me, and here I am!" + +"That's not history," said Mr. Toms a little impatiently. "However, +I won't bother you now. You're only a child, I see. And I'm very +glad to see it. I don't like grown up people." + +"How do you like Skeaton?" asked Miss Toms, speaking more graciously +than she had done. + +"Oh I shall like it, I expect," said Maggie. "At least I shall like +the people. I don't think I shall ever like the place--the sand +blows about, and I don't like the woods." + +"Yes, they're greasy, aren't they?" said Mr. Toms, "and full of +little flies. And the trees are dark and never cool--" + +They talked a little while longer, and then Maggie got up to say +good-bye. When she took Mr. Tom's hand and felt his warm confident +pressure, and saw his large trusting eyes looking into hers, she +felt a warmth of friendliness, also it seemed to her that she had +known him all her life. + +Miss Toms came with her to the door. They looked out into the dark. +The sea rustled close at hand, far on the horizon a red light was +burning as though it were a great fire. They could hear the wave +break on the beach and sigh in the darkness as it withdrew. + +"I shall come again," said Maggie. + +"Don't you be too sure," said Miss Toms. "We shall quite understand +if you don't come, and we shan't think the worse of you. Public +opinion here is very strong. They don't want to be unkind to Jim, +but they think he ought to be shut up . . .Shut up!" Maggie could +feel that she was quivering. "Shut up!" + +Maggie tossed her head. + +"Anyway, they haven't shut me up yet," she said. + +"Well--good-night," said Miss Toms, after a little pause in which +she appeared to be struggling to say more. + +She told Grace and Paul at supper that night that she had been to +see the Toms. She saw Grace struggling not to show her disapproval +and thought it was nice of her. + +"Do you really think--?" said Grace. "Oh, perhaps, after all--" + +"Paul," said Maggie, "do you not want me to see the Toms?" + +Paul was distressed. + +"No, it isn't that . . .Miss Toms is a very nice woman. Only--" + +"You think it's not natural of me to take an interest in some one +who's a little off his head like Mr. Toms." + +"Well, dear, perhaps there is something--" + +Maggie laughed. "I'm a little off my head too. Oh! you needn't look +so shocked, Grace. You know you think it, and every one else here +thinks it too. Now, Grace, confess. You're beginning to be horrified +that Paul married me." + +"Please, Maggie--" said Paul, who hated scenes. Grace was always +flushed by a direct attack. Her eyes gazed in despair about her +while she plunged about in her mind. + +"Maggie, you mustn't say such things--no, you mustn't. Of course +it's true that you've got more to learn than I thought. You ARE +careless, dear, aren't you? You remember yesterday that you promised +to look in at Pettits and get a reel of cotton, and then of course +Mr. Toms is a good little man--every one says so--but at the same +time he's QUEER, you must admit that, Maggie; indeed it wasn't +really very long ago that he asked Mrs. Maxse in the High Street to +take all her clothes off so that he could see what she was really +made of. Now, that ISN'T nice, Maggie, it's odd--you can't deny it. +And if you'd only told me that you hadn't been to Pettits I could +have gone later myself." + +"If it isn't one thing," said Maggie, "it's another. I may be a +child and careless, and not be educated, and have strange ideas, but +if you thought, Grace, that it was going to be just the same after +Paul was married as before you were mistaken. Three's a difficult +number to manage, you know." + +"Oh, if you mean," said Grace, crimsoning, "that I'm better away, +that I should live somewhere else, please say so openly. I hate this +hinting. What I mean to say is I can leave to-morrow." + +"My dear Grace," said Paul hurriedly, "whoever thought such a thing? +We couldn't get on without you. All that Maggie meant was that it +takes time to settle down. So it does." + +"That isn't all I meant," said Maggie slowly. "I meant that I'm not +just a child as you both think. I've got a life of my own and ideas +of my own. I'll give way to you both in lots of things so long as it +makes you happy, but you're not--you're not going to shut me up as +you'd like to do to Mr. Toms." + +Perhaps both Grace and Paul had a sharp troubling impression of +having caught some strange creature against their will. Maggie had +risen from the table and stood for the moment by the door facing +them, her short hair, standing thick about her head, contrasting +with her thick white neck, her body balanced clumsily but with great +strength, like that of a boy who has not yet grown to his full +maturity. She tossed her head back in a way that she had and was +gone. + +The Caroline affair was of another sort. Some days after Christmas, +Maggie went to have tea with Caroline. She did not enjoy it at all. +She felt at once that there was something wrong with the house. It +was full of paintings in big gold frames, looking-glasses, and +marble statues, and there was a large garden that had an artificial +look of having been painted by some clever artist in the course of a +night. Maggie did not pay a long visit. There were a number of men +present; there was also a gramophone, and after tea they turned up +the carpet in the dining-room and danced. + +Caroline, in spite of her noise and laughter, did not seem to Maggie +to be happy. She introduced her for a moment to the master of the +house, a stout red-faced man who looked as though he had lost +something very precious, but was too sleepy to search for it. He +called Caroline "Sweet," and she treated him with patronage and +contempt. Maggie came away distressed, and she was not surprised to +hear, a day or two later, from Grace that Mrs. Purdie was "fast" and +had been rude to Mrs. Constantine. + +One day early in the spring Grace announced that Maggie ought not to +go and see Mrs. Purdie any more. "There are all sorts of stories," +said Grace. "People say--Oh, well, never mind. They have dancing on +Sunday." + +"But she's an old friend of mine," said Maggie. + +"You have others to think of beside yourself, Maggie," said Grace. +"And there is the Church." + +"She's an old friend of mine," repeated Maggie, her mouth set +obstinately. + +"I will ask Paul what he thinks," said Grace. + +"Please," said Maggie, her colour rising into her cheeks, "don't +interfere between Paul and me. I'll speak to him myself." + +She did. Paul maintained the attitude of indifference that he had +adopted during the last six months. + +"But would you rather I didn't go?" asked Maggie, aggravated. + +"You must use your judgment," said Paul. + +"But don't you see that I can't leave a friend just because people +are saying nasty things." + +"There's your position in the parish," said Paul. + +"Oh, Paul!" Maggie cried. "Don't be so aggravating! Just say what +you really think." + +"I'm sorry I'm aggravating," said Paul patiently. + +It was this conversation that determined Maggie. She had been +coming, through all the winter months, to a resolution. She must be +alone with Paul, she must have things out with him. As the months +had gone they had been slipping further and further apart. It had +been Paul who had gradually withdrawn into himself. He had been kind +and thoughtful but reserved, shy, embarrassed. She understood his +trouble, but at her first attempt to force him to speak he escaped +and placed Grace between them. Well, this summer should see the end +of that. They must know where they stood, and for that they must be +alone . . . + +One day, early in June, Paul announced that he thought of exchanging +duties, for the month of August, with a Wiltshire clergyman. This +was Maggie's opportunity. Finding him alone in his study, she +attacked. + +"Paul, did you mean Grace to come with us to Little Harben in +August?" + +"Of course, dear. She has nowhere else to go." + +"Well, she mustn't come. I've given way about everything since we +were married. I'm not going to give way about this. That month we +are to be alone." + +"Alone!" said Paul. "But we're always alone." + +"We're never alone," said Maggie, standing with her legs apart and +her hands behind her back. "I don't mean to complain about Grace. +She's been very good to me, I know, and I've got much to be grateful +for. All the same she's not coming to Little Harben. She's got you +all the rest of the year. She can give you up for a month." + +"But Maggie--" said Paul. + +"No, I'm quite determined about this. I may be a child and a fool, +but I know what I'm talking about this time. You're not happy. You +never talk to me as you used to. There are many things we ought to +have out, but Grace is always there in the daytime and at night +you're too tired. If we go on like this we'll be strangers in +another six months." + +He turned round to stare at her, and she saw in his eyes an odd +excited light. + +"Maggie," he said in a low voice. "If we go alone to Little Harben +does it mean that you think--you can begin to love me?" + +She turned her eyes away. "I don't know. I don't know about myself, +I only know that I want us to be happy and I want us to be close +together--as we were before we were married. It's all gone wrong +somehow; I'm sure it's my fault. It was just the same with my father +and my aunts. I couldn't say the things to them I wanted to, the +things I really felt, and so I lost them. I'm going to lose you in +the same way if I'm not careful." + +He still looked at her strangely. At last, with a sigh, he turned +back to his desk. + +"I'll speak to Grace," he said. That night the storm broke. + +During supper Grace was very quiet. Maggie, watching her, knew that +Paul had spoken to her. Afterwards in the study the atmosphere was +electric. Grace read The Church Times, Paul the Standard, Maggie +Longfellow's Golden Legend, which she thought foolish. + +Grace looked up. "So I understand, Maggie, that you don't want me to +come with you and Paul this summer?" + +Maggie, her heart, in spite of herself, thumping in her breast, +faced a Grace transfigured by emotion. That countenance, heavily, +flabbily good-natured, the eyes if stupid, also kind, was now marked +and riven with a flaming anger. + +But Maggie was no coward. With her old gesture of self-command she +stilled her heart. "I'm very sorry, Grace," she said. "But it's only +for a month. I want to be alone with Paul." + +Grace, her hands fumbling on the arms of her chair as though she +were blind, rose. + +"You've hated my being here, Maggie . . . all this time I've seen +it. You've hated me. You don't know that you owe everything to me, +that you couldn't have managed the house, the shops, the servants-- +nothing, nothing. This last year I've worked my fingers to the bone +for you and Paul. What do you think I get out of it? Nothing. It's +because I love Paul . . . because I love Paul. But you've hated my +doing things better than you, you've wanted me to fail, you've been +jealous, that's what you've been. Very well, then, I'll go. You've +made that plain enough at any rate. I'll leave to-morrow. I won't +wait another hour. And I'll never forgive you for this--never. +You've taken Paul away from me . . . all I've ever had. I'll never +forgive you--never, never, never." + +"Grace, Grace," cried Paul. + +But she rushed from the room. + +Maggie looked at her husband. + +"Why, Paul," she said, "you're frightened. Grace doesn't mean it. +She won't go to-morrow--or ever. There's nothing to be frightened +of." + +His red cheeks were pale. His hands trembled. + +"I do so hate quarrels," he said. + +Maggie went up to him and rather timidly put her hand on his arm. + +"We'll have a lovely time at Harben," she said. "Oh, I do want you +to be happy, Paul." + + + + +CHAPTER VI + +THE BATTLE OF SKEATON + +SECOND YEAR + + +Strangely enough Maggie felt happier after this disturbance. Grace, +in the weeks that followed, was an interesting confusion of silent +and offended dignity and sudden capitulations because she had some +news of fussing interest that she must impart. Nevertheless she was +deeply hurt. She was as tenacious of her grievances as a limpet is +of its rock, and she had never been so severely wounded before. +Maggie, on her side, liked Grace better after the quarrel. She had +never really disliked her, she had only been irritated by her. + +She thought it very natural of her to be angry and jealous about +Paul. She was determined that this month at Little Harben should put +everything right. Looking back over these past years she blamed +herself severely. She had been proud, self-centred, unfeeling. She +remembered that day so long ago at St. Dreot's when Aunt Anne had +appealed for her affection and she had made no reply. There had been +many days, too, in London when she had been rebellious and hard. She +thought of that night when Aunt Anne had suffered so terribly and +she had wanted only her own escape. Yes--hard and unselfish that was +what she had been, and she had been punished by losing Martin. + +Already here, just as before in London, she was complaining and +angry, and unsympathetic. She did care for Paul--she could even love +Grace if she would let her. She would make everything right this +summer and try and be a better, kinder woman. + +Then, one morning, she found a letter on the breakfast table. She +did not recognise the handwriting; when she opened it and saw the +signature at the end for a moment she also did not recognise that. +"William Magnus." . . . Then--why, of course! Mr. Magnus! She saw +him standing looking down at her with his mild eyes, staring through +his large spectacles. + +Her heart beat furiously. She waited until breakfast was over, then +she took it up to her bedroom. + +The letter was as follows: + +Dear Miss Maggie, + +I know you are not "Miss Maggie" now, but that is the only way that +I can think of you. I expect that you have quite forgotten me, and +perhaps you don't want to hear from me, but I must not lose sight of +you altogether. I haven't so many friends that I can lose one +without a word. I don't know quite what to begin by telling you. I +ought to ask you questions about yourself, I suppose, but I know +that your aunts hear from you from time to time and they give me +news from your letters. I hear that you are happily married and are +quite settled down to your new life. I'm very glad to hear that, +although it isn't quite the life that I would have prophesied for +you. Do you like Skeaton? I've never cared much for seaside resorts +myself, but then I'm a queer cranky old man, and I deserve all I +get. I wish I could tell you something cheerful about all your +friends here, but I'm afraid I can't. Your aunt is so brave and +plucky that probably she said nothing to you in her last letter +about how ill she has been, but she's just had a very bad bout, and +at one time we were afraid that we were going to lose her. You can +imagine how anxious we all were. But she is better again now, +although very much shattered. The Chapel is closed. There's a piece +of news for you! It never recovered from poor Warlock's death; he +was the spirit that gave it life, and although he may have had his +dreams and imaginations that deceived him, there was some life in +that building that I have never found anywhere else and shall never +find again. You remember that Amy Warlock married that scamp +Thurston. Well, she has left him and has come back to live with her +mother. She had a rather bad experience, I'm afraid, poor woman, but +she says nothing to any one about it. She and the old lady have +moved from this part of London and have gone to live somewhere in +Kensington. Some one saw Martin Warlock in Paris the other day. I +hear that he has been very seriously ill and is greatly changed, +looking years older. I can say, now that you are happily married, +that I am greatly relieved that you were not engaged to him. You +won't think this presumptuous of a man old enough to be your father, +will you? I am sure he had many good things in him, but he was very +weak and not fitted to look after you. But he had a good heart, I'm +sure, and his father's death was a great shock to him. Thurston, I +hear, is having revival meetings up and down the country. Miss +Avies, I believe, is with him. You remember Miss Pyncheon? She and +many other regular attendants at the Chapel have left this +neighbourhood. The Chapel is to be a cinematograph theatre, I +believe. There! I have given you all the gossip. I have not said +more about your aunts because I want you to come up one day to +London, when you have time, and see them. You will do that, won't +you? I expect you are very busy--I hope you are. I would like to +have a line from you, but please don't bother if you have too much +to do. + +Always your friend, + +WILLIAM MAGNUS. + +When Maggie saw Martin's name the other writing on the page +transformed itself suddenly into a strange pattern of webs and +squares. Nevertheless she pursued her way through this, but without +her own agency, as though some outside person were reading to her +and she was not listening. + +She repeated the last words "Always your friend, William Magnus" +aloud solemnly twice. Her thoughts ran in leaps and runs, hurdle- +race-wise across the flat level of her brain. Martin. Old. Ill. +Paris. Those walls out there and the road-man with a spade--little +boy walking with him--chattering--it's going to be hot. The light +across the lawn is almost blue and the beds are dry. His room. The +looking-glass. Always tilts back when one tries to see one's hair. +Meant to speak about it. Martin. Ill. Paris. Paris. Trains. Boats. +How quickly could one be there? No time at all. Paris. Never been to +Paris. Perhaps he isn't there now . . . + +At that definite picture she controlled her mind again. She pulled +it up as a driver drags back a restive horse. Her first real thought +was: "How hard that this letter should have come now when I was just +going to put everything right with Paul." Her next: "Poor Paul! But +I don't care for him a bit . . . I don't care for any one but +Martin. I never did." Her next: "Why did I ever think I did?" And +her next: "Why did I ever do this?" She knew with a strange calm +certainty that from this moment she would never be rid of Martin's +presence again. She had maintained for more than a year a wonderful +make-believe of indifference. She had fancied that by, pushing +furiously with both hands one could drive things into the past. But +Fate was cleverer than that. What he wanted to keep he kept for you- +-the weaving of the pattern in the carpet might be your handiwork, +but the final design was settled before ever the carpet was begun. +Not that any of these fine thoughts ever entered Maggie's head. All +that she thought was "I love Martin. I want to go to him. He's ill. +I've got to do my duty about Paul." She settled upon that last +point. She bound her mind around it, fast and secure like thick +cord. She put Mr. Magnus' letter away in the shell-covered box, the +wedding-present from the aunts; in this box were the programme of +the play that she had been to with Martin, the ring with the three +pearls, Martin's few letters, and some petals of the chrysanthemum, +dry and faded, that she had worn on the great day of the matinee. +Something had warned her that it was foolish to keep Martin's +letters, but why should she not? She had never hidden her love for +Martin. Then, standing in the middle of the room, close beside the +large double-bed, with a football-group and "The Crucifixion" +staring down upon her, she had her worst hour. Nothing in all life +could have moved her as did that picture of Martin's loneliness and +sickness. Wave after wave of persuasion swept over her: "Go! Go now! +Take the train to Paris. You can find out from Mr. Magnus where he +was living. He is sick. He needs you. You swore to him that you +would never desert him, and you have deserted him. They don't want +you here. Grace hates you, and Paul is too lazy to care!" + +At the thought of Paul resolution came to her. She looked up at the +rather fat, amiable youth with the stout legs and the bare knees in +the football photograph, and prayed to it: "Paul, I'm very lonely +and tempted. Care for me even though I can't love you as you want. +Don't give me up because I can't let you have what some one else has +got. Let's be happy, Paul--please." + +She was shivering. She looked back with a terrified, reluctant +glance to the drawer where Mr. Magnus' letter was, then she went +downstairs. + +Soon after they started for Little Harben. The last days in Skeaton +had scarcely been happy ones. Grace had erected an elaborate +scaffolding of offended dignity and bitter misery. She was not +bitterly miserable, indeed she enjoyed her game, but it was +depressing to watch Paul give way to her. He was determined to leave +her in a happy mind. Any one could have told him that the way to do +that was to leave her alone altogether. Instead he petted her, +persuading her to eat her favourite pudding, buying her a new work- +box that she needed, dismissing a boy from the choir (the only +treble who was a treble) because he was supposed to have made a +long-nose at Grace during choir-practice. + +Ht adopted also a pleading line with her. "Now, Grace dear, don't +you think you could manage a little bit more?" + +"Do you think you ought to go out in all this rain, Grace dear?" + +"Grace, you look tired to death. Shall I read to you a little?" + +He listened to her stories with a new elaborate attention. He +laughed heartily at the very faintest glimmer of a joke. Through it +all Grace maintained an unreleased solemnity, a mournful +superiority, a grim forbearance. + +Maggie, watching, felt with a sinking heart that she was beginning +to despise Paul. + +His very movement as he hurried to place a cushion for Grace sent a +little shiver down her back. "Oh, don't do it, Paul!" she heard +herself cry internally, but she could say nothing. She had won her +victory about Harben. She could only now be silent. Still, she bore +no grudge at all against Grace. She even liked her. + +Grace made many sinister allusions to her fancied departure. "Ah, in +November . . . Oh! of course I shall not be here then!" or, "That +will be in the autumn then, won't it? You'd better give it to some +one who will be here at the time." With every allusion she scored a +victory. It was evident that Paul was terrified by the thought that +she should leave him. He did not see what he would do without her. +His world would tumble to pieces. + +"But she hasn't the remotest intention of going," said Maggie. +"She'll never go." + +"Well, I don't know. It would be strange without her, Maggie, I must +confess. You see, all our lives we've been together--all our lives." + +Nevertheless he felt perhaps some relief, in spite of himself, when +they were safely in a train for Little Harben. It was rather a +relief, just for a day or two, not to see Grace's reproachful face. +Yes, it was. He was quite gay, almost like the boy he used to be. +Little Harben was one of the smallest villages in Wiltshire and its +Rectory one of the most dilapidated. The Rectory was sunk into the +very bottom of a green well. Green hills rose on every side above +it, green woods pressed in all around it, a wild, deserted green +garden crept up to the windows and clambered about the old walls. +There was hardly any furniture in the house, and many many windows +all without curtains. Long looking-glasses reflected the green +garden at every possible angle so that all the lights and shadows in +the house were green. There was a cat with green eyes, and the old +servant was so aged and infirm that she was, spiritually if not +physically, covered with green moss. + +From their bedroom they could see the long green slope of the hill. +Everywhere there was a noise of birds nestling amongst the leaves, +of invisible streams running through the grass, of branches +mysteriously cracking, and, always, in the distance some one seemed +to be chopping with an axe. If you pushed a window open multitudes +of little insects fell in showers about you. All the roses were +eaten with green flies. + +"What a place!" said Maggie; nevertheless it was rather agreeable +after the sand of Skeaton. + +During the first three days they preserved their attitude of +friendly distance. On the fourth evening Maggie desperately flung +down her challenge. They were sitting, after supper, in the wild +deserted garden. It was a wonderful evening, faintly blue and dim +crocus with flickering silver stars. The last birds twittered in the +woods; the green arc of the hill against the evening sky had a great +majesty of repose and rest. "Now, Paul!" said Maggie. + +"What is it, dear?" but he slowly changed colour and looked away +from her, out into the wood. + +"We've got to face it some time," she said. "The sooner, then, the +better--" + +"Face what?" he asked, dropping his voice as though he were afraid +that some one would overhear. + +"You and me." Maggie gathered her resources together. "Before we +were married we were great friends. You were the greatest friend I +ever had except Uncle Mathew. And now I don't know what we are." + +"Whose fault is that?" he asked huskily. "You know what the matter +is. You don't love me. You never have . . . Have you?" He suddenly +ended, turning towards her. + +She saw his new eagerness and she was frightened, but she looked at +a little bunch of stars that twinkled at her above the dark elms and +took courage. + +"I'm very bad at explaining my feelings," she said. "And you're not +very good either, Paul. I know I am very fond of you, and I feel as +though it ought to be so simple if I were wiser or kinder. I've been +thinking for weeks about this, and I want to say that I'm ready to +do anything that will make you happy." + +"You'll love me?" he asked. + +"I'm very fond of you, and I always will be." + +"No, but love." + +"A word like that isn't important. Affection--" + +"No. It's love I want." + +She turned away from him, pressing her hands together, staring into +the wood that was sinking into avenues of dark. She couldn't answer +him. He came over to her. He knelt on the dry grass, took her head +between his hands, and kissed her again and again and again. + +She heard him murmur: "Maggie . . . Maggie . . . Maggie. You must +love me. You must. I've waited so long. I didn't know what love was. +God in His Mercy forgive me for the thoughts I've had this year. +You've tormented me. Tantalised me. You're a witch. A witch. You're +so strange, so odd, so unlike any one. You've enchanted me. Love me. +Maggie . . . Love me . . . Love me." + +She caught his words all broken and scattered. She felt his heart +beating against her body, and his hands were hot to the touch of her +cold cheek. She felt that he was desperate and ashamed and pitiful. +She felt, above all else, that she must respond--and she could not. +She strove to give him what he needed. She caught his hands, and +then, because she knew that she was acting falsely and the whole of +her nature was in rebellion, she drew back. He felt her withdraw. +His hands dropped. + +She burst into tears, suddenly hiding her face in her hands as she +used to do when she was a little girl. + +"Oh, Paul," she wept. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm wicked. I +can't--" + +He got up and stood with his back to her, looking towards the night +sky that flashed now with stars. + +She controlled herself, feeling desperately that their whole future +together hung on the approaching minutes. She went up to him. +standing at first timidly behind him, then putting her hand through +his arm. + +"Paul. It isn't so hopeless. If I can't give you that I can give you +everything else. I told you from the first that I couldn't help +loving Martin. All that kind of love I gave to him, but we can be +friends. I want a friend so badly. If we're both lonely we can come +together closer and closer, and perhaps, later on--" + +But she could not go on. She knew that she would never forget +Martin, that she would never love Paul. These two things were so +clear to her that she could not pretend. As the darkness gathered +the wood into its arms and the last twitter of the birds sank into +silence, she felt that she too was being caught into some silent +blackness. The sky was pale green, the stars so bright that the rest +of the world seemed to lie in dim shadow. She could scarcely see +Paul now; when he spoke his voice came, disembodied, out of the +dusk. + +"You'll never forget him, then?" at last he asked. + +"No." + +"You're strange. You don't belong to us. I should have seen that +at the beginning. I knew nothing about women and thought that all +that I wanted--oh God, why should I be so tempted? I've been a good +man . . ." Then he came close to her and put his hand on her +shoulder and even drew her to him. "I won't bother you any more, +Maggie. I'll conquer this. We'll be friends as you want. It isn't +fair to you--" + +She felt the control that he was keeping on himself and she admired +him. Nevertheless she knew, young though she was, that if she let +him go now she was losing him for ever. The strangest pang of +loneliness and isolation seized her. If Paul left her and Martin +wasn't there, she was lonely indeed. She saw quite clearly how his +laziness would come to his aid. He would summon first his virtue and +his religion, and twenty years of abstinence would soon reassert +their sway; then he would slip back into the old, lazy, self- +complacent being that he had been before. Staring into the dark wood +she saw it all. She could completely capture him by responding to +his passion. Without that she was too queer, too untidy, too +undisciplined, to hold him at all. But she could not lie, she could +not pretend. + +She kissed him. + +"Paul, let's be friends, then. Splendid friends. Oh! we will be +happy!" + +But as he kissed her she knew that she had lost him. + +Paul was very kind to her during their stay at Little Harben, but +they recovered none of that old friendship that had been theirs +before they married. Too many things were now between them. By the +end of that month Maggie longed to return to Skeaton. It was not +only that she felt crushed and choked by the strangling green that +hemmed in the old house--the weeds and the trees, and the plants +seemed to draw in the night closer and closer about the windows and +doors--but also solitude with Paul was revealing to her, in a +ruthless, cruel manner, his weaknesses. They were none of them, +perhaps, very terrible, but she did not wish to see them. She would +like to shut her eyes to them all. If she lost that friendly +kindness that she felt for him then indeed she had lost everything. +She felt as though he were wilfully trying to tug it away from her. + +Why was it that she had never shrunk from the faults of Martin and +Uncle Mathew--faults so plain and obvious--and now shrunk from +Paul's? Paul's were such little ones--a desire for praise and +appreciation, a readiness to be cheated into believing that all was +well when he knew that things were very wrong, an eagerness to be +liked even by quite worthless people, sloth and laziness, living +lies that were of no importance save as sign-posts to the cowardice +of his soul. Yes, cowardice! That was the worst of all. Was it his +religion that had made him cowardly? Why was Maggie so terribly +certain that if the necessity for physical defence of her or some +helpless creature arose Paul would evade it and talk about "turning +the other cheek"? He was so large a man and so soft--a terrific +egoist finally, in the centre of his soul, an egoist barricaded by +superstitions and fears and lies, but not a ruthless egoist, because +that demanded energy. + +And yet, with all this, he had so many good points. He was a child, +a baby, like so many clergymen. Even her father could have been +defended by that plea . . . + +He was not radically bad, he was radically good, but he had never +known discipline or real sorrow or hardship. Wrapped in cotton wool +all his life, spoilt, indulged, treated by the world as men treat +women. His effeminacy was the result of his training because he had +always been sheltered. Now his contact with Maggie was presenting +him for the first time with Reality. Would he face and grapple with +it, or would he slip away, evade it, and creep back into his padded +castle? + +The return to Skeaton and the winter that followed it did not answer +that question. Maggie, Grace, and Paul were figures, guarded and +defended, outwardly friendly. Grace behaved during those months very +well, but Maggie knew that this was a fresh sign of hostility. The +"Chut-Chut," "My dear child," and the rest that had been so +irritating had been after all signs of intimacy. They were now +withdrawn. Maggie made herself during that winter and the spring +that followed as busy as possible. She ruthlessly forbade all +thoughts of Martin, of the aunts, of London; she scarcely saw +Caroline, and the church was her fortress. She seemed to be flung +from service to service, to be singing in the choir (she had no +voice), asking children their catechism, listening to Paul's high, +rather strained, voice reading the lessons, talking politely to Mrs. +Maxse or one of the numerous girls, knitting and sewing (always so +badly), and above all struggling to remember the things that she was +for ever forgetting. Throughout this period she was pervaded by the +damp, oily smell of the heated church, always too hot, always too +close, always too breathless. + +She had many headaches; she liked them because they held back her +temptation to think of forbidden things. + +Gradually, although she did not know it, the impression gained +ground that she was "queer." She had not been to the Toms' often, +but she was spoken of as their friend. She had seen Caroline, who +was now considered by the church a most scandalous figure, scarcely +at all, but it was known that she was an old friend. Above all, it +was understood that the rector and his wife were not happy. + +"Oh, she's odd--looks more like a boy than a woman. She never says +anything, seems to have no ideas. I don't believe she's religious +really either." + +She knew nothing of this. She did not notice that she was not asked +often to other houses. People were kind (the Skeaton people were +neither malicious nor cruel) but left her more and more alone. She +said to herself again and again: "I must make this a success--I +must"--but the words were becoming mechanical. It was like tramping +a treadmill: she got no further, only became more and more +exhausted. That spring and summer people noticed her white face and +strange eyes. "Oh, she's a queer girl," they said. + +The summer was very hot with a little wind that blew the sand +everywhere. Strange how that sand succeeded in penetrating into the +very depth of the town. The sand lay upon the pavement of the High +Street so that your feet gritted as you walked. The woods and houses +lay for nearly two months beneath a blazing sun. There was scarcely +any rain. The little garden behind the Rectory was parched and +brown; the laurel bushes were grey with dust. They saw very few +people that summer; many of their friends had escaped. + +Maggie, thinking of the green depths of Harben a year ago, longed +for its coolness; nevertheless she was happy to think that she would +never have to see Harben again. + +As she had foretold, laziness settled upon Paul. What he loved best +was to sink into his old armchair in the dusty study and read old +volumes of Temple Bar and the Cornhill. He had them piled at his +side; he read article after article about such subjects as "The +Silkworm Industry" and "Street Signs of the Eighteenth Century." He +was very proud of his sermons, but now he seldom gave a new one. He +always intended to. "Don't let any one disturb me to-night, Maggie," +he would say at supper on Fridays. "I've got my sermon." But on +entering the study he remembered that there was an article in Temple +Bar that he must finish. He also read the Church Times right +through, including the advertisements. Grace gradually resumed her +old functions. + +She maintained, however, an elaborate pretence of leaving everything +to Maggie. Especially was she delighted when Maggie forgot +something. When that happened she said nothing; her mouth curled a +little. She treated Maggie less and less to her garrulous +confidences. They would sit for hours in the drawing-room together +without exchanging a word. Maggie and Paul had now different +bedrooms. Early in the autumn Maggie had a little note from Mr. +Magnus. It said: + +"You have not written to any of us for months. Won't you come just +for a night to see your aunts? At least let us know that you are +happy." + +She cried that night in bed, squeezing her head into the pillow so +that no one should hear her. She seemed to have lost all her pluck. +She must do something, but what? She did not know how to deal with +people. If they were kind and friendly there were so many things +that she could do, but this silent creeping away from her paralysed +her. She remembered how she had said to Katherine: "No one can make +me unhappy if I do not wish it to be." Now she did not dare to think +how unhappy she was. She knew that they all thought her strange and +odd, and she felt that strangeness creeping upon her. She MUST be +odd if many people thought her so. She became terribly self- +conscious, wondering whether her words and movements were strange. + +She was often so tired that she could not drag one foot after +another. + +A few weeks before Christmas something happened. A terrible thing, +perhaps--but she was delivered by it . . . + +She was sitting one afternoon a few weeks before Christmas in the +drawing-room alone with Grace. It was her "At Home" day, a Friday +afternoon. Grace was knitting a grey stocking, a long one that +curled on her lap. She knitted badly, clumsily, twisting her fingers +into odd shapes and muddling her needles. Now and then she would +look up as though she meant to talk, and then remembering that it +was Maggie who was opposite to her she would purse her lips and look +down again. The fire hummed and sputtered, the clock ticked, and +Grace breathed in heavy despairing pants over the difficulties of +her work. The door opened and the little maid, her eyes nervously +wandering towards Grace, murmured, "Mr. Cardinal, mum." + +The next thing of which Maggie was conscious was Uncle Mathew +standing clumsily just inside the door shifting his bowler hat +between his two hands. + +The relief of seeing him was so great that she jumped up and ran +towards him crying, "Oh, Uncle Mathew! I'm so glad! At last!" + +He dropped his bowler in giving her his hand. She noticed at once +that he was looking very unhappy and had terribly run to seed. + +He was badly shaved, his blue suit was shabby and soiled. He was +fatter, and his whole body was flabby and uncared for. Maggie saw at +once that he had been drinking, not very much, but enough to make +him a little uncertain on his feet and unsteady in his gaze. Maggie, +when she saw him, felt nothing but a rush of pity and desire to +protect him. Very strangely she felt the similarity between him and +herself. Nobody wanted either of them--they must just love one +another because there was no one else to love them. + +She was aware then that Grace had risen and was standing looking at +them both. + +She turned round to her saying, "Grace, this is my uncle. You've +heard me speak of him, haven't you? He was very kind to me when I +was a little girl . . . Uncle, this is my sister-in-law, Miss +Trenchard." + +Uncle Mathew smiled and, rather unsteadily, came forward; he caught +her hand in both his damp, hot ones. "Very pleased to meet you, Miss +Trenchard. I know you've been very good to my little Maggie; at +least when I say 'my little Maggie' she's not mine any longer. She +belongs to your brother now, doesn't she? Of course she does. I hope +you're well." + +Maggie realised then the terrified distress in Grace's eyes. The +grey stocking had fallen to the ground, and Grace stared at Uncle +Mathew in a kind of fascinated horror. She realised of course at +once that he was what she would call "tipsy." He was not "tipsy," +but nevertheless "tipsy" enough for Grace. Maggie saw her take in +every detail of his appearance--his unshaven cheeks, the wisps of +hair over the bald top of his head, the spots on his waistcoat, the +mud on his boots, and again as she watched Grace make this summary, +love and protection for that unhappy man filled her heart. For +unhappy he was! She saw at once that he had had a long slide +downhill since his last visit to her. He was frightened--frightened +immediately now of Grace and the room and the physical world--but +frightened also behind these things at some spectre all his own. +Grace sat down and tried to recover herself. She began to talk in +her society voice. Maggie knew that she was praying, over and over +again, with a monotony possible only to the very stupid, that there +would be no callers that afternoon. + +"And so you know Glebeshire, Mr. Cardinal! Fancy! I've never been +there--never been there in my life. Fancy that! Although so many of +my relations live there. I once nearly went down, one wet Christmas, +and I was going to stay with my aunt, but something happened to +prevent me. I think I caught a cold at the time. I can't quite +remember. But fancy you knowing Glebeshire so well!" + +All this came out in a voice that might have issued from a +gramophone, so little did it represent Grace's real feelings or +emotions. Maggie knew so well that inside her head these +exclamations were rising and falling: "What a horrible man! What a +dreadful man! Maggie's uncle! We're lost if any one calls! Oh! I do +hope no one calls!" + +It was obvious meanwhile that Mathew was urgently wishing for a +moment alone with Maggie. He looked at her with pleading eyes, and +once he winked towards Grace. He talked on, however, running some of +his words into one another and paying very little attention to +anything that Grace might say: "No, I haven't seen my little niece, +Miss Trenchard, for a long time--didn't like to interfere, in a way. +Thought she'd ask for me when she wanted me. We've always been the +greatest friends. I'm a bachelor, you see--never married. Not that +I'd like you to fancy that I've no interest in the other sex, far +from it, but I'm a wanderer by nature. A wife in every port, +perhaps. Well, who knows? But one's lonely at times, one is indeed. +A pretty tidy little place you've got here. Yes, you have--with a +garden too." + +Paul came in, and Maggie saw him start as Mathew's stout figure +surprised him. She felt then a rush of hostility against Paul. It +was as though, at every point, she must run in fiercely to defend +her uncle. + +Meanwhile Grace's worst fears were realised. The little maid +announced Miss Purves and Mrs. Maxse. A terrible half-hour followed. +Miss Purves, as soon as she understood that this strange man was +Mrs. Trenchard's uncle, was all eager excitement, and Uncle Mathew, +bewildered by so many strangers, confused by a little unsteadiness +in his legs that would have been nothing had he not been in a small +room crowded with furniture, finally clasped Mrs. Maxse by the +shoulder in his endeavour to save himself from tumbling over the +little table that held the cakes and bread-and-butter. His hot, +heavy hand pressed into Mrs. Maxse's flesh, and Mrs. Maxse, +terrified indeed, screamed. + +He began to apologise, and in his agitation jerked Miss Purves' cup +of tea from the table on to the floor. + +After that he realised that it would be better for him to go. He +began elaborate apologies. Paul saw him to the door. He gripped Paul +by the hand. "I'm delighted to have met you," he said in full +hearing of the trembling ladies. "You've given me such a good time. +Give my little Maggie a good time too. She's not looking over well. +Send her up to London to stay with me for a bit." + +Maggie saw him to the gate. In the middle of the little drive he +stopped, turning towards her, leaning his hands heavily upon her. +"Maggie dear," he said, "I'm in a bad way, a very bad way. You won't +desert me?" + +"Of course I won't," she answered. "I may want your help in a week +or two." + +He looked dismally about him, at the thick, dull laurel bushes and +the heavy, grey sky. "I don't like this place, Maggie," he said, +"and all those women. It's religion again, and it's worse than that +Chapel. You don't seem to be able to get away from religion. You're +not happy, my dear." + +"Yes, I am," she answered firmly. + +"No, you're not. And I'm not. But it will be all right in the end, +I've no doubt. You'll never desert me, Maggie." + +"I'll never desert you," Maggie answered. + +He bent down and kissed her, his breath whisky-laden. She kissed him +eagerly, tenderly. For a moment she felt that she would go with him, +just as she was, and leave them all. + +"Uncle," she said, "you understand how it is, don't you? We'd have +asked you to stay if we'd known." + +"Oh, that's all right." He looked at her mysteriously. "That new +sister-in-law of yours was shocked with me. They wouldn't have me in +the house. I saw that. And I only had one glass at the station. I'm +not much of a man in society now. That's the trouble . . . But next +time I'll come down and just send you a line and you'll come to see +me in my own little place--won't you? I'm in the devil of a mess, +Maggie, that's the truth, and I don't know how to get out of it. +I've been a bit of a fool, I have." + +She saw the look of terror in his eye again. + +"Would some money--" she suggested. + +"Oh, I'm afraid it's past five pounds now, my dear." He sighed +heavily. "Well, I must be getting along. You'll catch your death of +cold standing out here. We ought to have been together all this +time, you know. It would have been better for both of us." + +He kissed her again and left her. She slowly returned into the +house. Curiously, he had made her happier by his visit. Her pluck +returned. She needed it. Grace was now stirred by the most active of +all her passions--fear. + +Nevertheless Grace and Paul behaved very well. Maggie understood the +shock that visit must have given them. She watched Grace imagining +the excited stories that would flow from the lips of Miss Purves and +Mrs. Maxse. She was determined, however, that Grace and Paul should +not suffer in silence--and Uncle Mathew must be vindicated. + +At supper that night she plunged: + +"Uncle Mathew's been very ill," she began, "for a long time now. He +wasn't himself this afternoon, I'm afraid. He was very upset at some +news that he'd just had. And then meeting so many strangers at once- +-" + +Maggie saw that Grace avoided her eyes. + +"I don't think we'll discuss it, Maggie, if you don't mind. Mr. +Cardinal was strange in his behaviour, certainly. It was a pity that +Miss Purves came. But it's better not to discuss it." + +"I don't agree," said Maggie. "If you think that I'm ashamed of +Uncle Mathew you're quite wrong. He's very unhappy and lonely--" She +felt her voice tremble. "He hasn't got any one to look after him--" + +Grace's hand was trembling as she nervously crumbled her bread. +Still without looking at Maggie she said: + +"By the way, you did the church flowers this morning didn't you, +eh?" + +Maggie turned white and, as always on these occasions, her heart +thumped, leaping, as it seemed, into the very palms of her hands. + +"But it was to-morrow--" she began. + +"You remember that I told you three days ago that it was to be this +morning instead of the usual Thursday because of the Morgans' +wedding." + +"Oh, Grace, I'm so sorry! I had remembered, I had indeed, and then +Lucy suddenly having that chill--." + +Paul struck in. "Really, Maggie, that's too bad. No flowers to- +morrow? Those others were quite dead yesterday. I noticed at +evensong . . . Really, really. And the Morgans' wedding!" + +Maggie sat there, trembling. + +"I'm very sorry," she said, almost whispering. Why did fate play +against her? Why, when she might have fought the Uncle Mathew battle +victoriously, had Grace suddenly been given this weapon with which +to strike? + +"I'll go and do them now," she said. "I can take those flowers out +of the drawing-room." + +"It's done," Grace slowly savouring her triumph. "I did them myself +this afternoon." + +"Then you should have told me that!" Maggie burst out. "It's not +fair making me miserable just for your own fun. You don't know how +you hurt, Grace. You're cruel, you're cruel!" + +She had a horrible fear lest she should burst into tears. To save +that terrible disaster she jumped up and ran out of the room, +hearing behind her Paul's admonitory "Maggie, Maggie!" + +It is to be expected that Mrs. Maxse and Miss Purves made the most +of their story. The Rector's wife and a drunken uncle! No, it was +too good to be true . . . but it was true, nevertheless. Christmas +passed and the horrible damp January days arrived. Skeaton was a +dripping covering of emptiness--hollow, shallow, deserted. Every +tree, Maggie thought, dripped twice as much as any other tree in +Europe. It remained for Caroline Purdie to complete the situation. +One morning at breakfast the story burst upon Maggie's ears. Grace +was too deeply moved and excited to remember her hostility. She +poured out the tale. + +It appeared that for many many months Caroline had not been the wife +she should have been. No; there had been a young man, a Mr. Bennett +from London. The whole town had had its suspicions, had raised its +pointing finger, had peeped and peered and whimpered. The only +person who had noticed nothing was Mr. Purdie himself. He must, of +course, have seen that his house was filled with noisy young men and +noisier young women; he must have realised that his bills were high, +that champagne was drunk and cards were played, and that his wife's +attire was fantastically gorgeous. At any rate, if he noticed these +things he said nothing. He was a dull, silent, slow-thinking man, +people said. Then one day he went up to London or rather, in the +manner of the best modern problem play, he pretended to go, returned +abruptly, and discovered Caroline in the arms of Mr. Bennett. + +He flung Mr. Bennett out of the bedroom window, breaking his leg and +his nose, and that was why every one knew the story. What he said to +Caroline was uncertain. He did not, however, pack her off, as Miss +Purves said he should have done, but rather kept her in the big ugly +house, just as he had done before, only now without the young men, +the young women, the champagne and the flowers. + +"I must go and see her," said Maggie when she heard this story. + +Grace turned the strange pale yellow that was her colour when she +was disturbed. + +"Maggie," she said, "I warn you that if you go to see this abandoned +woman you will be insulting Paul and myself before the whole town." + +"She is my friend," said Maggie. + +"She is a wicked woman," said Grace, breathing very heavily, "and +you're a wicked woman if you go to see her. You have already made +Paul miserable." + +"That is untrue," Maggie said fiercely. "It is I that have been +miserable. Not that it hasn't been my own fault. I should never have +married Paul." + +"No, you should not," said Grace, breathing as though she had been +running very hard. "And for that I was partly to blame. But fancy +what you've done since you've been with us! Just fancy! It's +terrible . . . never a greater mistake . . . never, never." + +Maggie tossed her head. "Well, if it was a mistake," she said, "the +end of pretending has come at last. I've been trying for nearly two +years now to go your way and Paul's. I can't do it. I can't alter +myself. I've tried, and I can't. It's no use. Grace, we'd never get +on. I see it's been hopeless from the first. But you shan't make +Paul hate me. You've been trying your hardest, but you shan't +succeed. I know that I'm stupid and careless, but it's no use my +pretending to be good and quiet and obedient. I'm not good. I'm not +quiet. I'm not obedient. I'm going to be myself now. I'm going to +have the friends I want and do the things I want." + +Grace moved back as though she thought that Maggie were going to +strike her. + +"You're wicked," she said. "What about those letters in your drawer? +You've never loved Paul." + +"So you've been opening my drawers?" said Maggie. "You're worse than +I, Grace. I never opened any one's drawers nor read letters I +shouldn't. But it doesn't matter. There's nothing I want to hide. +Paul knows all about it. I'm not ashamed." + +"No, you're not," Grace's eyes were large with terror. "You're +ashamed at nothing. You've made every one in the place laugh at us. +You've ruined Paul's life here--yes, you have. But you don't care. +Do you think I mind for myself? But I love Paul, and I've looked +after him all his life, and he was happy until you came--yes, he +was. You've made us all laughed at. You're bad all through, Maggie, +and the laws of the Church aren't anything to you at all." + +There was a pause. Maggie, a little calmer, realised Grace, who had +sunk into a chair. She saw that stout middle-aged woman with the +flat expressionless face and the dull eyes. She saw the flabby hands +nervously trembling, and she longed suddenly to be kind and +affectionate. + +"Oh, Grace," she cried. "I know I've been everything I shouldn't, +only don't you see I can't give up my friends? And I told Paul +before we married that I'd loved some one else and wasn't religious. +But perhaps it isn't too late. Let's be friends. I'll try harder +than ever before--" + +Then she saw, in the way that Grace shrank back, her eyes staring +with the glazed fascination that a bird has for a snake, that there +was more than dislike and jealousy here, there was the wild +unreasoning fear that a child has for the dark. + +"Am I like that?" was her own instinctive shuddering thought. Then, +almost running, she rushed up to her bedroom. + + + + +CHAPTER VII + +DEATH OF AUNT ANNE + + +Maggie, after that flight, faced her empty room with a sense of +horror. Was there, truly, then, something awful about her? The child +(for she was indeed nothing more) looked into her glass, standing on +tip-toe that she might peer sufficiently and saw her face, pale, +with its large dark eyes rimmed by the close-clipped hair. Was she +then awful? First her father, then her aunts, then the Warlocks, now +Grace and Paul--not only dislike but fright, terror, alarm! + +Her loneliness crushed her in that half-hour as it had never crushed +her since that day at Borhedden. She broke down altogether, kneeling +by the bed and her head in her pillow sobbing: "Oh, Martin, I want +you! Martin, I want you so!" + +When she was calmer she thought of going down to Paul and making +another appeal to him, but she knew that such an appeal could only +end in his asking her to change herself, begging her to be more +polite to Grace, more careful and less forgetful, and of course +to give up such people as the Toms and Caroline, and then there +would come, after it all, the question as to whether she intended +to behave better to himself, whether she would be more loving, more +. . . Oh no! she could not, she could not, she could not! + +She saw the impossibility of it so plainly that it was a relief to +her and she washed her face and brushed her hair and plucked up +courage to regard herself normally once more. "I'm not different," +she said to the looking-glass. "There's no reason for Grace to make +faces." She saw that the breach between herself and Grace had become +irreparable, and that whatever else happened in the future at least +it was certain that they would never be friends again. + +She went downstairs prepared to do battle . . . + +Next morning she paid her visit to Caroline. It was a strange +affair. The girl was sitting alone in her over-gorgeous house, her +hands on her lap, looking out of the window, an unusual position for +her to be in. + +Caroline was at first very stiff and haughty, expecting that Maggie +had come to scold her. "I just looked in to sec how you were," said +Maggie. + +"You might have come before," answered Caroline. "It's years since +you've been near me." + +"I didn't like all those people you had in your house," said Maggie. +"I like it better now there's no one in it." + +That was not, perhaps, very tactful of her. Caroline flushed. + +"I could have them all here now if I wanted to ask them," she +answered angrily. + +"Well, I'm very glad you'd rather be without them," said Maggie. +"They weren't worthy of you, Caroline." + +"Oh! What's the use going on talking like this!" Caroline broke out. +"Of course you've heard all about everything. Every one has. I can't +put my nose outside the door without them all peering at me. I hate +them all--all of them--and the place too, and every one in it." + +"I expect you do--" said Maggie sympathetically. + +"Nasty cats! As though they'd never done anything wrong all their +days. It was mostly Alfred's fault too. What does he expect when he +leaves me all alone here week after week eating one's heart out. One +must do something with one's time. Just like all men! At first +there's nothing too good for you, then when they get used to it they +can't be bothered about anything. I wonder what a man thinks married +life is? Then to listen to Alfred, you'd think we were still living +in the days of the Good Queen Victoria--you would indeed. Wouldn't +let me go up to London alone! There's a nice thing for you. And all +because he did let me go once and I meant to stay with mother and +mother was away. So I had to sleep at a hotel. Why shouldn't I sleep +at a hotel! I'm not a baby. And now he keeps me here like a +prisoner. Just as though I were in jail." + +"Is he unkind to you?" asked Maggie. + +"No, he isn't. It's his horrible kindness I can't stand. He won't +divorce me, he won't let me go away, he just keeps me here and is so +kind and patient that I could kill him. I shall one day. I know I +shall." She stood for a moment, pouting and looking out of the +window. Then suddenly she turned and, flinging her arms around +Maggie, burst into tears. + +"Oh, Maggie! I'm so miserable . . . I'm so miserable, Maggie! Why +did I ever come here? Why did I ever marry? I was so happy at home +with mother." + +Maggie comforted her, persuading her that all would soon be well, +that people very quickly forgot their little pieces of scandal, and +that so long as she did not run away or do anything really desperate +all would come right. Maggie discovered that Caroline had escaped +from her crisis with an increased respect and even affection for her +husband. She was afraid of him, and was the sort of woman who must +be afraid of her husband before her married life can settle into any +kind of security. + +"And I thought you'd altogether abandoned me!" she ended. + +"I wasn't coming while all those people were about," said Maggie. + +"You darling!" cried Caroline, kissing her. "Just the same as you +used to be. I was angry I can tell you when month after month went +by and you never came near me. I used to tell people when they asked +me that you were odd. 'She's not a bit like other people,' I would +say; 'not a bit and it's no use expecting her to be. She's always +been queer. I used to know her in London.' They do think you odd +here, darling. They do indeed. No one understands you. So odd for a +clergyman's wife. Well, so you are, aren't you? I always tell them +you had no bringing up." + +Caroline in fact very quickly recovered her flow. As soon as she +found that Maggie was not shocked she reasserted her old +superiority. Before the visit was over she had rather despised +Maggie for not being shocked. At Maggie's departure, however, she +was very loving. + +"You will come soon again, darling, won't you? It's no use asking +you to dinner because, of course, your husband won't come. But look +in any afternoon--or we might go for a drive in the motor. Good-bye- +-good-bye." + +Maggie, on her return, found Grace looking at the mid-day post in +the hall. She always did this in a very short-sighted way, taking up +the letters one by one, holding each very close to her eyes, and +sniffing at it as though she were trying to read through the +envelope. This always irritated Maggie, although her own letters +were not very many. To-night, when she heard the hall door open, she +turned and dropped the letters, giving that especial creaking little +gasp that she always did when she was startled. + +"Oh, it's you, Maggie, is it? Where've you been?" + +"I've been to see Mrs. Purdie," Maggie said defiantly. + +Grace paused as though she were going to speak, then turned on her +heel. But just as she reached the sitting-room door she said, +breathing heavily: + +"There's a telegram for you there." + +Maggie saw it lying on the table. She picked it up and hesitated. A +wild beating of the heart told her that it must be from Martin. She +didn't know what told her this except that now for so long she had +been expecting to see a telegram lying in just this way on the +table, waiting for her. She took it up with a hand that trembled. +She tore it open and read: + +"Come at once. Your aunt dying. Wishes to see you. Magnus." + +No need to ask which aunt. When one aunt was mentioned it was Aunt +Anne--of course. Oh, poor Aunt Anne! Maggie longed for her, longed +to be with her, longed to be kind to her, longed to comfort her. And +Mr. Magnus and Martha and Aunt Elizabeth and the cat--she must go at +once, she must catch a train after luncheon. + +She went impetuously into her husband's study. + +"Oh, Paul!" she cried. "Aunt Anne's dying, and I must go to her at +once." + +Paul was sitting in his old armchair before the fire; he was wearing +faded brown slippers that flapped at his heels; his white hair was +tangled; his legs were crossed, the fat broad thighs pressing out +against the shiny black cloth of his trousers. He was chuckling over +an instalment of Anthony Trollope's "Brown Jones and Robinson" in a +very ancient Cornhill. + +He looked up, "Maggie, you know it's my sermon-morning-- +interruptions--" He had dropped the Cornhill, but not fast enough to +hide it from her. + +She looked around at the dirty untidiness of the study. "It's all my +fault, this," she thought. "I should have kept him clean and neat +and keen on his work. I haven't. I've failed." + +Then her next thought was: "Grace wouldn't let me--" + +The study, in fact, was more untidy than ever, the pictures were +back in their places whence Maggie had once removed them. + +Husband and wife looked at one another. If she felt: "I've not +managed my duty," he felt perhaps: "What a child she is after all!" +But between them there was the gulf of their past experience. + +"I'm sorry to hear that," he said, yawning. "Is she an old lady?" + +"No, she's not," said Maggie, breathing very quickly. "I love her +very much. I've been thinking, Paul, I've not been good about my +relations all this time. I ought to have seen them more. I must go +up to London at once." + +"If your aunt's bad and wants you, I suppose you must," he answered. +He got up and came over to her. He kissed her suddenly. + +"You'll be wanting some money," he said. "Don't be long away. I'll +miss you." + +She caught the 2.30 train. It seemed very strange to her to be +sitting in it alone after the many months when she had been always +either with Grace or Paul. An odd sense of adventure surrounded her, +and she felt as though she were now at last approaching the climax +to which the slow events of the last two years had been leading. +When she had been a little girl one of the few interesting books in +the house had been The Mysteries of Udulpho. She could see the +romance now, with its four dumpy volumes, the F's so confusingly +like S's, the faded print, and the yellowing page. + +She could remember little enough of it, but there had been one scene +near the beginning of the story when the heroine, Emily, looking for +something in the dusk, had noticed some lines pencilled on the +wainscot; these mysterious pencilled lines had been the beginning of +all her troubles, and Maggie, as a small girl, had approached +sometimes in the evening dusk the walls of her attic to see whether +there too verses had been scribbled. Now, obscure in the corner of +her carriage, she felt as though the telegram had been a pencilled +message presaging some great event that would shortly change her +life. + +It was a dark and gloomy day, misty with a gale of wind that blew +the smoke into curls and eddies against the sky. There seemed to be +a roar about the vast London station that threatened her personally, +but she beat down her fears, found a taxi, and gave the driver the +well-remembered address. + +As they drove along she felt how much older, how much older she was +then than when she was last in London. Then she had been ignorant of +all life and the world, now she felt that she was an old, old woman +with an infinite knowledge of marriage and men and women and the way +they lived. She looked upon her aunts and indeed all that world that +had surrounded the Chapel as something infinitely childish, and for +that reason rather sweet and touching. She could be kind and +friendly even to Amy Warlock she thought. She wished that she had +some excuse so that she might stay in London a week or two. She felt +that she could stretch her limbs and breathe again now that she was +out of Grace's sight. + +And she would find out Uncle Mathew's address and pay him a surprise +visit . . . She laughed in the cab and felt gay and light-hearted +until she remembered the cause of her visit. Poor, poor Aunt Anne! +Oh, she did hope that she would be well enough to recognise her and +to show pleasure at seeing her. The cab had stopped in the well- +remembered street before the same old secret-looking house. Nothing +seemed to have changed, and the sight of it all brought Martin back +to her with so fierce a pang that for a moment breath seemed to +leave her body. It was just near here, only a few steps away, that +he had suddenly appeared, as though from the very paving-stones, +when she had been with Uncle Mathew, and then had gone to supper +with him. It was from this door that he had run on that last +desperate day. She looked up at the windows; the blinds were not +down; her aunt was yet alive; she paid the taxi and rang the bell. + +The door was opened by Martha, who seemed infinitely older and more +wrinkled than on the last occasion, her old face was yellow like +drawn parchment and her thin grey hairs were pasted back over her +old skull; she was wearing black mittens. + +"Miss Maggie!" and there was a real welcome in her voice. Maggie was +drawn into the dark little hall that smelt of cracknel biscuits and +lamp oil, there was the green baize door, and then suddenly the +shrill cry of the parrot, and then, out of the dark, the fiery eyes +of Thomas the cat. + +"Oh, Miss Maggie!" said Martha. "Or I suppose I should say 'Mrs.' +now. It's a long, long time . . ." + +"Yes, it is," said Maggie. "How is my aunt?" + +"If she lives through the night they'll be surprised," Martha +answered, wheezing and sighing. "Yes, the doctor says--' If Miss +Cardinal sees morning,' he says--" Then as Maggie hesitated at the +bottom of the staircase. "If you'd go straight to the drawing-room, +Miss, Mum, Mr. Magnus is waiting tea for you there." + +Maggie went up, past the Armed Men into the old room. She could have +kissed all the things for their old remembered intimacy and +friendliness, the pictures, the books, the old faded carpet, the +fire-screen, the chairs and wall-papers. There, too, was Mr. Magnus, +looking just as he used to look, with his spectacles and his +projecting ears, his timid smile and apologetic voice. He did seem +for a moment afraid of her, then her boyish air, her unfeigned +pleasure and happiness at being back there again, and a certain +childish awkwardness with which she shook hands and sat herself +behind the little tea-table reassured him: + +"You're not changed at all," he told her. "Isn't that dreadful?" she +said; "when all the way in the cab I've been telling myself how +utterly different I am." + +"I suppose you feel older?" he asked her. + +"Older! Why, centuries!" + +"You don't look a day," he said, smiling at her. + +"That's my short hair," she answered, smiling back at him, "and not +being able to wear my clothes like a grown woman. It's a fact that I +can't get used to long skirts, and in Skeaton it's bad form to cross +your knees. I try and remember--" she sighed. "The truth is I forget +everything just as I used to." + +"How is Aunt?" she asked him. He looked very grave, and behind his +smiles and welcome to her she saw that he was a tired and even +exhausted man. + +"They don't think she can live through the night," he answered her, +"but, thank God, she's out of all pain and will never suffer any +more. She's tranquil in her mind too, and the one thing she wanted +to put her quiet was to see you. She's been worrying about you for +months. Why didn't you come up to see us all this time, Maggie? That +wasn't kind of you." + +"No, it wasn't," said Maggie. "But I didn't dare." + +"Didn't dare?" he asked, astonished. + +"No, there were things all this would have reminded me of too badly. +It wasn't safe to be reminded of them." + +"Haven't you been happy, then, there?" he asked her almost in a +whisper. + +"Oh, I don't know," she didn't look up at him. "I made a mistake in +doing it. It was my fault, not theirs. No, I haven't been happy if +you want to know. And I shan't be. There's no chance. It's all +wrong; they all hate me. I seem to them odd, mad, like a witch they +used to burn in the old days. And I can't alter myself. And I don't +want to." + +It was amazing what good it did her to bring all this out. She had +said none of it to any one before. + +"Oh dear, oh dear," sighed Mr. Magnus. "I hadn't known. I thought it +was all going so well. But don't tell your aunt this. When she asks +you, say you're very, very happy and it's all going perfectly. She +must die at peace. Will you, my dear, will you?" + +His almost trembling anxiety touched her. + +"Why, dear Mr. Magnus, of course I will. And I am happy now that I'm +back with all of you. All I want is for people to be fond of me, you +know, but there's something in me--" She jumped up and stood in +front of him. "Mr. Magnus! You're wise, you write books, you know +all about things, tell me--tell me the absolute truth. Am I odd, am +I queer, am I like a witch that ought to be burnt at the stake?" + +He was deeply touched. He put his hands on her shoulders, then +suddenly drew her to him and kissed her. + +"I don't find you odd, my dear, but then, God forgive me, I'm odd +myself. We're all rather odd in this house, I'm afraid. But don't +you worry, Maggie. You're worth a wagon-load of ordinary people." + +She drew slowly away. She sighed. + +"I wish Paul and Grace only thought so," she said. + +They had a quiet little tea together; Maggie was longing to ask Mr. +Magnus questions about himself, but she didn't dare to do so. He +wrapped himself in a reserved friendly melancholy which she could +not penetrate. He looked so much older, so much more faded, as +though the heat and fire had gradually stolen away from him and left +him only the grey ghost of what he had been. + +"Are you writing any books, Mr. Magnus ?" she asked him. + +"Any books?" he answered smiling. "Surely one would be enough, my +dear. I have one half-finished as a matter of fact, but it's not +satisfactory. If it weren't for the bread and butter I don't think +I'd ever tackle it again. Or rather the bread, I should say. It's +precious little butter it brings in." + +"What's it called?" she asked. + +"'The Toad in the Hole,'" he said. + +"What a funny name! What does it mean?" + +"I don't know." He shook his head. "It meant something when I began +it, but the meaning doesn't seem important now." + +In a little while he left her, saying: "Now if I were you I'd take a +little nap, and later on I'll wake you and we'll go and see your +aunt." + +She slept, lying back in the blue armchair in front of the fire, +with only the leaping flames as light to the room. Strange and dim +but unspeakably sweet were her dreams. It seemed that she had +escaped for ever from Paul and Grace and Skeaton, and that in some +strange way Martin was back with her again, the same old Martin, +with his laugh and the light in his eyes and his rough red face. He +had come into the room--he was standing by the door looking at her; +she ran to him, her hands stretched out, cries of joy on her lips, +but oven as she reached him there was a cry through the house: "Your +Aunt Anne is dead! Your Aunt Anne is dead!" and all the bells began +to toll, and she was in the Chapel again and great crowds surged +past her. Aunt Anne's bier borne on high above them all. She cried +aloud, and woke to find Mr. Magnus standing at her side; one glance +at him told her that he was in terrible distress. + +"You must come at once," he said. "Your aunt may have only a few +minutes to live." + +She followed him, still only half-awake, rubbing her eyes with her +knuckles, and feeling as though she were continuing that episode +when Martha had led her at the dead of night into her aunt's +bedroom. + +The chill of the passages however woke her fully, and then her one +longing and desire was that Aunt Anne should be conscious enough to +recognise her and be aware of her love for her. + +The close room, with its smell of medicines and eau-de-Cologne and +its strange breathless hush, frightened her just as it had done once +before. She saw again the religious picture, the bleeding Christ and +the crucifix, the high white bed, the dim windows and the little +table with the bottles and the glasses. It was all as it had been +before. Her terror grew. She felt as though no power could drag her +to that bed. Something lurked there, something horrible and unclean, +that would spring upon her and hold her down with its claws . . . + +"Maggie!" said the clear faint voice that she knew so well. Her +terror left her. She did not notice Aunt Elizabeth, who was seated +close to the bed, nor Mr. Magnus, nor the nurse, nor the doctor. She +went forward unafraid. + +"Doctor, would you mind . . ." the voice went on. "Three minutes +alone with my niece . . ." The doctor, a stout red-faced man, said +something, the figures, all shadowy in the dim light, withdrew. + +Maggie was aware of nothing except that there was something of the +utmost urgency that she must say. She came close to the bed, found a +chair there, sat down and bent forward. There her aunt was lying, +the black hair in a dark shadow across the pillow, the face white +and sharp, and the eyes burning with a fierce far-seeing light. + +They had the intense gaze of a blind man to whom sight has suddenly +been given: he cries "I see! I see!" stretching out his arms towards +the sun, the trees, the rich green fields. She turned her head and +put both her hands about Maggie's; she smiled. + +Maggie said, "Oh, Aunt Anne, do you feel bad?" + +"No dear. I'm in no pain at all. Now that you've come I'm quite +happy. It was my one anxiety." Her voice was very faint, so that +Maggie had to lean forward to catch the words. + +"You'll have thought me unkind all this time," said Maggie, "not to +have come, but it hasn't been unkindness. Many times I've wanted, +but there seemed to be so much to do that it wasn't RIGHT to come +away." + +"Are you happy, dear?" Aunt Anne said in her ghostly whisper. + +"Very, very happy," said Maggie, remembering what Mr. Magnus had +said to her. + +Aunt Anne sighed. "Ah, that's good. It was my one worry that you +mightn't be happy. I was all wrong about you, Maggie, trying to push +you my way instead of letting you go your own. I should have waited +for God to show His direction. But I was impatient--and if you were +unhappy--" She broke off and for a moment Maggie thought that she +would speak no more. She lay there, with her eyes closed, like a +waxen image. + +She went on again: "I've always loved you, Maggie, from the very +first, but I was so impatient for you to come to God. I thought He +would reveal Himself and you not be ready. He did reveal Himself, +but not as I had thought. He came that night and took Mr. Warlock +with Him--that was true, Maggie, that night. All true--All true. God +will show you His way. It will be revealed to you. Heaven and its +glories. God and His dear Son . . ." + +She stopped again and lay with her eyes closed. + +Maggie timidly, at last, said: + +"Aunt Anne, I want you to forgive me for all my wickedness. I didn't +mean to be wicked, but I just couldn't say my feelings out loud. I +was shy of them somehow. I still am, perhaps. Maybe I always will +be. But I just want to say that I know now how good you were to me +all that time and I'm grateful from my heart." + +"You'll get better won't you, Aunt Anne, and then I'll come often? +I'm shy to say my feelings, but I love you. Aunt Anne, for what +you've been to me." + +She stopped. There was a deathly stillness in the chamber. The lamp +had sunk low and the fire was a gold cavern. Dusk stole on stealthy +feet from wall to wall. Aunt Anne did not, it seemed, breathe. Her +hands had dropped from Maggie's and her arms lay straight upon the +sheet. Her eyes were closed. + +Suddenly she whispered: + +"Dear Maggie . . . Maggie . . . My Lord and my God . . . My +Master . . ." + +Then very faintly: "The Lord is my Shepherd . . . My Shepherd . . . +He shall lead me forth . . . beside the pastures . . . my rod and my +staff . . . The Lord . . ." + +She gave a little sigh and her head rolled to one side. + +Maggie, with a startled fear, was suddenly conscious that she was +alone in the room. She went to the door and called for the doctor. +As they gathered about the bed the caverns of the fire fell with the +sharp sound of a closing door. + +Next morning Maggie wrote to Paul telling him that her aunt was +dead, that the funeral would be in two days' time, and that she +would stay in London until that was over. She had not very much time +just then to think of the house and the dead woman in it, because on +the breakfast-table there was this letter for her. + +23 CROMWELL RD., KENSINGTON, March 12, 1912. + +DEAR MRS. TRENCHARD, + +I hear that you have come to London to visit your aunt. I have been +hoping for some time past to have an opportunity of seeing you. I am +sure that you will have no wish at all to see me; at the same time I +do beg you to give me half an hour at the above address. Five +o'clock to-morrow would be a good time. Please ask for Miss Warlock. + +Believe me, Yours faithfully, AMY WARLOCK. + +Maggie stared at the signature, then, with a thickly beating heart, +decided that of course she would go. She was not afraid but-- +Martin's sister! What would come of it? The house was strangely +silent; Aunt Elizabeth sniffed into her handkerchief a good deal; +Mr. Magnus, his face strained with a look of intense fatigue, went +out about some business. The blinds of the house wore down and all +the rooms were bathed in a green twilight. + +About quarter past four Maggie went down into the Strand and found a +cab. She gave the address and off they went. Sitting in the corner +of the cab she seemed to be an entirely passive spectator of events +that were being played before her. She knew, remotely, that Aunt +Anne's death had deeply affected her, that coming back to the old +house had deeply affected her, and that this interview with Amy +Warlock might simply fasten on her the fate that she had for many +months now seen in front of her. She could not escape; and she did +not want to escape. + +They found the house, a very grimy looking one, in the interminable +Cromwell Road. Maggie rang a jangling bell, and the door was +ultimately opened by a woman with sleeves turned up at the elbows +and a dirty apron. + +"Is Miss Warlock at home?" The woman sniffed. + +"I expect so," she said. "Most times she is. What name?" + +"Mrs. Trenchard," Maggie said. + +She was admitted into a hall that smelt of food and seemed in the +half-light to be full of umbrellas. The woman went upstairs, but +soon returned to say that Miss Warlock would see the lady. Maggie +found that in the sitting-room the gas was dimly burning. There was +the usual lodging-house furniture, and on a faded red sofa near the +fire old Mrs. Warlock was lying. Maggie could not see her very +clearly in the half-light, but there was something about her +immobility and the stiffness of her head (decorated as of old with +its frilly white cap) that reminded one of a figure made out of wax. +Maggie turned to find Amy Warlock standing close to her. + +"Mrs. Thurston--" Maggie began, hesitating. + +"You may not know," said Amy Warlock, "that I have retained my +maiden name. Sit down, won't you? It is good of you to have come." + +The voice was a little more genial than it had been in the old days. +Nevertheless this was still the old Amy Warlock, stiff, masculine, +impenetrable. + +"I hope your aunt is better," she said. + +"My aunt is dead," answered Maggie. + +"Dear me, I'm sorry to hear that. She was a good woman and did many +kind actions in her time." + +There was something very unpleasant about that room, with the yellow +light, the hissing gas, and the immobile figure on the sofa. Maggie +looked in the direction of old Mrs. Warlock + +"You needn't mind mother," said Amy Warlock. "For some time now +she's been completely paralysed. She can't speak or move. But she +likes to be downstairs, to see the world a bit. It's sad after the +way that she used to enjoy life. Father's death was a great shock to +her." + +It was sad. Maggie remembered how fond she had been of her food. +Like a waxen image! Like a waxen image! The whole room was ghoulish +and unnatural. + +"I've asked you to come and see me, Mrs. Trenchard," continued Miss +Warlock, "not because we can have any wish to meet, I am sure. We +have never liked one another. But I have something on my conscience, +and I may not have another opportunity of speaking to you. I don't +suppose you have heard that very shortly I intend to enter a nunnery +at Roehampton." + +"And your mother?" asked Maggie. + +"Mother will go into a Home," answered Miss Warlock. + +There was a strange little sound from the sofa like a rat nibbling +behind the wainscot. + +"I must tell you," said Miss Warlock, speaking apparently with some +difficulty, "that I have done you a wrong. Shortly after my father's +death my brother wrote to you from Paris." + +"Wrote to me?" repeated Maggie. + +"Yes--wrote to you through me. I destroyed the letters. He wrote +then five times in rather swift succession. I destroyed all the +letters." + +Maggie said nothing. + +"I destroyed the letters," continued Amy Warlock, "because I did not +wish you and my brother to come together. I did not wish you to, +simply out of hatred for you both. I thought that my brother killed +my father--whom--whom--I loved. I knew that the one human being whom +Martin had ever loved beside his father was yourself. He did love +you, Mrs. Trenchard, more truly than I had believed it in his power +to love any one. I think you could have made him happy--therefore I +did not wish you to meet again." + +There was a pause. Maggie said at last: + +"Were there no other letters?" + +"Yes," said Miss Warlock. "One this summer. For more than a year +there was nothing; then this summer, a little one. I destroyed that +too." + +"What did it say?" asked Maggie. + +"It said that the woman to whom he had been married was dead. He +said that if you didn't answer this letter he would understand that +you would not want to hear from him any more. He had been very ill." + +"Where did he write that?" + +"In Paris." + +"And where is he now?" + +"I don't know. I have heard from him no more." + +Maggie got up and stood, her head raised as though listening for +something. + +"You've been very cruel, Miss Warlock," she said. + +"Perhaps I have," said Miss Warlock. "But you cannot judge until you +know with what reason I hated my brother. It is a very old story. +However, now I hate no one. I will not apologise for what I have +done. I do not want your forgiveness. I had to absolve my +conscience." + +"And you have no idea where he is now?" + +"I have no idea. He may be dead for all I know." + +Maggie shivered. "If you have any more information you will give it +me?" + +"I will give it you." + +"This is my address." Maggie gave her a card. + +They said good-day, looking for one moment, face to face, eye to +eye. + +Then Maggie turned and went. Her eyes were dim so that she stumbled +on the stairs. In the street she walked, caring nothing of her +direction, seeing only Martin. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +DEATH OF UNCLE MATHEW + + +Grace, during the days that Maggie was in London, regained something +of her old tranquillity. It was wonderful to her to be able to +potter about the house once more mistress of all that she surveyed +and protected from every watching eye. She had had, from her very +earliest years, a horror of being what she called "overlooked." + +She had a habit of stopping, when she had climbed halfway upstairs, +of suddenly jerking her head round to see whether any one were +looking at her. You would have sworn, had you seen her, that she was +deeply engaged upon some nefarious and underhand plot; yet it was +not so-she was simply going to dust some of her hideous china +treasures in her bedroom. + +Always after breakfast there was this pleasant ritual. She would +plod all round the house, duster in hand, picking things up. giving +them a little flick and putting them back again, patting treasures +that she especially loved, sighing heavily with satisfaction at the +pleasant sight of all her possessions tranquilly in their right +places. As she looked around the ugly sitting-room and saw the red +glazed pots with the ferns, the faded football-groups, the worsted +mats and the china shepherdesses, a rich warm feeling rose in her +heart and filled her whole body. It was like a fine meal to a hungry +man: every morning at half-past nine she was hungry in this fashion, +and every morning by eleven o'clock she was satisfied. Her thick +body thus promenaded the house; she was like a stolid policeman in +female attire, going his rounds to see that all was well. From room +to room she went, pausing to pant for breath on the stairs, +stumbling always because of her short sight at the three dark little +steps just outside Paul's bedroom, always sitting down on her bed +"to take a breath" and to get a full gaze at the crucifix of bright +yellow wood, that hung just under her mother's picture. Tramp, +tramp, tramp round the house she went. + +It was incredible how deeply Maggie had interfered with this ritual. +She had certainly not intended to do so. After that first effort to +change certain things in the house she had retired from the battle, +had completely capitulated. Nevertheless she had interfered with all +Grace's movements and, as the terror of her grew, it seemed to +pervade every nook and corner of the house, so that Grace felt that +she could go nowhere without that invasion. Oh, how she resented it, +and how afraid she was! After Paul and Maggie returned from that +summer holiday she saw that Paul too felt Maggie's strangeness. To +Grace, from the beginning of that autumn, every movement and gesture +of Maggie's was strange. The oddity of her appearance, her ignorance +of everything that seemed to Grace to be life, her strange, half- +mocking, half-wondering attitude to the Church and its affairs +("like a heathen in Central Africa"), her dislike of the Maxses and +the Pynsents and her liking for the Toms and Caroline Purdie, her +odd silences and still odder speeches, all these things increased +the atmosphere that separated her from the rest of the world. + +Then came the day when Grace, dusting in Maggie's bedroom, +discovered the bundle of letters. She read them, read them with +shame at her own dishonesty and anger at Maggie for making her +dishonest. To her virgin ignorance the passion in them spoke of +illicit love and the grossest immorality. Her heart burnt with a +strange mingling of envy, jealousy, loneliness, shame, and eagerness +to know more . . . + +Then came Uncle Mathew's visit; then Caroline Purdie's disgrace. The +count was fully charged. Maggie, that strange girl found in the +heart of London's darkness, alone, without friends or parents, was a +witch, a devilish, potion-dealing witch, who might, at any time, fly +through the night-sky on a broom-stick as surely as any mediaeval +old hag. These visions might be exaggerated for many human beings, +not so for Grace. Having no imagination she was soaked in +superstition. She clung to a few simple pictures, and was exposed to +every terror that those pictures could supply. + +Maggie now haunted her day and night. Everywhere she could feel +Maggie's eyes piercing her. A thousand times an hour she looked up +to see whether Maggie were not there in the room watching her. She +hated her now with terror that was partly fear for her own safety, +partly love and jealousy for Paul, partly outraged modesty and +tradition, partly sheer panic. + +She had, as yet, said very little to Paul. She waited the right +moment. Maggie's absence showed her how deep and devastating this +fear had been. She saw that it embraced the whole life of Paul and +herself in Skeaton. She had grown fond of Skeaton; she was a woman +who would inevitably care for anything when she had become +thoroughly accustomed to its ways and was assured that it would do +her no harm. + +She liked the shops and the woods, the sand and the sea. Above all, +she adored the Church. During a large part of every day she was +there, pottering about, talking to the caretaker, poking her nose +into the hymn-books to see whether the choir-boys had drawn pictures +in them, rubbing the brasses, making tidy the vestry. The house too +she loved, and the garden and the bottles on the wall. She might +have known that she was not popular in the place, she cannot have +failed to realise that she had no woman friend and that she was +seldom invited to dinner. This did not matter to her. Her +affections--and they were very real and genuine--were all for her +brother. Had she Paul she wanted no one else. That was enough. + +And now it might be that they would have to leave the place. Already +the talk about Maggie was intolerable. Grace heard it on every side. +After Mathew Cardinal's visit the talk rose to a shriek. Grace knew +that those sudden silences on her entrance into the room meant +lively and excited discussion. "How terrible for the poor rector!" +"Such an odd girl--taken out of the slums." "Yes, quite drunk. He +knocked Mrs. Maxse down." "Oh I assure you that she went to see +Caroline Purdie the very day after. She did indeed . . ." + +Yes. Grace knew all about it. Unless things changed Paul would have +to go. His life was ruined by this girl. + +Nevertheless for a whole happy week the world seemed to sink back +into its old accustomed apathy. The very house seemed to take on its +old atmosphere. Paul came out of his study and went about paying +calls. That hour, from six to seven, when he was at home to his +parishioners seemed once again to be crowded with anxious old women +and men out of work and girls in trouble. He took Grace with him on +his rounds. Every one was very friendly. Grace was able to reassume +some of her old importance. + +Her old flow of conversation--checked recently by the sense of +Maggie's strangeness--returned to her. In the morning she would +stand by her brother's study-table, duster in hand, and pour out her +heart. + +"You know, Paul, it's all very well, you may say what you like, but +if Mrs. Maxse thinks she's going to have the whole of that second +pew she's mistaken. It's only for a week or two that she's got the +Broadbents staying with her, and I know what she's after. Just +fancy! What she wants is to put the Broadbents in that second seat +the two Sundays they're here and then stick to it after they're +gone. Just fancy what Miss Beats and Miss Hopwood will feel about +it! What I mean is that they've had that seat for nearly eight years +and now to be turned out! But I assure you, Paul, from what Linda +Maxse said to me yesterday I believe she intends that, I do indeed. +She thinks Miss Beats and Miss Hopwood will get used to sitting +somewhere else after two Sundays. 'I'm sure they won't mind--poor +old things,' she said only yesterday. 'Poor old things.' Just fancy! +Why, Mary Beats is very little older than I. You'll have to put your +foot down about it, you will, indeed, Paul. Yes, you will. Give +Linda Maxse an inch and she takes a mile, I always said--and this is +just the kind of thing . . ." + +So happily Grace ran on and Paul looked up from his desk at her, +digging his fingers into his white hair, smiling at her in just the +old confidential way that he used to have before Maggie came. + +She revived, too, her old habit of talking to herself. This had +always been an immense relief to her--it had helped her to feel +reassurance. Lately she had felt that Maggie was overhearing her and +was laughing at her; this had checked her and made her suspicious. +Now as she began to mount the stairs she would murmur to herself: +"It might be better to tell Jenny to go to Bartletts. After all, +it's quicker that way, and she'll be able to tell the boy to bring +the things back. She needn't wait. All the same she's stupid, she'll +make a muddle of it as likely as not. And Womball's boy is livelier +than Bartletts'. That's something after all. But if she goes out at +two-thirty she'll never be back by four--unless she went by Smith's +lane of course--she might do that . . . Oh, dear, these stairs are a +trial . . . yes, she might do that, and then she'd only be an hour +altogether. I'll suggest that . . ." + +Her murmur was a cheerful monotonous sound accompanying her as she +went. She would stop and rub the side of her nose with her thumb, +considering. In the house, when there was no fear of callers, she +wore large loose slippers that tap-tapped as she went. In the +evenings she sat in Paul's study all amongst the Cornhills, The +Temple Bars, and The Bible Concordances. They were very cosy and +happy, and she talked incessantly. For some reason she did not dare +to ask him whether he were not happier now that Maggie was away. +She did not dare. There was not the complete confidence that there +had been. Paul was strange a little, bewitched by Maggie's +strangeness . . . There was something there that Grace did not +understand. So she said nothing, but she tried to convey to him, in +the peculiar warmth of her good-night kiss, what she felt. + +Then Maggie returned. She came back in her black clothes and with +her pale face. Her aunt had died. She was more alone even than +before. She was very quiet, and agreed to everything that Grace +said. Nevertheless, although she agreed, she was more antagonistic +than she had been. She had now something that intensely preoccupied +her. Grace could see that she was always thinking about something +that had nothing to do with Skeaton or Paul or the house. She was +more absent-minded than ever, forgot everything, liked best to sit +in her bedroom all alone. + +"Oh, she's mad!" said Grace. "She's really mad! Just fancy if she +should go right off her head!" Grace was now so desperately +frightened that she lay awake at night, sweating, listening to every +sound. "If she should come and murder me one night," she thought. +Another thought she had was: "It's just as though she sees some one +all the time who isn't there." + +Then came 13th March, that dreadful day that would be never +forgotten by Grace so long as she lived. During the whole of the +past week Skeaton had been delivered up to a tempest of wind and +rain. The High Street, emptied of human beings, had glittered and +swayed under the sweeping storm. The Skeaton sea, possessing +suddenly a life of its own, had stormed upon the Skeaton promenade, +and worried and lashed and soaked that hideous structure to within +an inch of its unnatural life. Behind the town the woods had swayed +and creaked, funeral black against the grey thick sky. Across the +folds the rain fell in slanting sheets with the sibilant hiss of +relentless power and resolve. + +After luncheon, on this day the 13th, Maggie disappeared into the +upper part of the house and Grace settled down on the drawing-room +sofa to a nice little nap. She fell asleep to the comforting patter +of rain upon the windows and the howling of the storm down the +chimney. She dreamt, as she often did, about food. + +She was awakened, with a sudden start, by a sense of apprehension. +This happened to her now so often that there was nothing strange in +it, but she jumped up, with beating heart, from the sofa, crying +out: "What's happened? What's the matter?" + +She realised that the room had grown darker since she fell asleep, +and although it was early still there was a sort of grey twilight +that stood out against a deeper dusk in the garden beyond. + +"What is it?" she said again, and then saw that Jenny, the maid, was +standing in the doorway. + +"Well, Jenny?" she asked, trying to recover some of her dignity. + +"It's a man, mum," said the little girl. (Grace had got her cheap +from an orphanage.) "A gentleman, mum. He's asking for Mrs. +Trenchard. 'E give me 'is card. Oh, mum, 'e is wet too!" + +She had scarcely finished, and Grace had only taken the card, when +Mathew Cardinal came forward out of the hall. He was a dim and +mysterious figure in that half-light, but Grace could see that he +was more battered and shabby than on his last visit. His coat collar +was turned up. She could only very vaguely see his face, but it +seemed to her strangely white when before it had been so grossly +red. + +She was struck by his immobility. Partly perhaps because she had +been roused from sleep and was yet neither clear nor resolved, he +seemed to her some nightmare figure. This was the man who was +responsible for all the trouble and scandal, this was the man who +threatened to drive Paul and herself from her home, this was the +blackguard who had not known how to behave in decent society. But +behind that was the terror of the mystery that enveloped Maggie--the +girl's uncle, the man who had shared in her strange earlier life, +and made her what she now was. As he stood there, motionless, +silent, the water dripping from his clothes, Grace was as frightened +as though he had already offered her personal violence or held a +pistol to her head. + +"What do you want?" she asked hoarsely, stepping back to the sofa. +Jenny had left the room. + +"I want to see my niece," he answered, still without moving. She +recognised then, strangely, in his voice a terror akin to her own. +He also was afraid of something. Of what? It was not that his voice +shook or that his tongue faltered. But he was terrified . . . She +could feel his heart thumping behind the words. + +"I'm sorry," she said. "You can't see her. She's upstairs resting." + +She did not know whence the resolution had come that he was not, in +any case, to see Maggie; she did not know what catastrophe she +anticipated from their meeting. She was simply resolved, as though +acting under the blind orders of some other power, that Maggie +should not see him and that he should leave the house at once. + +"I must see her," he said, and the desperate urgency in his voice +would have touched any one less terrified than Grace. "I must." + +"I'm sorry," she answered. The fear in his voice seemed now to give +her superiority over him. "It's impossible." + +"Oh no," he said. "If she's here it can't be impossible. She'd want +to see me. We have things . . . I must . . . You don't understand, +Miss Trenchard." + +"I only know," said Grace, "that after what occurred on your last +visit here, Mr. Cardinal, Maggie said that she would never see you +again." + +"That's a lie!" he said. + +She made no answer. Then at last he said pitifully: + +"She didn't really say that, did she?" + +"Yes. I'm sorry. But you can understand after what occurred--" + +He came suddenly forward, the water trickling from him on to the +carpet. + +"You swear that's true?" + +She could see now his face and realised that he was, indeed, +desperate--breathless as though he had been running from some one. + +"Yes, that's true," she answered. + +"Maggie said that." + +"Those were Maggie's words." + +"Oh, well, I'm done . . ." He turned away from her as though her +announcement had settled something about which he had been in doubt. +"It isn't like Maggie . . . But still she hasn't written. She saw I +was hard up last time. All I deserve . . . All I deserve." He turned +round to Grace again. "I can't quite believe it, Miss Trenchard. It +doesn't sound like Maggie, but perhaps you've influenced her . . . +That's likely. If she should change her mind I'm at the 'Sea Dog.' +Not much of a place. Quiet though. Yes, well. You might tell her not +to bother. I'm finished, you see, Miss Trenchard. Yes, down. You'll +be glad to hear it, I've no doubt. Well, I mustn't stay talking. I +wish Maggie were happier though. She isn't happy, is she?" + +The question was so abrupt that Grace was startled. + +"I should hope so--Mr. Cardinal," she said. + +"Oh, no, she isn't. I know. Always this religion she gets into. If +it isn't one sort it's another. But she's a good girl. Don't you +forget that. Well, I must be going. Good day. Good day." + +He was actually gone, leaving a little pool of water on the carpet +behind him. Grace sat down on the sofa again. What a horrible man! +What a horrible man! But she had been wrong to say that about +Maggie. Yes, she had. But he had taken her by surprise. Oh dear! How +her heart was beating! And how strange he had looked. She could +scarcely breathe. She sat there lost in stupefied wonder. At last +tea came in, and with it Paul and Maggie. Grace felt ashamed and +frightened. Why was Maggie always making her do things of which she +was ashamed? It was as though the girl had power over her . . . +absurd, of course. Nevertheless, as she poured out the tea she was +haunted by that man's eyes. Yes, he had undoubtedly been very +unhappy. Yes, in great trouble. + +Maggie sat quietly there. Paul was preoccupied with a letter that +must, he had decided, be written to The Church Times. It was a +letter about Churchwardens and their growing independence. He +finished his tea hurriedly, but before he left the room, looking at +Maggie rather wistfully, suddenly he bent down and kissed her. She +glanced up at him, smiling. + +"Is there anything I can do for you, Grace?" she asked. + +Then, as it were without her own desire, Grace was compelled to +speak. "There's something I ought to tell you--" she began +awkwardly. Then she stopped. Maggie was troubled. She knew that when +Grace was uncomfortable every one else was uncomfortable. + +"What have I done now?" she said rather sharply. + +"It's nothing that you've done," answered Grace also sharply. "I'm +sure I don't know, Maggie, why you should always think that I'm +scolding you. No, I don't indeed. It's nothing that you've done. +Your uncle came to see you this afternoon." + +"Uncle Mathew?" Maggie jumped up from her chair. "Came here?" + +"Yes." + +"And wanted to see me? Oh, Grace, why didn't you tell me?" + +"I have told you . . . There's nothing to make a fuss about, Maggie. +Really, you needn't look like that--as though I were always doing +something wrong. I only did it for your sake." + +"For my sake? But why? I wanted to see him. I was trying to see him +in London. Oh, Grace, what did he say?" + +"What did he say? Well, fancy! As though I could remember. He said +he'd come to see you, and when I said he couldn't, he went away +again." + +"Said he couldn't? But why couldn't he?" + +"Really, Maggie, your tone is extraordinary. Fancy what Paul would +say if he heard you. He wouldn't like it, I'm sure. I said that +after the way he'd behaved last time he came here you didn't want to +see him again." + +"You said that? Oh, Grace! How did you dare!" "Now, Maggie, don't +you look like that. I've done nothing, I'm sure." + +"Did you say that I'd said that I didn't want to see him again?" + +Grace shrank back behind the tea-things. + +"Yes, I did . . . Maggie, you frighten me." + +"I hope I do . . . You're wicked, you're wicked. Yes, you are. Where +is he now?" + +"He's at the 'Sea Dog.' That dirty public house on the sea-front-- +near Tunstalls--Where are you going?" + +"I'm going to him of course." Maggie turned and looked at Grace. +Grace was fascinated as a rabbit is by a snake. The two women stared +at one another. + +"How strange you are, Grace," Maggie said. "You seem to like to be +cruel!" Then she went out. When the door was closed Grace found +"that she was all in a perspiration." Her hand trembled so that when +she tried to pour herself another cup of tea--just to fortify +herself--she poured it into the saucer. And the tea was cold--no use +now. + +When she rose at last to go in and seek consolation from Paul her +knees were trembling so that she staggered across the floor. This +couldn't go on. No, it could not. To be frightened in one's own +house! Absurd . . . Really the girl had looked terrible . . . Murder +. . . That's what it had looked like. Something must be done. + +Murmuring aloud to herself again and again "Something must be done" +as she crossed the hall, she walked slowly, her hand to her heart, +ponderously, as though she were walking in the dark. Then, as soon +as she had opened the study door she began, before she could see her +brother: "Oh, Paul, I'm so frightened. It's Maggie. She's very +angry. Fancy what she said." + +Maggie meanwhile had gone straight up to her bedroom and found her +black hat and her waterproof. Her one thought now was lest he should +have caught the five o'clock train and gone back to London. Oh! how +hurt he would be with her, how terribly hurt! The thought of the +pain and loneliness that he would feel distressed her so bitterly +that she could scarcely put on her hat, she was so eager to run and +find him. She felt, at the thought of his fruitless journey through +the rain, the tenderest affection for him, maternal and loving, so +that she wanted to have him with her at once and to see him in warm +clothes beside the fire, drinking whisky if he liked, and she would +give him all the money she possessed. + +She had still touched very little of her own three hundred pounds. +He should have as much of that as he liked. The death of Aunt Anne +had shown her how few people in the world there were for her to +love. After all, the aunts and Uncle Mathew had needed her as no one +else had done. She made little plans; she would, perhaps, go back +with him to London for a little time. There was, after all, no +reason why she should remain in this horrible place for ever. And +Paul now seemed not to care whether she went or stayed. + +She ran out into the wind and the rain. She was surprised by the +force and fury of it. It would take time and strength to battle down +the High Street. Poor Uncle Mathew! To walk all the way in the rain +and then to be told that she would not see him! She could imagine +him turning away down the drive, bitterly disappointed . . . + +Probably he had come to borrow money, and she had promised that she +would not fail him. When she reached the High Street she was soaked. +She felt the water dripping down her neck and in her boots. At the +corner of the High Street by the bookseller's she was forced to +pause, so fiercely did the wind beat up from the Otterson Road, that +runs openly to the sea. Maggie had not even in Glebeshire known so +furious a day and hour when the winds tossed and raged but never +broke into real storm. It was the more surprising. She had to pause +for a moment to remember where Turnstall's the butcher was, then, +suddenly recalling it, she turned off the High Street and found her +way to the mean streets that ran behind the Promenade. Still she met +no one. It might have been a town abandoned by all human life and +given over to the wind and rain and the approaching absorption of +the sea. It was now dark and the lamp at the end of the street blew +gustily and with an uncertain flare. + +Maggie found Turnstall's, its shop lit and Mr. Turnstall himself, +stout and red-faced, behind his bloody counter. She went in and +asked him where "The Sea Dog" might be. He explained to her that it +was close at hand, on the right, looking over the Promenade. She +found it at last because it had an old-fashioned creaking wooden +sign with a blue sailor painted on it. Timidly she stepped into the +dark uneven passage. To the right of her she could see a deserted +room with wooden trestles and a table. The bar must be near because +she could hear voices and the clinking of glasses, but, in spite of +those sounds the house seemed very dead. Through the walls and rooms +she could hear the pounding beat of the sea. She walked to the end +of the passage and there found an old wrinkled man in riding +breeches and a brightly-coloured check shirt. + +"Can you tell me where a gentleman, Mr. Cardinal, is staying?" she +asked. + +He was obviously very deaf; she had to shout. She repeated her +question, adding. "He came from London to-day." + +A stout middle-aged woman appeared. "What is it?" she asked. "The +old man's stone deaf. He can't hear at all." + +"I was wondering," said Maggie, "whether you could tell me where I +could find a Mr. Cardinal. He came down from London to-day and is +staying here." + +"Cardinal . . . Cardinal?" The woman thought, scratching her head. +"Was it Caldwell you meant?" + +"No," said Maggie. "Cardinal." + +"I'll go and see." The woman disappeared, whilst the old man brushed +past Maggie as though she were a piece of furniture; he departed on +some secret purpose of his own. + +"What a horrible place!" thought Maggie. "Uncle must be in a bad way +if he comes here. I never should sleep for the noise of the sea." + +The woman returned. "Yes. 'E's here. No. 5. Come this afternoon. Up +the stairs and second door on the right." + +The stairs to which she pointed offered a gulf of darkness. The +woman was gone. The noises from the bar had ceased. The only sound +in the place was the thundering of the sea, roaring, as it seemed, +at the very foot of the house. + +Maggie climbed the stairs. Half-way up she was compelled to pause. +The darkness blinded her; she had lost the reflection from the lamp +below and, above her, there was no light at all. She advanced +slowly, step by step, feeling her way with a hand on the rickety +bannisters. At the top of the stair there was a gleam of light and, +turning to the right, she knocked on the second door. There was no +answer and she knocked again. Listening, the noise of the sea was +now so violent that she fancied that she might not have heard the +answer so she turned the handle of the door and pushed it open. She +was met then by a gale of wind, a rush of the sea that seemed as +imminent as though she were on the shore itself and a dim grey light +that revealed nothing in the room to her but only shapes and +shadows. + +She knew at once that the windows must be wide open; she could hear +some papers rustling and something on the wall tapped monotonously. + +"Uncle Mathew!" she whispered, and then she called more loudly. + +"Uncle Mathew! Uncle Mathew!" + +There was no answer and suddenly a strange, quite unreasoning terror +caught her by the throat. It was all that she could do not to cry +out and run down to the gas-lit passage. She held herself there by +sheer force; the smell of the sea was now very strong; there was a +tang of rotten seaweed in it. + +As she remained there she could see more clearly, but it seemed that +the room was full of some dim obscuring mist. She moved forward into +the room, knocked her knee against a table, and then as the panic +gained upon her called more loudly, "Uncle. . . Uncle. Are you in? +Where are you? It's I, Maggie." + +"Oh well. . . of course he isn't here," she said to herself. "He's +downstairs." And yet, strangely, something seemed to persuade her +that he was there; it was as though he were maliciously hiding from +her to tease her. + +Feeling her way cautiously, her hands before her face, she moved +forward to close the windows, thinking that she must shut out that +abominable sound of the sea and the stale stink of the seaweed. She +was suddenly caught by a sweep of rain that wetted her hair and face +and neck. She started back and touched a piece of damp cloth. She +turned, and there, very close to her but above her and staring over +her head, was Uncle Mathew's face. It was so close to her that she +could have touched it by putting up her hand. It was white-grey and +she would not have seen it at all had she not been very near to it. + +She realised nothing, but she felt that her knees were trembling and +that she would fall if she did not steady herself. She put out her +hand and clutched damp heavy thick cloth, cloth that enwrapped as it +seemed some weighty substance like stone or brick. + +She passed her hand upwards and suddenly the damp cloth gave way +beneath her fingers, sinking inwards against something soft and +flabby. She sprang away. She stood for one shuddering moment, then +she screamed again and again, shrieking and running, as it were for +her life, out of the room, down the passage. She could not find the +staircase. Oh! she could not find the staircase! She stood there, +leaning against the damp wall, crying: "Oh help! Help! Quickly!" + +There were steps and voices, then the woman whom she had seen before +appeared at the turn of the stair holding a lamp. + +"What is it?" she asked, raising the light high. Maggie did not +answer, only leaning there and staring down. + +"You'd better come, Bill," the woman said. "There's something wrong +up 'ere." + +The woman came up the stairs followed by two men; they moved +cautiously as though, they expected to find something terrible round +the next corner. + +"What is it?" said the woman again when she came up to Maggie. But +Maggie made no answer. They pushed past her and went into the room. +Maggie followed them. She saw the room obscured by mist; she heard +some whispering and fumbling, then a match was struck; there was a +bead-like flare followed suddenly by the flaming of a candle. In the +quick light the room was bright. Maggie saw her uncle hanging from +some projection in the rough ceiling. A chair was overturned at his +feet. His body was like a bag of old clothes, his big boots turning +inwards towards one another. His face was a dull grey and seemed cut +off from the rest of his body by the thick blue muffler that +encircled his neck. He was grinning at her; the tip of his tongue +protruded at her between his teeth. She noticed his hands that hung +heavily like dead fish. + +After that she knew no more save that the sea seemed to rush in a +great flood, with a sudden vindictive roar, into the room. + + + + +CHAPTER IX + +SOUL OF PAUL + + +Nothing so horrible had ever happened to Paul before, nothing . . . + +He felt as though he had committed a murder; it was as though he +expected arrest and started at every knock on the door. Nothing so +horrible . . . + +It was, of course, in all the Skeaton papers. At the inquest it +appeared that Mathew Cardinal had imitated the signature of a +prosperous City friend; had he not chosen his own way out he would +have discovered the arduous delights of hard labour. But he had +chosen suicide and not "while of unsound mind." Yes, the uncle of +the Rector's wife . . . Yes, The Rector's Wife's Uncle . . . Yes, +The Rector's Wife's Uncle! + +Sho discovered him, bumped right into him in the dark. What a queer +story--like a novel. Oh, but she had always been queer--Trenchard +had picked her up somewhere in a London slum; well, perhaps not a +slum exactly but something very like it. Why did he marry her? +Perhaps he had to. Who knows? These clergymen are sly dogs. Always +the worst if the truth were known . . . + +So it went on. For nine whole days (and nights) it was the only +topic in Skeaton. Paul caught the fringe of it. He had never known +very much about his fellow-beings. He had always taken the things +that they said to him as the true things, when they smiled he had +thought that they meant their smiles. And why not? . . . since he +always meant his. He had always been too lazy to dislike people, and +his digestion had been too good and his ambition too slender to urge +him towards spite and malice. He had believed that he was on +excellent terms with all the world. + +Now that was changed. He was watched, he knew, with curious, +inquisitive, critical glances. Through no fault of his own he was +soiled and smirched. That hearty confident laugh of his must be +checked. He was afraid. Yes, he was afraid. He sat in his study and +trembled at the thought of meeting his congregation. He had done +nothing and yet his reputation was no longer clean. But he was +afraid, also, of something else. He saw, desperately against his +will, the central picture. He saw the body hanging in the dark room, +Maggie tumbling against it, the cries, the lights, the crowd . . . +He saw it all, hour after hour. He was not an imaginative man, but +it seemed to him that he had actually been present at this scene. He +had to attend the inquest. That had been horrible. With all eyes +upon him he stood up and answered their detestable questions. He had +trembled before those eyes. Suddenly the self-confidence of all his +life had left him. He had stammered in his replies, his hands had +trembled and he had been forced to press them close to his sides. He +had given his answers as though he were a guilty man. + +He came then slowly, in the silence of his study, to the +consideration of Grace and Maggie. This would kill Grace. She had +altered, in a few days, amazingly; she would meet nobody, but shut +herself into her bedroom. She would not see the servants. She looked +at Paul as though she, like the rest of the world, blamed him. Paul +loved Grace. He had not known before how much. They had been +together all their lives and he had taken her protection and care of +him too much for granted. How good she had been to him and for how +many years! When they were happy it seemed natural that she should +look after him, but now, in the middle of this scandal he saw that +it should have been he who looked after her. He had not looked after +her. Of course, now they would have to leave Skeaton and he knew +what that departure would mean to Grace. She was suspicious of new +places and new people. Strange to think now that almost the only +person of whom she had not been suspicious was Maggie. + +Maggie! His mind slowly wheeled round to her. He rose from his chair +and began clumsily to parade the room. He walked up and down the +study as though with closed eyes, his large body bumping against +corners of tables and chairs. Maggie! He looked back, as of late he +had often done, to those days in his cousin's house in London. What +had happened to the Maggie whom he had known there? + +He saw her again, so quiet, so ready to listen and learn, so modest, +and yet with a humour and sense of appreciation that had promised +well for the future. A child--an ignorant, charming, uneducated +child, that is what she had seemed. He admitted now that his heart, +always too soft and too gentle perhaps, had been touched beyond +wisdom. She had seemed to need just the protection and advice that +he had been fitted to give her. Then, as though in the darkness of +the night, the change had been made; from the moment of entering +into Skeaton there had been a new Maggie. He could not tell himself, +because he was not a man clever at psychology, in what the change +consisted. Had he been pressed he would have said perhaps that he +had known the old Maggie intimately, that nothing that she could say +or do astonished him, but that this new Maggie was altogether a +stranger. Time had not altered that; with the passing months he had +known her less and less. Why, at their first meeting long ago in +Katherine's house he had known her better than he knew her now. He +traced the steps of their history in Skeaton; she had eluded him +always, never allowing him to hold her for more than a moment, +vanishing and appearing again, fantastic, in some strange lighted +distance, hurting him and disappointing him . . . He stopped in his +walk, bewildered. He saw, with a sudden flash, that she had never +appeared so fascinating to him as when she had been strangest. He +saw it now at the moment when she seemed more darkly strange, more +sinister and dangerous than ever before. + +He realised, too, at the same sharp moment the conflict in which he +was engaged. On the one side was all his life, his sloth and ease +and comfort, his religion, his good name, his easy intercourse with +his fellow-men, Grace, intellectual laziness, acceptance of things +as they most easily are, Skeaton, regular meals, good drainage, +moral, physical and spiritual, a good funeral and a favourable +obituary in The Skeaton Times. On the other hand unrest, ill-health, +separation from Grace, an elusive and never-to-be-satisfied pursuit, +scandal and possible loss of religion, unhappiness . . . At least it +was to his credit that he realised the conflict; it is even further +to his credit that he grasped and admitted the hopelessness of it. +He knew which way he would go; even now he was tired with the +thought of the struggle; he sank into his shabby chair with a sigh +of weariness; his hand stretched out instinctively for an easy +volume. But oh, Maggie! how strange and fascinating at that moment +she appeared to him, with her odd silences, her flashes of startled +surprise, her sense of being half the day in another world, her +kindness to him and then her sudden terror of him, her ignorance and +then the conviction that she gave suddenly to him that she knew more +than he would ever know, above all, the way that some dark spirit +deep down in him supported her wild rebellions, her irreverences, +her irreligion, her scorn of tradition. Oh! she was a witch! Grace's +word for her was right, but not Grace's sense of it. The more Grace +was shocked the more tempting to him the witch became. It had seemed +to him, that day in Katherine's drawing-room, so slight a thing when +she had said that she did not love him, he had no doubt but that he +could change that. How could a child, so raw and ignorant, resist +such a man? And yet she had resisted. That resistance had been at +the root of the trouble. Whichever way things went now, he was a +defeated man. + +The door opened and Grace came in. Looking at her he realised that +she would never understand the struggle through which he had been +timorously wading, and saw that she was further away from him than +she had ever been before. He blamed her too. She had had no right to +refuse that man to Maggie. Had she allowed Maggie to see him none of +this might have occurred. The man was a forger and would, had he +lived, have gone to prison, but there would not then have been the +same open scandal. No, he blamed Grace. It might be that their old +absolutely confident intimacy would never be renewed. He felt cold +and lonely. He bent forward, putting some coal on the fire, breaking +it up into a cheerful blaze. Then he looked up at her, and his heart +was touched. She looked to-day an old woman. Her hair was untidy and +her face was dull grey in colour. Her eyes moved restlessly round +the room, wandering from picture to picture, from the mantelpiece to +the chairs, from the chairs to the book-shelves, as though she +sought in the sight of these well-remembered things some defence and +security. + +"Is your head better?" he asked her, not meeting her eyes, because +the dull pain in them disturbed him. + +"Not much," she said. "It's very bad, my head. I've taken aspirin. I +didn't eat anything yesterday. Nothing at all except some bread and +milk, and very little of that . . . I couldn't finish it. I felt I'd +be sick. I said to Emily, 'Emily, if I eat any more of that I'll be +sick,' and Emily advised me not to touch it. What I mean is that if +I'd eaten any more I'd have been really sick--at least that's what I +felt like." + +Her restless eyes came suddenly to a jerking pause as though some +one had caught and gripped them. She was suddenly dramatic. "Oh. +Paul, what are we going to do?" she cried. + +Paul was irritated by that. He hated to be asked direct questions as +to policy. + +"What do you mean what are we going to do?" he asked. + +"Why, about this--about everything. We shall have to leave Skeaton, +you know. Fancy what people are saying!" + +Suddenly, as though the thought of the scandal was too much for her, +her knees gave way and she flopped into a chair. + +"Well. let them say!" he answered vigorously. "Grace, you're making +too much of all this. You'll be ill if you aren't careful. Pull +yourself together." "Of course we've got to go," she answered. "If +you think that we can go on living here after all that's happened--" + +"Well, why not?" he interrupted. "We haven't done anything. It's +only--" + +"I know what you're going to say." (It was one of Grace's most +irritating habits that she finished other people's sentences for +them in a way that they had not intended) "that if they look at it +properly they'll see that it wasn't our fault. But will they look at +it properly? Of course they won't. You know what cats they are. +They're only waiting for a chance. What I mean is that this is just +the chance they've been waiting for." + +"How can you go on and every time you preach they'll be looking up +at you and saying 'There's a brother of a murderer'? Why, fancy what +you'd feel!" + +Paul jumped in his chair. "What do you mean, Grace? The brother of a +murderer?" + +"What else am I?" Grace began to warm her podgy hands. "It came out +at the inquest that I wouldn't see the man, didn't it? Maggie thinks +me a murderer. I see it in her eyes every time. What I mean to say, +Paul, is, What are you going to do about Maggie?" + +Grace's voice changed at that question. It was as though that other +trouble of the scandal were nothing to her compared with this matter +of Maggie's presence. Paul turned and looked at her. She dropped her +voice to a whisper and went on: + +"I won't stay with Maggie any more. No, no, no! You must choose, +Paul, between Maggie and me. What I mean is that it simply isn't +safe in the same house with her. You may not have noticed it +yourself, but I've seen it coming on a long time. I have indeed. She +isn't right in her head, and she hates me. She's always hated me. +She'd like to do me an injury. She follows me round the house. She's +always watching me, and now that she thinks that I killed her uncle +it's worse. I'm not safe, Paul, and that's the truth. She hides in +my room behind the curtains waiting for me. It's my safety you've +got to consider. It's me or her. I know she's your wife, but what I +mean is that there'll be something awful happening if you aren't +careful." + +Grace, as she spoke, was a woman in the very heart of a desperate +panic. Her whole body trembled; her face was transfixed as though +she saw Maggie standing in front of her there with a knife. No one +looking at her could deny that she was in mortal terror--no +affectation here. And Paul loved her. He came over to her and put +his arm round her; she caught hold of his hand, clutched it +desperately. When he felt the trembling of her body beneath his hand +his love for her and protective care of her overwhelmed him. + +"Grace, dear, it's all right," he said. "You're exaggerating all +this. Maggie wouldn't hurt a fly--indeed, she wouldn't. She has her +faults, perhaps, but cruelty isn't one of them. You must remember +that she's had a bad time lately losing her aunt and then finding +her uncle in that horrible way. After all, she's only a child. I +know that you two haven't got on well together, and I daresay that +it has been very largely my fault; but you mustn't be frightened +like that. No harm shall come to you so long as I am alive--no harm +whatever." + +But she stared in front of her, like a woman in a dream, repeating-- + +"No, no, Paul. Either she goes or I go. She's your wife. She must +stay. Then I must go. I can't stand it; I can't indeed. I'm not +sleeping; I'm not indeed. It isn't fair to ask it. What I mean is +that it isn't fair to me." + +Although he had known Grace for years he still believed her threats +and promises. "My sister's an obstinate woman," he would say, +although had he looked truly into his experience he must have seen +that she changed her mind more frequently by far than she changed +her clothes. He thought that now she meant what she said; indeed, on +his own side he really did not see how in the future Maggie and +Grace could continue to live in the same house. But, as Grace had +said, he was married to Maggie and therefore it was Grace that must +go. Then when he confronted the fact of Grace's departure he could +not endure it. No, he could not. Had Maggie been everything to him +that she might have been, bad she been his true wife, had she loved +him, had she--oh! a thousand things she might have been!--then +perhaps life would be possible without Grace. But now! . . . at the +thought of being alone for ever with Maggie a strange passion, +mingled of fascination and fear, affection and sensuality, cowardice +and excitement, pervaded him. What would their life together be? +Then he turned to Grace as the very rock of his safety. + +"Oh, Grace, you mustn't go--you mustn't think of going. Whatever +should I do without you?" + +A dull flush of gratification coloured her cheeks. + +"Either she goes or I," she repeated. "It can't go on. You must see +that it can't. Fancy what people must be thinking!" + +As always, he postponed the issue. "We'll settle something. Don't +you worry, dear. You go and lie down. That's what you want--a +thorough good rest." + +She plodded off. For himself he decided that fresh air was what he +needed. He went for a stroll. As soon as he was in the Charleston +Road that led to the High Street he was pleased with the day. Early +spring; mild, faint haze, trees dimly purple, a bird clucking, the +whisper of the sea stirring the warm puddles and rivulets across the +damp dim road. Warm, yes, warm and promising. Lent . . . tiresome. +Long services, gloomy sermons. Rebuking people, scolding them--made +them angry, did them no good. Then Easter. That was better. Jolly +hymns. "Christ is risen! Christ is risen!" Jolly flowers--primroses, +crocuses--(no, they were earlier). They'll have forgotten about +Maggie's uncle by then. Live it down--that's the thing. Give them a +good genial sermon this Sunday. Show them he wasn't caring . . . If +only the women would get on together. Women--women. How difficult +they were! Yes, Sunday would be difficult--facing them all. He knew +what they'd be thinking. He wanted to be jolly again. Jolly. That +was the thing. Joking with Grace, jolly even with Maggie. Jolly with +his congregation. Jolly with God. Why wasn't he left alone? Had been +until Maggie came. Maggie like a stone flung into a frosty pool! +Broke everything up, simply because she was unlike other people. +He'd married her because he thought he could make her into what he +pleased. Well, it had been the other way. Oh, she was queer, queer, +queer. + +He stopped, his large boots in a warm puddle. He felt the warm sun +hot through the damp mist. He wanted to take her into his arms, to +hug her, above all to feel her response. To feel her response, that +was what, for years now, he had been wanting, and never once had she +responded. Never once. She let him do as he pleased, but she was +passive. She didn't love him. Grace loved him, but how dull Grace +was! Dull--it was all dull! Grace was dull, Skeaton was dull, the +church was dull--God was dull! God? Where was God? He looked around. +There was no God. To what had he been praying all these years? He +had not been praying. His congregation had not been praying. They +were all dead and God was dead too. + +He looked up and saw that his boots were in a puddle. He walked on. +For a moment, the mists of sloth and self-indulgence that had for +years obscured his vision had shifted and cleared, but even as he +moved they settled down and resolved themselves once more. The +muscles of Paul's soul were stiff with disuse. Training is a lengthy +affair and a tiresome business to the stout and middle-aged. + +The hedges gave way to houses; he was in the High Street. He saw +then, plastered at intervals on the hoardings, strange phenomena. It +was the colour that first attracted him--a bright indecent pink with +huge black lettering. Because it was the offseason in Skeaton other +announcements were few. All the more prominent then the following: + + THE KINGSCOTE BEETHEEN WILL HOLD A RELIGIOUS FESTIVAL IN THE TOWN +OF SKEATON-ON-SEA FROM APRIL 10 TO 16.-----SERVICES 10 A.M., 3 P.M. +SPECIAL SONG SERVICE, 7.30 P.M. DAILY All are Cordially Invited. +ADDRESSES BY REV. JOHN THURSTON. REV. WILLIAM CRASHAW. SISTER AVIES. + +Paul stared at this placard with horror and disgust in his soul. For +the moment Maggie and Grace and all the scandal connected with them +was forgotten. This was terrible. By temperament, tradition, +training, he loathed and feared every phase of religion known to him +as "Methodistic." Under this term he included everything that was +noisy, demonstrative, ill-bred and melodramatic. Once when an +undergraduate at Cambridge he had gone to some meeting of the kind. +There had been impromptu prayers, ghastly pictures of hell-fire, +appeals to the undergraduates to save themselves at once lest it be +too late, confessions and appeals for mercy. The memory of that +evening still filled him with physical nausea. It was to him as +though he had seen some gross indecent act in public or witnessed +some horrible cruelty. + +Maggie had told him very little about the Chapel and its doings, and +he had shrunk from asking her any questions, but everything that was +odd and unusual in her behaviour he attributed to her months under +that influence. As he stared at the flaunting pink sheet he felt as +though it were a direct personal assault on himself and his church. + +And yet he knew that he could do nothing. Once before there had been +something of the kind in Skeaton and he had tried with others to +stop it. He had failed utterly; the civic authorities in Skeaton +seemed almost to approve of these horrors. He looked at the thing +once more and then turned hack towards home. Something must be done +. . . Something must he done . . . but, as on so many earlier +occasions in his life, he could face no clear course of action. + +That Saturday evening he tried to change his sermon. He had +determined to deliver a very fine address on "Brotherly Love" and +then, most fortunately, he had discovered a five-years' old sermon +that would, with a little adaptation, exactly fit the situation. + +To-night he was sick of his adaptation. The sermon had not been a +good one at the first, and now it was a tattered thing of shreds and +patches. He tried to add to it some sentences about the approaching +"Revival." No sentences would come. What a horrible fortnight it had +been! He looked back upon his district visiting, his meetings, his +choir-practices with disgust. Something had come in between himself +and his people. Perhaps the relationship had never been very real? +Founded on jollity. An eagerness to accept anybody's mood for one's +own if only that meant jollity. What had he thought, standing in the +puddle that afternoon? That they were all dead, he and his +congregation and God, all dead together? He sank into his chair, +picked up the Church Times, and fell asleep. + +Next morning as he walked into the choir this extraordinary +impression that his congregation was dead persisted. As he recited +the "Confession" he looked about him. There was Mr. Maxse, and there +Miss Purves. Every one was in his and her appointed place; old +Colonel Rideout with the purple gills not kneeling because of his +gout; young Edward Walter, heir to the sugar factory, not kneeling +because he was lazy; sporting Mr. Harper, whose golf handicap was ++3, not kneeling because to do so would spoil the crease of his +trousers; old Mrs. Dean with her bonnet and bugles, the worst gossip +in Skeaton. her eyes raised to heaven; the Quiller girls with their +hard red colour and their hard bright eyes; Mr. Fortinum, senior, +with his County Council stomach and his J.P. neck; the dear old Miss +Fursleis who believed in God and lived accordingly; young Captain +Trent, who believed in his moustache and lived accordingly . . . Oh +yes, there they all were--and there, too, were Grace and Maggie +kneeling side by side. + +Maggie! His eyes rested upon her. Her face suddenly struck him as +being of extraordinary beauty. He had never thought her beautiful +before; very plain, of course. Every one knew that she was plain. +But to-day her face and profile had the simplicity, the purity, the +courage of a Madonna in one of the old pictures--or, rather, of one +of those St. John the Baptist boys gazing up into the face of the +Christ--child as it lay in its mother's arms. He finished the +"Confession" hurriedly--Maggie's face faded from his view; he saw +now only a garden of hats and heads, the bright varnished colour of +the church around and about them all. + +He gave out the psalms; there was a rustle of leaves, and soon +shrill, untrained voices of the choir-boys were screaming the chant +like a number of baby steam-whistles in competition. + +When he climbed into the pulpit he tried again to discover Maggie's +face as he had already seen it. He could not; it had been, perhaps, +a trick of light and, in any case, she was hidden now behind the +stout stolidity of Grace. He looked around at the other faces +beneath him and saw them settle themselves into their customary +expressions of torpor, vacuity and expectation. Very little +expectation! They knew well enough, by this time, the kind of thing +to expect from him, the turn of phrase, the rise and fall of the +voice, the pause dramatic, the whisper expostulatory, the thrust +imperative, the smile seductive. + +He had often been told, as a curate, that he was a wonderful +preacher. His round jolly face, his beaming smile, a certain +dramatic gift, had helped him. "He is so human," he had heard people +say. For many years he had lived on that phrase. For the first time +in his life, this morning he distrusted his gift. He was out of +touch with them all--because they were dead, killed by forms and +repetitions and monotony. "We're all dead, you know, and I'm dead +too. Let's close the doors and seal this church up. Our day is +over." He said of course nothing of the kind. His sermon was stupid, +halting and ineffective. + +"Naturally," as Colonel Rideout said over his port at lunch, "when a +feller's wife's uncle has just hung himself in public, so to speak, +it does take the wind out of you. He usen't to preach badly once. +Got stale. They all do." + +As Paul dismissed the congregation with the Blessing he felt that +everything was over. He was more completely miserable than he had +ever been. He had in fact never before been really miserable except +when he had the toothache. And now, also, the custom of years made +it impossible for him to be miserable for long. He had had no real +talk with Maggie since the inquest. Maggie came into his study that +afternoon. Their conversation was very quiet and undemonstrative; it +happened to be one of the most important conversations in both their +lives, and, often afterwards, Paul looked back to it, trying to +retrace in it the sentences and movements with which it had been +built up. He could never recover anything very much. He could see +Maggie sitting in a way that she had on the edge of her chair, +looking at him and looking also far beyond him. He knew afterwards +that this was the last moment in his life that he had any contact +with her. Like a witch, like a ghost, she had come into his life; +like a witch, like a ghost, she went out of it, leaving him, for the +remainder of his days, a haunted man. + +As he looked at her he realised that she had aged in this last +fortnight. Yes, that horrible affair had taken it out of her. She +seemed to have recovered self-control at some strange and unnatural +cost--as though she had taken some potion or drug. + +She began by asking Grace's question: + +"Paul, what are we going to do?" + +But she did not irritate him as Grace had done. His one idea was to +help her; unfortunately he had himself thought out nothing clearly. + +"Well, Maggie," he answered, smiling, "I thought you might help me +about that. I want your advice. I thought--well, as a matter of fact +I hadn't settled anything--but I thought that I might get a locum +for a month or two and we might go abroad for a trip perhaps. To +Paris, or Venice, or somewhere." + +"And then come back?" she asked. + +"For a time--yes--certainly," he answered. + +"I don't think I can ever come back to Skeaton," she said in a +whisper, as though speaking to herself. He could see that she was +controlling herself and steadying her voice with the greatest +difficulty. "Of course I must come, Paul, if you want me to. It's +been all my fault from the very beginning----" + +"Oh no," he broke in, "it hasn't." + +"Yes, it has. I've just spoilt your life and Grace's. You were both +very happy until I came. I had no right to marry you when I didn't +love you. I didn't know then all I know now. But that's no excuse. I +should have known. I was younger than most girls are, though." + +Paul said: + +"But Maggie, you're not to blame yourself at all. I think if we were +somewhere else than Skeaton it would be easier. And now after what +has happened--" + +Maggie broke in: "You couldn't leave Skeaton, Paul. You know you +couldn't. It would just break your heart. All the work of your life +has been here--everything you've ever done. And Grace too." + +"No, no, you're wrong," said Paul vigorously. "A change is probably +what I need. I've been too long in the same place. Time goes so fast +that one doesn't realise. And for Grace, too, I expect a change will +be better." + +"And do you think," said Maggie, "that Grace will ever live with me +now in the same house when she knows that I've driven you from +Skeaton? Grace is quite right. She's just to feel as she does about +me." + +"Then Grace must go," said Paul firmly, looking at Maggie and +feeling that the one thing that he needed was that she should be in +his arms and he kissing her. "Maggie, if we go away, you and I, +right away from all of this, perhaps then you can--you will--" he +stopped. + +She shook her head. "Never, Paul. Never. Do you know what I've seen +this last week? That I've left all those who really wanted me. My +aunts, very much they needed me, and I was selfish and wouldn't give +them what they wanted, and tried to escape from them. You and Grace +don't need me. Nobody wants anything here in Skeaton. You're all +full. It isn't my fault, Paul, but everything seems to me dead here. +They don't mean anything they say in Church, and the Church doesn't +mean anything either. The Chapel was wrong in London too, but it was +more right than the Church here is. I don't know what religion is or +where it is: I don't know anything now except that one ought to be +with the people who want one and not with the people who don't. Aunt +wanted me and I failed her. Uncle wanted me and I--I--I--" + +She broke down, crying, her head in her arms. He went over to her +and put his arms around her. At his touch she shrank a little, and +when he felt that he went away from her and stood, silently, not +knowing what to do. + +"Maggie, don't--don't, Maggie. I can't bear to hear you cry." + +"I've done all wrong--I've done all wrong," she answered him. "I've +been wrong always." + +His helplessness was intolerable. He knew that she would not allow +him to touch her. He went out closing the door softly behind him. + + + + +CHAPTER X + +THE REVIVAL + + +Maggie cried for a little while, then, slowly recovering, realised +that she was alone in the room. She raised her head and listened; +then she dried her eyes and stood up, wondering what she should do +next. + +During the last week she had spent all her energy on one thing +alone--to keep back from her the picture of Uncle Mathew's death. +That at all costs she must not see. There it was, just behind her, +hovering with all its detail, at her elbow. All day and most of the +night she was conscious of it there, but she would not turn and +look. Uncle Mathew was dead--that was all that she must know. Aunt +Anne was dead too. Martin had written to her, and then, because she +had not answered, had abandoned her. Paul and Grace were to be +driven out of Skeaton because of her. Grace hated her; Paul would +never love her unless she in return would love him--and that she +would never do because she loved Martin. She was alone then. + +She had made every one unhappy--Aunt Anne, Uncle Mathew, Paul, +Grace; the best thing that she could do now was to go away and hide +herself somewhere. + +That, at least, she saw very clearly and she clung to it. If she +went away Paul and Grace need not leave Skeaton; soon they would +forget her and be happy once more as they had been before she came. +But where should she go? All her life she had depended upon her own +self-reliance, but now that had left her. She felt as though she +could not move unless there was some one somewhere who cared for +her. But there was no one. Katherine Mark. No, she certainly could +never go there again. Behind all this was the constant preoccupation +that she must not look, for an instant, at Uncle Mathew's death. If +she did everything would break . . . She must not. She must not. She +must not. + +She went up to her bedroom, took from their box Martin's letters and +the ring with the three pearls, and the tattered programme. She sat +on her bed and turned them over and over. She was bewildered and +scarcely knew where she was. She repeated again and again: "I must +go away at once . . . I must go away at once." + +Then as though moved by some compelling force that she did not +recognise she fell on her knees beside the bed, crying: "Martin, +Martin, I want you. I don't know where you are but I must find you. +Martin, tell me where you are. I'll go to you anywhere. Martin, +where are you? Where are you?" + +It may not have been a vocal cry; perhaps she made no sound, but she +waited, there on her knees, hearing very clearly the bells ringing +for evening service and seeing the evening sun steal across her +carpet and touch gently, the pictures on the wall. Gradually as she +knelt there, calm and reassurance came back to her. She felt as +though he, somewhere lost in the world, had heard her. She laid her +cheek upon the quilt of the bed and, for the first time since Uncle +Mathew's death, her thoughts worked in connected order, her courage +returned to her, and she saw the room and the sun and the trees +beyond the window as real objects, without the mist of terror and +despair that had hitherto surrounded her. + +She rose from her knees as though she were withdrawing from a +horrible nightmare. She could remember nothing of the events of the +last week save her talk with Paul that afternoon. She could recall +nothing of the inquest, nor whether she had been to Church, nor any +scene with Grace. + +"So long as I'm alive and Martin's alive it's all right," she +thought. She knew that he was alive. She would find him. She put +away the things into the box again; she had not yet thought what she +would do, but, in some way, she had received during those few +minutes in her room a reassurance that she was not alone. + +She went out into the spring dusk. She chose the road towards +Barnham Wood because it was lonely there and the hedges were thin; +you could feel the breath of the sea as it blew across the sparse +fields. The hush of an English Sunday evening enfolded the road, the +wood, the fields. The sun was very low and the saffron light +penetrated the dark lines of the hedges and hung like a curtain of +misty gold before the approaches to the wood. The red-brown fields +rolled to the horizon and lay, like a carpet, at the foot of the +town huddled against the pale sky. + +She was near the wood, and could see the little dark twisted cone- +strewn paths that led into the purple depths, when a woman came out +of it towards her. She saw that it was Miss Toms. It seemed quite +natural to see her there because it was on this same road that she +had first met the lady and her brother. Miss Toms also did not seem +at all surprised. She shook Maggie warmly by the hand. + +"You said that I wouldn't come often to see you," said Maggie. + +"And it's been true. Things have been more difficult for me than I +knew at the time." + +"That's all right," said Miss Toms. + +"But I ought to tell you," said Maggie, "that although I haven't +been to see you, I've felt as though you and your brother were my +friends, more than any one in this place. And that's been a great +help to me." + +They started to walk down the road together. + +"You've been in trouble," said Miss Toms. "Of course I've heard +about it. I would have liked to come and see you but I didn't know +how your sister-in-law would like it." + +She put her arm through Maggie's. + +"My dear," she said, "don't be discouraged. Because Skeaton is dead +it doesn't mean that all the world is. And remember this. The +world's view of any one is never the right one. I know that the +world thinks my brother's mad, but I know that he's a lot saner than +most people. The world thinks your uncle was a rascal, but if you +can remember one good thing he did you know he wasn't, and I'm sure +you can remember many good things." + +"It isn't that," said Maggie. "It is that I seem to have done +everything wrong and made every one I had to do with unhappy." + +"Nonsense," said Miss Toms. "I'm sure if they've been unhappy it's +their own fault. Isn't the evening air lovely? At times like these I +wonder that Skeaton can dare to exist. You'll come and see us one +day, won't you?" + +"I think--I don't know," said Maggie; "I may be going away." + +Miss Toms gave her a penetrating look. + +"I daresay you're right. Skeaton's not the place for you. I saw that +the first time we met. Well, whatever you do, don't lose your pluck. +You're yourself, you know, and you're as good as anybody else. Don't +you forget that. Because a lot of people say a thing it doesn't mean +it's true, and because a set of idiots think a thing shocking it +doesn't mean that it's shocking. Think how wrong people have always +been about everything!" + +They turned down a side lane and arrived in the High Street. The +street was very empty. In the fading light a large pink poster +attracted Maggie's attention. She went close to it and read the +announcement of the Revival services. + +When she read the names of Thurston and Mr. Crashaw and Miss Avies +it seemed to her incredible, and then at the same time as something +that she had always expected. + +"Oh," she cried, "it's coming here!" She was strangely startled as +though the sign of Thurston's name was strange forewarning. + +"What's coming?" asked Miss Toms. + +She read the notice. + +"I don't know what you think," said Miss Toms, "but that kind of +thing's humbug if you ask me." + +"Oh!" Maggie cried. "It's so strange. I knew those people in London. +I used to go to their services. And now they're coming here!" + +She could not explain to Miss Toms the mysterious assurance that she +had of the way that her former world was drawing near to her again. +She could see now that never for a moment since her arrival in +Skeaton had it let her alone, slowly invading her, bit by bit +driving in upon her, forcing her to retire . . . + +It was quite dark now. Because it was Sunday evening the shops were +closed. Only behind some of the curtained windows dim lights burned. +Very clearly the sea could be heard breaking upon the shore. The +last note of the bell from the Methodist Chapel echoed across the +roofs and stones. + +"Good-night," said Miss Toms. + +"Good-night," said Maggie. + +She turned back towards home hearing, as she went, Thurston's voice, +seeing beyond all the thick shadow of Martin's body, keeping pace +with her, as it seemed, step by step with her as she went. + +She turned into the Rectory drive. She heard with a startled shiver +the long gate swing screaming behind her, she could smell very +faintly the leaves of the damp cold laurel bushes that pressed close +in upon her. It was as though some one were walking with her and +whispering in her ear: "They're coming! They're coming! They've got +you! They've got you!" + +She opened the hall door; the hall was all dark; some one was there. +Maggie gave a little cry. A match was struck and revealed the white +face of Grace. The two women stared at one another. + +Grace had returned from Church; she was wearing her ugly black hat +with the red velvet. + +"It's all right," said Maggie, "I've been for a walk." + +"Oh--I didn't know," gasped Grace, still staring. "I thought--yes, +of course. Fancy, you've been for a walk!" + +Still staring as though she could keep Maggie at bay only by the +power of her vision she backed on to Paul's study door, turned the +handle, and disappeared. The hall was in darkness again. Maggie +stumbled her way towards the staircase, then, seeing Grace's +terrified eyes, filled with a horror that she, Maggie Cardinal, +should cause any one to look at her like that, she ran clumsily +upstairs, shutting herself into her bedroom. + +During the next fortnight the dominant element in the situation was +Grace's terror. Skeaton was already beginning to forget the story of +the suicide. Maggie was marked for ever now as "queer and strange," +but Paul was not blamed; he was rather, pitied and even liked the +more. But Grace could not forget. Maggie intended perhaps to murder +her in revenge for her uncle's death; well, then, she must be +murdered . . . She would not leave her brother. She could not +consider the future. She knew that she could not live in the same +house with Maggie for long, but she would not go and Maggie would +not go . . . What was to happen? + +Poor Grace, the tortures that she suffered during those weeks will +not be understood by persons with self-confidence and a hearty +contempt for superstition. + +She paid the penalty now for the ghosts of her childhood--and no one +could help her. + +Maggie saw that Paul was, with every day, increasingly unhappy. He +had never been trained to conceal his feelings, and although he +tried now he succeeded very badly. He would come into her room in +the early morning hours and lie down beside her. He would put his +arms around her and kiss her, and, desperately, as though he were +doing it for a wager, make love to her. She felt, desperate also on +her side, that she could comfort and make him happy, if only he +would want something less from her than passion. But always after an +hour or a little more, he crept away again to his own room, +disappointed, angered, frustrated. These hours were the stranger +because, during the day, he showed her nothing of this mood, but was +kindly and friendly and distant. + +She would have done anything for him; she tried sometimes to be +affectionate to him, but always, at once, he turned upon her with a +hungry, impassioned look . . . + +She knew, without any kind of doubt, that the only way that she +could make him happy again was to leave him. His was not a nature to +brood, for the rest of his days, on something that he had lost. + +Only once did he make any allusion to the coming Revival services. +He burst out one day, at luncheon: "The most scandalous thing!" he +said. "We had them here once, years ago, and the harm they did no +one would believe. I've been to Tamar about it; he can do nothing, +unless they disturb the public peace, of course. He had the +impertinence to tell me that they behaved very well last time they +were here!" + +"I don't like that man," said Grace. "I don't believe he makes his +money properly. Look at the clothes Mrs. Tamar wears! What I mean +is, I don't like his wife at all." + +"It's very hard," said Paul, his voice trembling with indignation," +that when men and women have been working for years to bring Christ +into the hearts of mankind that mountebanks and hypocrites should be +allowed to undo the work in the space of a night. I know this man +Thurston. They've had letters in the Church Times about him." +"Fancy!" said Grace, "and still he dares show his face." + +"But do they really do so much harm?" asked Maggie. "I should have +thought if they only came once for a week in ten years they couldn't +make any real effect on anybody--" + +"Maggie, dear," said Paul gently, "you don't understand." + +As the day of the Revival approached, Maggie knew that she would go +to one of the services. She was now in a strange state of +excitement. The shock of her uncle's death had undoubtedly shaken +her whole balance, moral, physical, and mental. The fortnight that +had followed it, when she had clung like a man falling from a height +and held by a rocky ledge to the one determination not to look +either behind or in front of her, had been a strain beyond her +strength. + +She did not know; she did not feel any weakness; she felt rather a +curious atmosphere of light and expectation as though that cry to +Martin in her bedroom had truly been answered. And she felt more +than this. Old Magnus had once said to her: "I don't know what +religion is except that it is a fight--and some people join in +because they want to, some are forced to join in whether they want +to or no, some just leave it alone, and some (most) don't know +there's one going on at all. But if you don't join in you seem to me +to have wasted your time." + +She had not understood in the least what he meant; she did not +understand now; but, thinking of his words, it did seem to her that +she was sharing in some conflict. The vast armies hidden from her by +mist, the contested ground also hidden, but the clash of arms +clearly to be heard. Her own part of a struggle seemed to be round +her love for Martin; it was as though, if she could get some +realisation of that, she would have won her way to a vantage-point +whence she could visualise the next place. She did not think this +out. She only felt in her heart a little less lonely, a little less +wicked and selfish, a little less deserted, as though she were +drawing nearer to some hidden fire and could feel the first warm +shadow of the flames. + +She made one more appeal to Grace on the very morning of the first +day of the Revival. + +After breakfast Maggie came into the drawing-room and found Grace +sitting there sewing. + +She stood, timidly, in her old attitude, her hands clasped in front +of her, like a child saying her lesson. + +"I beg your pardon, Grace." + +Grace looked up. She had of course been conscious of Maggie ever +since her entrance into the room. Her hands had trembled and her +heart leapt furiously. + +"Why, Maggie--" she said. + +"I'm afraid I'm disturbing you," said Maggie, "but we haven't really +said anything to one another for the last fortnight. I don't suppose +that you want me to say anything now, but things get worse and worse +if no one says anything, don't they?" Now that she had begun she +went on quickly: "I wanted to say, Grace, how sorry I am for the +trouble and unhappiness that you and Paul have had during the last +fortnight through me. I've been nothing but a trouble to you since I +first came here, but it wasn't that that I wanted to say. I couldn't +bear that you should think that I was just selfishly full of my own +affairs and didn't understand how you and Paul must feel about-- +about my uncle. Not that I mean," she went on rather fiercely, +raising her head, "that he was to blame. No one ever understood him. +He could have done great things if--if--some one had looked after +him a little. But he hadn't any one. That was my fault. I didn't +want you and Paul to think I don't blame myself. I do all the time. +I can't promise to be better in the future because I've promised so +often and I never am. But I am sorry." + +Grace said nothing for a moment. Her hands trembled more than ever. +Then, without looking up, she murmured as though to her sewing: + +"Oh no. Maggie . . . no one blames you, I'm sure." + +There was another pause, then Grace said: + +"I think I'm not well. No, I can't be well because I'm not sleeping, +although I've taken aspirin more, I'm sure, than I ought to. What I +mean is that they say it's bad for your heart. Of course things have +been very unfortunate, from the beginning one might say, but I'm +sure it's not been any one's fault exactly. What I mean is that +these things never are . . . No, they aren't really. I expect we all +want a change." + +"What are you frightened of me for, Grace," asked Maggie. + +Grace started as though Maggie had indeed dropped a bomb at her +feet. She looked up at Maggie, wildly, her eyes staring about the +room as though she were looking for some exit of escape. + +"Frightened?" she repeated. + +"Yes, you are," said Maggie. "That's what worries me most. No one's +ever been frightened of me before--at least I don't think any one +has." Maggie laughed. "Why, Grace, it seems so funny any one being +frightened of me. I couldn't hurt any one if I wanted to, and I'm +sure I never want to unless it's Mrs. Maxse. Be angry with me as +much as you like, Grace, but don't be frightened of me. Why, that's +ridiculous!" + +It was the worst word to have chosen. Grace flushed a dull +unwholesome purple. + +"I'm sorry you think me ridiculous, Maggie," she said. "Perhaps I +am. I'm sure I don't know. Yes, perhaps I am. What I mean is that +what's ridiculous to one is not ridiculous to another. You're a +strange girl, Maggie, and you and I will never get on. No, never. +But all I ask is that you should make Paul happy. That is enough for +me. I care for nothing else. He isn't very happy just now. What I +mean is that any one can see he isn't eating his meals properly." + +"Oh, Grace," cried Maggie. "I didn't mean that you were ridiculous. +I meant that any one being frightened of me was ridiculous. Anyway, +I'm very sorry that I've made you and Paul unhappy. That's all." + +She turned and went. + +It was the most lovely of April days, soft, primrose-coloured, the +sea-breeze gently tempered by mist-veiled sun. Maggie sat at her +bedroom window overlooking the drive and the blue-grey field that +ran to the woods. She knew that there would be no difficulty about +her escape to the Revival meeting. Paul had arranged that there +should be an evening service at the Church at the same hour, an act +of rather Un-Christian defiance. Maggie sat there, looking down in a +condition of strange bewildering excitement on to the laurel bushes. +It was wonderful to think that in another half-hour she would see +Miss Avies once more, hear those wild hymns again, catch the +stridency of Thurston's voice; all these things spoke of Martin. She +felt as though he were stealing towards her out of the dusk, it was +as though, without any reason, she expected to find him at the +service . . . although she knew that he could not be there. + +She heard the Church bell begin to ring, then the hall-door opened +and Paul came out. He had on his soft black hat, he was carrying his +Bible and prayer-book under his arm. He stood, for a moment, beside +the hall-door as though he were listening or expecting something. +She had a strange impulse to run down to him; so strong was it that +she got up and moved to the door. Then slowly she came back to the +window and stood looking down upon him. Suddenly, as though he felt +her gaze, he glanced up, saw her, and waved to her. She waved back +to him. He turned and walked quickly away, she heard the gate swing, +screaming behind him. + +She waited for a little, then put on her hat and coat and went out. +She knew the Flower Street Hall, a place occasionally used by +touring Companies, Wandering Lecturers, Charitable Concerts, and +other casual festivals. It was at the far end of the town towards +the end of the Promenade. + +The town, dim in the first dusk, hummed with loiterers, girls +released from the shops walking with their young men, middle-aged +couples sauntering out to take a last whiff of the sea before going +in to the evening meal, one or two visitors from the Hotel strolling +across to the beach to watch the first evening stars and the rising +moon. Pianos were playing, children shouting over the last game of +the day; all hushed into a coloured mild tranquillity. In the fields +beyond the houses the quiet was absolute. + +Maggie found the building. The facade was blazing with electric +light. A huge poster, of the now familiar pink, declared: + + GRAND RELIGIOUS FESTIVAL. All are invited. IS ALL WELL WITH YOU, +BROTHER? + +There was a crowd about the doors, and continually, with giggles and +shamefaced laughter, couples broke away and climbed the steps into +the Hall. Maggie, feeling that all eyes were upon her, entered the +building. In the vestibule two grave-faced women in black bonnets +handed papers with prayers and hymns to every newcomer. Maggie took +hers, a door was opened in front of her, and she went in. The +auditorium was a large one, semicircular in shape, with tiers of +seats rising circus-fashion to a ceiling decorated with silver stars +and pink naked cherubs. The stage had upon it a table, some chairs, +and a reading-desk draped in crimson cloth. Below the stage was a +small orchestra, consisting of two fiddles, a cornet, drum, and a +piano. There was also what seemed to Maggie a small choir, some +women dressed in white and some men in black coats and white bow +ties. Across the stage were suspended broad white bands of cloth +with "Come to Jesus!" "Come now!" "He is waiting for you!" in big +black letters. + +The hall seemed very full, and was violently illuminated with +electric light. Maggie took this in as she stood very timidly just +inside the door. A steward came forward and showed her a corner- +seat. She saw, then, with a dramatic flash of recognition, Thurston +and Mr. Crashaw sitting behind the table; then, with a still +stranger emotion, Miss Avies as one of the white-robed choir. The +sight of those three familiar faces seemed to close, finally and +definitely, the impression that she had had during all those last +weeks. They had "got" her again, and yet not they, but the power +behind them. It seemed only five minutes ago that she had sat in the +London Chapel and heard old Crashaw scream "Punishment! Punishment! +Punishment!" She turned half in her seat as though she expected to +see Aunt Anne and Aunt Elizabeth sitting one on either side of her. +She looked at Thurston; he had coarsened very much since she had +seen him last. He was fatter, his cheeks stained with an unnaturally +high colour, his eyes brighter and sharper and yet sensual too. He +was smarter than he had been, his white bow tie stiff and shapely, +his cuffs clean and shining, his hair very carefully brushed back +from his high and bony forehead. His sharp eyes darted all over the +building, and Maggie felt as though at any moment she would be +discovered. Crashaw looked more like a decrepit monkey than ever, +huddled up in his chair, his back bow-shaped. He breathed into his +hands as though he wanted to warm them, and looked at nobody. Miss +Avies Maggie could not see clearly. + +Her eyes wandered over the audience. She saw many townspeople whom +she knew, and she realised, for the first time, that tomorrow +everywhere it would be said that the Rector's wife had been at the +Revival meeting. + +And how different an audience from the old London one. Every one had +come on this occasion to see a show, and it was certainly a show +that they were going to see. Maggie had entered during a pause, and +all the faces that were there wore that look of expectation that +demands the rising of the curtain. Soon, Maggie felt, they would +stamp and whistle did the play not begin. + +Thurston rose and announced: + +"My brothers, we will sing hymn No. 14 on the paper." + +Maggie looked and discovered that it was the hymn that had once +moved her so dramatically in London with the words + +By all Thy sores and bloody pain Come down and heal our sins again. + +and with the last refrain: + +By the blood, by the blood, by the blood of the Lamb We beseech +Thee. + +Already, in spite of herself, in spite of her consciousness of the +melodrama and meretricious glitter of the scene, her heart was +beating. She was more deeply moved, even now, than she had ever been +by all the services of the Skeaton Church. + +And Thurston had learnt his job by this time. Softly one of the +violins played the tune. Then Thurston said: + +"The first verse of this hymn will be sung by the choir alone. The +congregation is asked to stand and then to join in the second verse. +The fourth verse will be sung by the soloist." + +The audience rose. There was a hush of expectation throughout the +building. The choir, to the accompaniment of the fiddlers alone, +sang the first verse. They had been well selected and trained. +Thurston obviously spared no expense. For the second verse, the +whole orchestra combined, the drum booming through the refrain. At +first the congregation was timid, but the tune was simple and +attractive. The third verse was sung by every one, and Maggie found +herself, almost against her will, joining in. At the fourth verse +there was again the hush of expectation, then a soprano, thin and +clear, accompanied again by one violin, broke the silence. + +There was no doubt that this was very moving. Men and women sat down +at the hymn's close quite visibly affected. + +Thurston got up then and read a lesson from the Bible. He read from +the Revelations: + +"After this I looked, and, behold, a door was opened in heaven: and +the first voice which I heard was as it were of a trumpet talking +with me; which said, Come up hither, and I will show thee things +which must be hereafter." + +"And immediately I was in the Spirit: and, behold, a throne was set +in heaven, and one sat on the throne." + +"And he that sat was to look upon like a jasper and a sardine stone: +and there was a rainbow round about the throne, in sight like unto +an emerald. And round about the throne were four and twenty seats: +and upon the seats I saw four and twenty elders sitting, clothed in +white raiment; and they had on their heads crowns of gold." + +Thurston had worked hard during these last years, he had immensely +improved his accent, and his h's were all in their right places. He +read very dramatically, dropping his voice to a whisper, then +pausing and staring in front of him as though he saw God only a few +yards away. The people of Skeaton had had few opportunities of any +first-class dramatic entertainment. When Thurston finished there +passed through the building a wave of excitement, a stir, a faint +murmur. An old woman next to Maggie wiped her eyes. "Lovely!" Maggie +heard her whisper. "Lovely!" + +They sang, then, another hymn, accompanied by the orchestra. This +was a dramatic hymn with a fiery martial tune: + +The Lord of War He cometh down With Sword and Shield and Armour +Bright, His armies all behind him Frown, Who can withstand His +Light? + +Chorus. Trumpets Blare, The drum-taps Roll, Prepare to meet Thy God, +Oh Soul! Prepare! Prepare! Prepare to meet Thy God, oh Soul! + +Never before had the men and women of Skeaton heard such hymns. The +Revival of ten years ago, lacking the vibrant spirit of Mr. John +Thurston, had been a very different affair. This was something quite +new in all Skeaton experience. Red-hot expectation flamed now in +every eye. Maggie could feel that the old woman next to her was +trembling all over. + +Thurston announced: + +"Brother Crashaw will now deliver an address." + +Brother Crashaw, his head still lowered, very slowly got up from his +seat. He moved as though it were only with the utmost difficulty and +power of self-will that his reluctant body could be compelled into +action. He crept rather than walked from his chair to the reading- +desk, then very very painfully climbed on to the high platform. +Maggie, watching him, remembered that earlier time when he had +climbed into just such another desk. She remembered also that day at +her aunts' house when he had flirted with Caroline and shown himself +quite another Brother Crashaw. He had aged greatly since then. He +seemed now to be scarcely a man at all. Then suddenly, with a jerk, +as though a string had been pulled from behind, he raised his face +and looked at them all. Yes, that was alive. Monkey's mask you +might call it, but the eyes behind the yellow lids flamed and +blazed. No exaggeration those words. A veritable fire burned there, +a fire, it might be, of mere physical irritation and savage +exasperation at the too-rapid crumbling of the wilfully disobedient +body, a glory, perhaps, of obstinate pride and conceit, a fire of +superstition and crass ignorance, but a fire to be doubted of no man +who looked upon it. + +When he spoke his voice was harsher, angrier, more insulting than it +had been before. He spoke, too, in a hurry, tumbling his words one +upon another as though he were afraid that he had little mortal time +left to him and must make the most of what he had got. + +From the first he was angry, rating the men of Skeaton as they had +never been rated before. And they liked it. They even revelled in +it; it did them no harm and at the same time tickled their skins. +Sometimes a preacher at the Methodist Chapel had rated them, but how +mild and halting a scolding compared with the fury of this little +man. As he continued they settled into their seats with the +conviction that this was the best free show that they had ever +enjoyed in all their lives. They had been afraid at first that it +would not keep up its interest. They had agreed with one another +that they would go in "just for a quarter of an hour to see what it +was like." Now they were willing that it should continue all night. + +"What came ye out for to see?" he screamed at them. "Came out to +see? Ye didn't come out at all. None of you. That's what I've come +to tell you. For years you've been leading your lazy, idle, self- +indulgent lives, eating and drinking, sleeping, fornicating, lying +with your neighbours' wives, buying and selling, living like hogs +and swine. And is it for want of your being told? Not a bit of it. +You are warned again and again and again. Every day gives you signs +and wonders had you got eyes to see them and you will not see. Well, +be it on your own heads. Why should I care for your miserable, +shrivelled-up, parched little souls? Why should I care when I watch +you all, with your hanging stomachs and your double chins, marching +straight into such a hell as you've never conceived of. I know +what's coming to you. I know what's in store for those well-filled +stomachs of yours. I can see you writhing and screaming and wailing, +'Why didn't somebody tell us? Why didn't somebody tell us?' Somebody +has told you. Somebody's telling you now. And will you listen? Not a +bit of it. You'll have heard the music to-night, the drums and the +trumpets, you'll have joined in the singing, and to-night you'll go +back and tell your friends: 'Yes, we had a fine evening. You ought +to go. It's worth while and costs you nothing.' And to-morrow you +will have forgotten everything. But I tell you that every man, +woman, and child in this building stands in as desperate peril as +though his house was on fire over his head and there was no way +out." + +He stopped for a moment to get breath, leaning forward over the desk +and panting. Over the building there was a great silence. Maggie was +stirred beyond any earlier experience. She did not know whether he +were charlatan or no. She did not care. She had lived for more than +two years in Skeaton, where everything and every one was dead. Now +here was life. The evidence of it reassured her, whispering to her +that Martin still lived, that he could be found, even that he was +coming to her. Her nervous excitement increased. The emotion of the +people around her, the bands, the singing, all seemed to cry to her, +"He is coming! He is coming! He is coming!" . . . but it was Martin +now and not God. + +Old Crashaw, having recovered his breath, went on: he continued for +some time to abuse them all, screaming and beating the wooden desk +with his fists--then suddenly he changed, his voice softened, his +eyes were milder, there was something wistful and pathetic in his +old ugly yellow face. + +"I know that you came in here to-night, all of you, just as you +might into a picture-house or a theatre. Entrance free. Well, then, +why not? Had we charged half-a-crown there wouldn't have been one of +you. Half-a-crown and the most important thing in life. I say the +most important--I say the only important thing in life. A man's +soul, its history and growth. What do you know of the soul, you ask +me? How do you know there is one? Well, I can only tell you my news. +If a man comes into your town and tells you that there is an army +marching down upon it to destroy it he may be true or he may not. If +he is true then, when you don't listen to him you are doomed. If you +do listen the preparation to meet that army will at any rate do you +no harm even though the army doesn't exist." + +"I tell you that the Soul exists, that God exists, and that one day +God and the Soul will meet. You say that hasn't been proved, and +until it is proved you will spend your time over other things that +you know to be true. Try it at least, give it a chance. Why not? You +give other things a chance, marriage, doctors, trades, amusements. +Why not the Soul? Don't listen to any one else's definition of +religion. Don't believe in it. Make your own. Find out for yourself. +My children, I am an old man, I am shortly to die. If I have scolded +forgive me. Let me leave with you my blessing, and my earnest prayer +that you will not pass by God on the other side. The day will come +when you cannot pass Him by. Meet Him first of your own accord and +then when that other day comes He will know you as a friend . . ." + +The old man's voice faltered, failed, stopped. He himself seemed to +be deeply affected. Was it acting? Maggie could not tell. At any +rate he was old and ill and very shortly to die . . . + +The woman next her was crying rubbing the knuckles of her shabby old +gloves in her eyes, the bugles on her bonnet shaking like live +things. + +She snuffled through her nose to Maggie "Beautiful--beautiful--I +'aven't 'eard such preaching since I don't know when." + +Thurston again rose. + +"A solo will now be sung," he said. "After the singing of the solo +there will be a prayer offered, then a procession, headed by the +choir, will be formed to march, with lanterns, through the town, as +a witness to the glory of God. It is hoped that those of the +congregation who have received comfort and help during this service +will join in the procession. There will be a collection for the +expenses of the Mission at the door." + +Maggie watching him wondered. Of what was he thinking? Was there any +truth in him? Had he, perhaps, behind the sham display and +advertisement that he had been building felt something stirring? Was +he conscious, against his own will, of his falsehood? Had he, while +building only his own success, made a discovery? She looked at him. +The dramatic mask hid him from her. She could not, tell what he was. + +The soprano, who had sung a verse of the hymn earlier in the +evening, now undertook "Hear my Prayer." Very beautifully she sang +it. + +"Hear my prayer, Oh, God, incline Thine ear, Thyself from my +distresses do not hide . . ." + +The voice rose, soaring through the building to meet the +silver stars and the naked cherubs on the ceiling. "The enemy +shouteth . . . The enemy shouteth . . ." + +Skeaton sat enraptured. Women let the tears stream down their faces, +men blew their noses. + +Once again the voice arose. + +"Hear my prayer, Oh, God, incline Thine ear . . ." + +It was Maggie's voice, Maggie's cry. From the very heart of the +charlatanism she cried out, appealing to a God who might exist or +no, she could not tell, but who seemed now to be leading her by the +hand. She saw Aunt Anne at St. Dreot's whispering "The Lord is my +Shepherd. He shall lead me . . ." + +In a dream she shared in the rest of the ceremony. In a dream she +passed with the others out of the building. The sea air blew about +her; down the promenade she could see the people, she could see the +silver stars in the sky, the faint orange light of the lanterns, the +dim stretch of the sand, and then the grey sea. She heard the splash +and withdrawal of the tide, the murmur of many voices, the singing +of the distant hymn, the blare of the trumpet. + +Strange and mysterious, the wind blowing through it all like a +promise of beauty and splendour to come . . . + +She turned in the starlit dark, separated herself from the crowd, +and hurried home. + +In the hall on the table under the lamp she saw a letter. She saw +that it was addressed to her and that the writing was Amy Warlock's. +Before she picked it up she stood there listening. The house was +very still. Grace and Paul had probably begun supper. She picked up +the letter and went up to her bedroom. + +As though she were scanning something that she had already seen, she +read: + +I made you a promise and I will now fulfil it. + +My brother, Martin, arrived in London three days ago. He is staying +at No. 13A Lynton Street, King's Cross. + +I have seen him but he has told me that he does not wish to see me +again. He is very ill; his heart is bad and his lungs are affected. +He has also spent all his money. I mentioned your name but he did +not seem to be at all interested. I think it fair to tell you this +lest you should have a fruitless journey. I have now kept my promise +to you, unwisely perhaps. AMY WARLOCK. + +Maggie sat down on the bed and considered. There was a train at +10.30 reaching London about midnight. She could just catch it if she +were quick. She found a pencil and a piece of paper and wrote: + +DEAR PAUL--I have to go to London suddenly on very urgent business. +I will write to you from there. Good-bye. MAGGIE. + +She propped this up against the looking-glass. She put a few things, +including the box with Martin's letters and the ring into a little +bag, put on her hat and coat and went downstairs. She waited for a +moment in the hall but there was no sound anywhere. She went out +down the dark drive. + +As she passed along the lonely road she heard the gate, screaming +faintly, behind her. + + + + +PART IV + +THE JOURNEY HOME AGAIN + + +CHAPTER I + +THE DARK ROOM + + +It was after midnight when Maggie was turned out on to the long grim +platform of the London station. On that other London arrival of hers +the terminus had been a boiling cauldron of roar and rattle. Now +everything was dead and asleep. No trains moved; they slept, ancient +monsters, chained down with dirt and fog. Two or three porters crept +slothfully as though hypnotised. The face of the great clock, golden +in the dusk, dominated, like a heathen god, the scene. Maggie asked +a porter the way to the Station Hotel. He showed her; she climbed +stairs, pushed back swing doors, trod oil-clothed passages, and +arrived at a tired young woman who told her that she could have a +room. + +Arrived there, herself somnambulistic, she flung off her clothes, +crept into bed, and was instantly asleep. + +Next morning she kept to her room; she went down the long dusty +stairs before one o'clock because she was hungry, and she discovered +the restaurant and had a meal there; but all the time she was +expecting Martin to appear. Every step seemed to be his, every voice +to have an echo of his tones. Then in the dusky afternoon she +decided that she would be cowardly no longer. She started off on her +search for No. 13A Lynton Street, King's Cross. + +She searched through a strange blue opaque light which always +afterwards she recollected as accompanying her with mystery, as +though it followed her about deliberately veiling her from the rest +of the world. She felt different from them all; she found an omnibus +that was going to King's Cross, but when she was inside it and +looked at the people around her she felt of them all that they had +no reality beside the intensity of her own search. She, hot like a +fiery coal, existed in a land of filmy ghosts. She repeated to +herself over and over, "No. 13A Lynton Street, King's Cross." + +She got out opposite the huge station and looked about her. She saw +a policeman and went across to him. + +"Can you tell me where Lynton Street is, please?" she asked him. + +He smiled. "Yes, miss. Down on your right, then first to your right +again." + +She thanked him and wanted for a silly moment to remain with him. +She wanted to stand there where she was, on the island, she couldn't +go back, she was afraid to go forward. Then the moment left her and +she moved on. When she saw Lynton Street written up her heart gave a +strange little whirr and then tightened within herself, but she +marched on and found 13A. A dirty house, pots with ferns in the two +grimy windows, and the walls streaky with white stains against the +grey. The door was ajar and, pushing it a little, she saw a servant- +girl on her knees scrubbing the floor. At the noise of her step the +girl looked up. + +"Is Mr. Warlock here?" Maggie asked, but the words were choked in +her throat. + +"Wot d'ye sye?" the girl asked. + +Maggie repeated her question. + +"Yes--'e's upstairs. Always is. Fust floor, second door on yer +left." + +Maggie went up. She found the door. She knocked. There was no +answer. She pushed the door, peered through and looked in. She saw a +room with a dirty grimy window, a broken faded red sofa, a deal +table. No one there. + +She entered and stood listening. A door beyond her opened and a man +came in. She knew at once that it was Martin. Her thoughts followed +one another in strange flurried inconsequence. Yes, it was Martin. +He was fatter than he had been--fat and ill. Very ill. His face was +pale, his hair, thinner than before, unbrushed. He was wearing an +old dirty blue suit with a coat that buttoned over the waistcoat +like a seaman's jacket. Yes, he was ill and fat and unkempt, but it +was Martin. At that reiterated assurance in the depths of her soul +she seemed to sink into a marvellous certain tranquillity--so +certain that she shed, as it were with a gesture, all the +unhappiness and doubt and desolation with which the last years had +burdened her. + +She had "touched" Martin again, and with that "touch" she was safe. +It did not matter how he treated her nor whether he wanted her. She +was sane and happy and whole again as she had not been since he left +her. + +Meanwhile he looked at her across the dark room, frowning. + +"Who is it?" he asked. "What do you want?" + +The sound of his voice moved her passionately. For how long she had +ached and yearned for it! He spoke more huskily, with a thicker tone +than he had done, but it was the same voice, rough a little and +slow. + +"Don't you know me, Martin?" she said, laughing for sheer happiness. +She saw before she spoke that he had recognised her. He said +nothing, staring at her across the table; and she, held by some safe +instinct, did not move from where she was. + +At last he said: + +"Well . . . What do you want?" + +"Oh, Martin, don't you recognise me? I'm Maggie." + +He nodded. "Yes, I know. You mustn't come here, though. We've +nothing to say to one another nowadays--no, nothing." He didn't look +at her; his eyes were turned towards the grimy window. + +She had an astonishing sense of her possession of him. She laughed +and came close to the table. + +"I'm not going away, Martin . . . not until we've had a talk. +Nothing can make me. So there!" + +He was looking at her again. + +"Why, you've cut your hair!" he said. + +"Yes." she said. + +Then he turned roughly right round upon her as though he meant to +end the matter once and for all. + +"Look here! . . . I do mean what I say--" He was cut off then by a +fit of coughing. He leant back against the wall and fought with it, +his hand against his chest. She made no movement and said no word +while the attack lasted. + +He gasped, recovering his breath, then, speaking in a voice lower +than before: "I mean what I say. I don't want you. I don't want any +one. There's nothing for us to say to one another. It's only waste +of time." + +"Yes," she answered. "That's your side of the question. There's also +mine. Once before you had your own way and I was very miserable +about it. Now it's my turn. I'm going to stay here until we've +talked." + +He turned, his face working angrily, upon her. + +"You can't stay here. It's impossible. What do you do it for when I +tell you I don't want you? First my sister . . . then you . . . come +here spying. Well, now you're seen what it's like, haven't you? Very +jolly, isn't it? Very handsome? You'd better go away again, then. +You've seen all you've wanted to." + +"I'm not going away," repeated Maggie, "I didn't come to spy. You +know that. Of course you can turn me out, but you'll have to use +force." + +"Oh, no, I won't," he answered. "There are other ways." + +He disappeared into the other room. A moment later he returned; he +was wearing a soft black hat and a shabby grey overcoat. + +"You'll get tired of waiting, I expect," he said, and, without +looking at her but just touching her arm as he brushed past her, he +left the room. She heard him descend the stairs. Then the street- +door closed. + +She sat down upon the shabby red sofa and looked about her. What a +horrible room! Its darkness was tainted with a creeping coldness +that seemed to steal in wavering gusts from wall to wall. The carpet +was faded to a nondescript colour and was gashed into torn strips +near the fireplace. No pictures were on the walls from which the +wall-paper was peeling. He had done nothing whatever to make it more +habitable. + +He must have been staying there for several weeks, and yet there +were no signs of any personal belongings. Nothing of himself to be +seen! Nothing! It was as though in the bitterness of his spirit he +had said that he would not touch such a spot save, of necessity, +with his body. It should remain, so far as be might go, for ever +tenantless. + +She felt that. She seemed to be now marvellously perceptive. Until +an hour ago she had been lost, ostracised; now she was at home +again, clear in purpose, afraid of no one and of nothing. Strangely, +although his sickness both of body and soul touched her to the very +depths of her being, her predominant sensation was of happiness. She +had found him again! Oh, she had found him again! Nothing, in this +world or the next, counted in comparison with that. If she were +close to him she would make him well, she would make him rich, she +would make him happy. Where he had been, what he had done, mattered +nothing. Where she had been, what she had done, nothing. Nothing in +their two lives counted but their meeting again, and she who had +been always so shy and so diffident felt no doubt at all about his +returning to her. There would be a fight. As she looked around the +gradually darkening room she realised that. It might be a long fight +and a difficult one, but that she would win she had no doubt. It had +been preordained that she should win. No one on this earth or above +it could beat her. + +Gradually she became more practical. Slowly she formed her plans. +First, what had Martin done? Perhaps he had told the woman of the +house that she, Maggie, was to be turned out, did she not, of +herself, go away. No, Martin would not do that. Maggie knew quite +confidently that he would never allow any one to insult her. Perhaps +Martin would not come back at all. Perhaps his hat and his coat were +his only possessions. That was a terrible thought! Had he gone, +leaving no trace, how would she ever find him again? She remembered +then that he had gone straight downstairs and out of the house. He +had not spoken to the landlady. That did not look like a permanent +departure. But she would make certain. + +She pushed open the other door and peeped into the further room. She +saw a dirty unmade bed, a tin washhand stand, and an open carpet-bag +filled with soiled linen. No, he would come back. + +She sat there thinking out her plans. She was suddenly clear, +determined, resourceful, all the things that she had never been in +her life before. First she must see the landlady; next she must go +to the shops--but suppose he should return while she was there, pack +his bag and leave for ever? She must risk that. She thought that he +would not return at once because he would want, as he said, "to tire +her out." "To tire her out!" She laughed at that. She looked about +the room and decided how she would improve it. She nodded to +herself. Yes, and the bedroom too. All this time she was so happy +that she could scarcely prevent herself from singing aloud. + +She went out, down the dark stairs, and found the maid, under a +swinging candle-flame, still scrubbing. How strange that in that +short space of time, when the whole of life had altered for her, +that girl had been on her knees scrubbing! + +"Could you tell me, please," she asked, "whether I could see +somebody who is in charge of this house--the landlady or--" + +"Is there anything I can do?" said a voice behind her. + +She turned to find a short stout woman in voluminous black--black +bonnet, black cape, black gloves--watching her with sharp bright +eyes. + +"Are you the landlady?" Maggie asked. + +"I ham," said the woman. "Mrs. Brandon--ma'am." + +The servant-girl had suspended operations, kneeling up and watching +with open mouth developments. + +"I'm very glad to meet you," said Maggie. "How do you do?" + +"How do you do, ma'am?" said Mrs. Brandon. + +"The point is just this," said Maggie, speaking rather fast as +though she were confused, which she was not. "Mr. Warlock is a very +old friend of mine and I'm afraid he's very ill indeed. He's very +ill and there's nobody to look after him. What I was wondering was +whether there was a bedroom in your house that I could have--so that +I could look after him, you see, and get him anything he wants." + +Mrs. Brandon overlooked Maggie from head to foot--very slowly she +did it, her eyes passing over the rather shabby black hat, the short +hair, the plain black dress, the shoes worn and soiled. She also +looked at Maggie's wedding-ring. + +"Well, Mrs.--" she began. + +"Mrs. Trenchard is my name," said Maggie, blushing in spite of +herself at the long scrutiny. + +"I 'ope you're not reproaching anybody with neglect of the +gentleman." She had an action, as she talked, of flinging a very +seedy-looking black boa back across her neck vindictively. "Wot I +mean to say is that gentleman lodgers must take their chance and e's +two weeks overdue with 'is rent as it is . . . but of course I'm not +saying I couldn't oblige. 'E's a nice gentleman too, although not +talkative so to speak, but if it would give 'im 'appiness to 'ave a +lady friend close at 'and as you might say, why I wouldn't like to +be one to stand in 'is way. 'Live and let live,' 'as always been my +motter, and a very good one too." + +She said all this very slowly, with a good many significant pauses. +Maggie, however, felt nothing but happiness at the prospect of +getting her way. She had gone far beyond all personal sensations of +shame or fear or hesitation. + +"Would you show me the room, please?" she asked. + +They pushed past the servant-girl, whose eyes followed them up the +stairs with hungry curiosity. + +They climbed to the top of the house. Mrs. Brandon displayed a dark +sulky little room with damp of the tomb clinging to its wall. + +"Ten bob a week," she said. She sunk her voice to a confidential +whisper. "The best of this 'ouse is that you can do what you like. +No one minds and no one sees. 'Them as lives in glass 'ouses.' +That's what I say." + +"I'll take it," said Maggie. + +"You'll be wanting a key, my dear," said Mrs. Brandon, suddenly very +friendly. "To let yerself in an' out at nights. I'll fetch yer one." + +She did. Maggie thanked her. + +"I wonder," she said, "whether you have such a thing as a small +basket you could lend me. I'm going out to buy one or two +necessaries." + +"Certingly," said Mrs. Brandon, all smiles. "Certingly, and anythink +else you'll be needing. All you've got to do is ter ask." + +This settled, Maggie departed on her shopping expedition. She was +still driven by a curious clarity and decision as to what she wanted +to do. She felt as though she could conquer the world to-day and +then parcel it out equitably and with success amongst the greedy +kings of the earth. What were kings to her now that she had found +Martin? Less than the dust . . . + +Lynton Street offered her nothing but dirty and grime-stained +windows, but she found her way into King Edward Street, and here +there were many shops. She had not very much money actually upon +her, and the remainder of her precious three hundred was locked up +in a bank in Skeaton, but it was a bank that had, she knew, branches +in London. She looked in her purse and found that she had three +pounds, twelve shillings and sixpence. Martin must have his meals +upon something other than paper, so the probability was that there +was crockery of a kind in his room--or perhaps Mrs. Brandon supplied +it. Nevertheless Maggie's first purchases were a blue teapot, two +blue plates, and two blue cups and saucers. + +As to food she must get something that could be cooked easily on his +fire. She bought three of the freshest possible eggs, half a dozen +sausages, a loaf of bread, half a pound of butter, two pots of jam, +one pot of marmalade, some apples, a pound of tea, a pound of sugar. + +"This will do as a start," she said to herself. + +She was just about to turn into Lynton Street when she stopped at a +flower shop. In the window, smiling at her most fragrantly under the +gas-light was a white hyacinth in a blue pot. It seemed to speak to +her with, the same significance as once the ring with the three +pearls; as though it said: "You've got to use me. I'm a link in the +chain." + +She went in and asked its price; not very much, considering the +splendour of the blue pot. She bought it. She was glad that 13A was +not far, because now the basket and the flower weighed heavily upon +her. + +She climbed the stairs to Martin's room with beating heart. Suppose +he had returned and was there and would not let her in? Or suppose, +worse than that, that he had returned, packed his bag and gone away +again? Her heart was beating so terribly when at last she had +arrived outside the door that she had to put down the hyacinth and +the basket and stand for a minute there, panting. + +She pushed back the door; the room was lit by the reflection from a +lamp in a window on the opposite side of the road; this flickered +with a pale uncertain glow across the floor. He was not here. She +opened the bedroom door. He had not packed his bag. She sighed with +relief. She found a bell and pressed it. To her great surprise the +scrubbing maid almost instantly presented herself; curiosity had +undoubtedly hastened her steps. + +"What's your name?" asked Maggie, smiling. + +"Emily," said the girl. + +"The first thing I want is a box of matches," said Maggie. "You'll +light the gas for me, won't you. The truth is, I'm not quite tall +enough to reach it." + +Emily lit the gas. + +"Thank you so much," said Maggie. "I must have a fire. That's the +next thing. This cold room must have been a bad thing for Mr. +Warlock with his cough." + +"Yes, 'e 'as got a corf," said Emily, watching Maggie with all her +eyes. + +"Well, do you think I could have a fire?" asked Maggie. + +Emily considered. + +"I'll ask the missus," she said; "I shouldn't wonder." + +She returned soon with coal, wood and newspaper. She also informed +Maggie that Mrs. Brandon would like to have a "little in advance if +convenient, that being the custom." + +Maggie delivered up ten and sixpence and was left with exactly two +shillings in her pocket. But how beautiful the room appeared! Emily, +whose ugly bony countenance now wore a look of excited +breathlessness as though she were playing a new kind of game, +discovered a piece of dark sad cloth somewhere in the lower region +and this was pinned up over the window. The fire was soon blazing +away as though the fireplace rejoiced to have a chance of being warm +once more. A shabby but clean table-cloth was discovered and placed +upon the table, and in the middle of this the hyacinth was +triumphantly stationed. + +"Now I tell you what would be nice," said Maggie, also by this time +breathless, "and that's a lamp. This gas isn't very pleasant, is it, +and it DOES make such a noise." + +"It DOES make a noise," said Emily, looking at the gas as though she +were seeing it for the first time. + +"Well, do you think there's a lamp somewhere?" + +Emily licked her finger. + +"I'll ask the missus," she said and disappeared. Soon she returned +with a lamp, its gloriea hidden beneath a bright pink paper shade. + +Maggie removed the paper shade, placed the lamp on the table, then +the blue plates, the blue cups and saucers, the blue teapot. + +A shrill voice was heard calling for Emily. Maggie had then her +kingdom to herself. + +She stood there, waiting and listening. The approaching interview +must have seemed to her the climax of her whole life. She stood, +clasping and unclasping her hands, going to the table, moving the +plates, then moving them back again. Perhaps he would not return at +all that night, perhaps not until midnight or later. He might be +drunk, he might be violent. She did not care. It was enough for her +that he should be there. + +"Oh I do wish he'd come," she whispered aloud. + +She had looked at her watch and seen that it was just eight o'clock +when she heard a step on the stair. She had already borrowed from +Emily a frying-pan. Quickly she put the sausages into it, placed +them on the fire and then stood over them. + +The door opened. She knew who it was because she heard him start +suddenly with a little exclamation of surprise. She turned and +looked at him. Her first thought was that he seemed desperately +weary, weary with a fatigue not only physical. His whole bearing was +that of a man beaten, defeated, raging, it might be, with the +consciousness of his defeat but beyond all hope of avenging it. Her +pity for him made her tremble but, with that, she realised that the +worst thing that she could do was to show pity. What had he +expected? To find her gone? To find her still sitting defiantly +where he had left her? To see her crying, perhaps on her knees +before him, beseeching him? Anything but not this. + +She could see that he was astonished and was resolved not to let her +know it. + +He moved past her without a word, and went into the other room. She +said nothing, but bent over the sausages. They were sizzling and +flung out a splendid smell. + +He came back without his hat and coat. He stood by the bedroom door +and slowly looked round the room, taking everything in. + +"I thought you'd have gone," he said; "I warned you." + +She looked up at him, laughing: + +"I haven't," she said. "Whatever happens afterwards, Martin, we may +as well have one meal together. I'm very hungry. I know you'll +forgive my using your room like this, but I didn't want to go to a +shop. So I just brought the things in here." + +His eyes lighted on the hyacinth. + +"I know what your game is," he said huskily. "But it isn't any good. +You may as well chuck it." + +"All right," she said. "After we've had a meal." + +Straightening herself up from the heat of the fire she had a +terrible temptation then to go to him. It overwhelmed her in a +flood; her knees and hands trembled. She wanted just to touch his +arm, to put her hand on his shoulder. But she knew that she must +not. + +"Sit down for a bit," she said very quietly, "and let's have our +meal. There's nothing terrible in that, Martin. I've not put poison +in your food or anything and the sausages do smell nice." + +To her surprise he sat down, suddenly collapsing as though he were +too tired to stand any longer. He said nothing more. She finished +the sausages, put them on the table, then took a saucepan (also +Emily's gift), filled it with water and put in the eggs. + +"Come on," she said gently, "or the sausages will get cold." + +He went then to the table, cut off some bread and began to eat +ravenously. Her heart felt a dim distant triumph when she saw that +he was so hungry, but it was too early to feel triumph yet. + +She came to the table and began to eat, although she felt no hunger. + +"You're married, aren't you?" he asked suddenly. + +"Yes," she answered. + +"Where's your husband?" + +"A place called Skeaton." + +"Well, you'd better get back there to-night--" + +"I'm staying in London for a day or two." + +"Where?" + +"Here. I've got a bedroom upstairs." + +"You can do what you damn well please," he said. "It doesn't matter +to me. I'm going away from here to-morrow morning." Then, after +another pause, he said: + +"What sort of a man's your husband?" + +"A clergyman," she answered. + +" A clergyman . . . good Lord!" He laughed grimly. "Still religious, +I see." + +All this time she was thinking how ill he was. Every breath that he +drew seemed to hurt him. His eyes were dull and expressionless. He +moved his hands, sometimes, with a groping movement as though he +could not see. He drank his tea thirstily, eagerly. + +At last he had finished. He bent forward, leaning on his hands, +looking her steadily in the face for the first time. + +"It was clever of you to do this," he said; "damn clever. I was +hungry, I don't mind confessing . . . but that's the last of it. Do +you hear? I can look after myself. I know. You're feeling sorry for +me. Think I'm in a dirty room with no one to look after me. Think +I'm ill. I bet Amy told you I was ill. 'Oh, poor fellow,' you +thought, 'I must go and look after him.' Well, I'm not a poor fellow +and I don't want looking after. I can manage for myself very nicely. +And I don't want any women hanging round. I'm sick of women, and +that's flat." + +"I'm not pretending it's not all my own fault. It is. ALL my own +fault, but I don't want any one coming round and saying so. AND I +don't want any pity. You've had a nice romantic idea in your head, +saving the sinner and all the rest of it. Well, you can get back to +your parson. He's the sort for that kind of stuff." + +"Indeed I haven't," said Maggie. "I don't care whether you're a +sinner or not. You're being too serious about it all, Martin. We +were old friends. When I heard you were in London I came to see you. +That's all. I may as well stay here as anywhere else. Aunt Anne's +dead and--and--Uncle Mathew too. There's nowhere else for me to go. +I don't pity you. Why should I? You think too much about yourself, +Martin. It wasn't to be clever that I got these things. I was +hungry, and I didn't want to eat in an A.B.C. shop." + +"Oh, I don't know," he said, turning away from the table. + +He stood up, fumbling in his pocket. He produced a pipe and some +tobacco out of a paper packet. As he filled it she saw that his hand +was trembling. + +He turned finally upon her. + +"Whatever your plan was it's failed," he said. "I'm going to bed +straight away now. And to-morrow morning early I'm off. Thank you +for the meal and--good-night and good-bye." + +He gave her one straight look. She looked up at him, calmly. He +dropped his eyes; then, clumsily he walked off, opened his bedroom +door, closed it behind him, and was gone. + +She sat there, staring in front of her, thinking. What was she to do +now? At least she might clear up. She had nowhere to wash the +things. She would put them ready for the morning. She tidied the +table, put the plates and cups together, then, overcome by a sudden +exhaustion, she sat down on the sofa. + +She realised then the fight that the day had been. Yes, a +fight! . . . and she was still only at the beginning of it. If he +really went away in the morning what could she do? She could not +follow him all round London. But she would not despair yet. No, she +was far from despair. But she was tired, tired to death. + +She sat on there in a kind of dream. There were no sounds in the +house. The fire began to drop very low. There were no more coals. +The room began to be very chilly. She laid her head back on the +sofa; she was half asleep. She was dreaming--Paul was there and +Grace--the Skeaton sands--the Revival procession with the lanterns-- +the swish of the sea . . . + +Suddenly she was wide awake. The lamp had burnt down to a low rim of +light. Martin was coughing in the other room. Coughing! She had +never heard such a cough, something inhuman and strange. She stood +up, her hands clutched. She waited. Then, as it continued, growing +fiercer and fiercer, so that in spite of the closed door it seemed +to be in the very room with her, she could bear it no longer. + +She opened the door and went in. The room was lit by a candle placed +on a chair beside the bed. Martin was sitting up, his hands +clenched, his face convulsed. The cough went on--choking, +convulsing, as though some terrible enemy had hands at his windpipe. +He grasped the bedclothes, his eyes, frightened and dilated, staring +in front of him. + +She went to him. He did not look at her, but whispered in a voice +that seemed to come from miles away: + +"Bottle . . . over there . . . glass." + +She saw on the wash-hand stand a bottle with a medicine glass behind +it. She read the directions, poured out the drops, took it over and +gave it to him. He swallowed it down. She put out her arm to steady +him and felt his whole body tremble beneath her hand. Gradually he +was quieter. Utterly exhausted he slipped back, his head on the +pillow. + +She drew her chair close to the bed. He was too exhausted to speak +and did not look at her at all. After a while she put her hand on +his forehead and stroked it. He did not draw away from her. Slowly +his head turned towards her. He lay there in the crook of her arm, +she bending forward over him. + +Her heart beat. She tried not to be conscious of his closeness to +her, but her hand trembled as it touched his cheek. + +Still he did not move away. After, as it seemed to her, a long time +he was asleep. She listened to his breathing, and only then, when +she knew that he could not hear, she whispered: + +"Oh, Martin, I love you so! Dear Martin, I love you so much!" + +She blew out the candle and, her arm beneath his head, sat there, +watching. + + + + +CHAPTER II + +HOBGOBLINS + + +The dawn had made the dark room grey when Maggie, stiff and sore +from the strained position in which she had been sitting, went up to +her room. She had intended not to go to bed, but weariness overcame +her; she lay down on her bed, dressed as she was, and fell into a +deep, exhausted slumber. + +When she woke it was broad daylight. She was panic-stricken. How +could she have slept? And now he might have gone. She washed her +face and hands in the horrible little tin basin, brushed her hair, +and then, with beating heart, went downstairs. His sitting-room was +just as she had left it, the unwashed plates piled together, the red +cloth over the window, the dead ashes of the fire in the grate. Very +gently she opened his bedroom door. He was still in bed. She went +over to him. He was asleep, muttering, his hands clenched on the +counterpane. His cheeks were flushed. To her inexperienced eyes he +looked very ill. + +She touched him on the shoulder and with a start he sprang awake, +his eyes wide open with terror, and he crying: + +"What is it? No . . . no . . . don't. Don't." + +"It's all right, Martin. It's I, Maggie," she said. + +He stared at her; then dropping back on to the pillow, he muttered +wearily as though he were worn out after a long struggle: + +"I'm bad . . . It's my chest. There's a doctor. They'll tell +you . . . He's been here before." + +She went into the other room and rang the bell. After a time Mrs. +Brandon herself appeared. + +"I'm afraid Mr. Warlock is very ill," said Maggie, trying to keep +her voice from trembling. "He's asked me to fetch the doctor who's +been here to see him before. Can you tell me who he is and where he +lives?" + +Mrs. Brandon's bright and inquisitive eyes moved round the room, +taking in the blue china, the hyacinth and the lamp. "Certingly," +she said. "That must be Dr. Abrams. 'E lives in Cowley Street, No. +4--Dr. Emanuel Abrams. A good doctor when 'e's sober, and the +morning's the best time to be sure of 'im. Certingly 'e's been in to +see your friend several times. They've been merry together more than +once." + +"Where is Cowley Street?" asked Maggie. + +"First to the right when you get out of the 'ouse, and then second +to the left again. No. 4's the number. It's most likely 'e'll be +asleep. Yes, Dr. Abrams, that's the name. 'E's attended a lot in +this 'ouse. Wot a pretty flower! Cheers the room up I must say. Will +you be wanting another fire?" + +"Yes," said Maggie. "Could Emily see to that while I'm away?" + +"Certingly," said Mrs. Brandon, looking at Maggie with a curious +confidential smile--a hateful smile, but there was no time to think +about it. + +Maggie went out. She found Cowley Street without any difficulty. Dr. +Abrams was up and having his breakfast. His close, musty room smelt +of whisky and kippers. He himself was a little, fat round Jew, very +red in the face, very small in the eye, very black in the hair, and +very dirty in the hands. + +He was startled by Maggie's appearance--very different she was from +his usual patients. + +"Looked just a baby," he informed Mrs. Brandon afterwards. + +"Mrs. Warlock?" he asked. + +"No," said Maggie defiantly. "I'm a friend of Mr. Warlock's." + +"Ah, yes--quite so." He wiped his mouth, disappeared into another +room, returned with a shabby black bag and a still shabbier top hat, +and declared himself ready to start. + +"It's pneumonia," he told her as they went along. "Had it three +weeks ago. Of course if he was out in yesterday's fog that finished +him." + +"He was out," said Maggie, "for a long time." + +"Quite so," said Dr. Abrams. "That's killed him, I shouldn't +wonder." He snuffled in his speech and he snuffled in his walk. + +Before they had gone very far he put his hand on Maggie's arm; she +hated his touch, but his last words had so deeply terrified her that +nothing else affected her. If Martin were killed by going out +yesterday then she had killed him. He had gone out to escape her. +But she drove that thought from her as she had driven so many +others. + +"The pneumonia's bad enough," said the little man, becoming more +confidential as his grip tightened on her arm, "but it's heart's the +trouble. Might finish him any day. Tells me his father was the same. +What a nice warm arm you've got, my dear--it's a pleasant day, too." + +They entered the house and Dr. Abrams stayed chatting with Emily in +the passage for a considerable time. Any one of the opposite sex +seemed to hare an irresistible attraction for him. + +When they went upstairs the doctor was so held by his burning +curiosity that it was difficult to lead him into Martin's bedroom. +Everything interested him; he bent down and felt the tablecloth with +his dirty thumb, then the soil round the hyacinth, then the blue +china. Between every investigation he stared at Maggie as though he +were now seeing her for the first time. At last, however, he was +bending over Martin, and his examination was clever and deft; he bad +been, like his patient, used to better days. Martin was very ill. + +"The boy's bad," he said, turning sharply round upon Maggie. + +From the speaking of that word, for six days and six nights he was +Maggie's loyal friend and fellow-combatant. They fought, side by +side, in the great struggle for Martin's life. They won; but when +Maggie tried to look back afterwards on the history of that +wrestling, she saw nothing connectedly, only the candle-light +springing and falling, the little doctor's sharp eyes, the torn +paper of the wall, the ragged carpet, and always that strange mask +that was Martin's face and yet the face of a stranger, something +tortured and fantastic, passing from Chinese immobility to frenzied +pain, from pain to sweating exhaustion, from exhaustion back to +immobility. + +On the eighth day she rose, as a swimmer rises from green depths, +and saw the sunshine and the landscape again. + +"He'll do if you're careful," said Dr. Abrams, and suddenly became +once more the curious, dirty, sensual little creature that he had +been at first. Her only contact with the outer world had been her +visits to the neighbouring streets for necessaries and one journey +to the bank (the nearest branch was in Oxford Street) to settle +about her money. But now, with the doctor's words, the rest of the +world came back to her. She remembered Paul. She was horrified to +realise that during these days she had entirely forgotten him. He, +of course could not write to her because he did not know her +address. When she saw that Martin was quietly sleeping she sat down +and wrote the following letter: + + 13A LYNTON STREET, KING'S CROSS, April 28th, 1912. + +MY DEAR PAUL,--I have been very wrong indeed not to write to you +before this. It's only of a piece with all my other bad behaviour to +you, and it's very late now to saw that I am ashamed. I will tell +you the truth, which is that on the day I left you I had received a +letter telling me that the friend of whom I have often told you was +in England, very ill, and with no one to care for him. I had to go. +I don't know whether it was right or wrong--wrong I suppose--but I +always knew that if he ever wanted me I SHOULD go. I've always been +truthful to you about that. When I came here I found that he was in +horrible lodgings, very ill indeed, and with no one to look after +him. I HAD to stay, and now for a week he has been between life and +death. He had pneumonia some weeks ago and went out too soon. His +heart also is bad. I believe now he can get well if great care is +taken. + +Dear Paul, I don't know what to say to you. I have a bedroom in this +house and every one is very kind to me, but you will think me very +wicked. I can't help it. I can't come back to you and Grace. Perhaps +later when he is quite well I shall be able to, but I don't think +so. You don't need me; I have never been satisfactory to you, only a +worry. Grace will never be able to live with me again, and I can't +stay in Skeaton any more after Uncle Mathew's death. It has all been +a wretched mistake, Paul, our marriage, hasn't it? It was my fault +entirely. I shouldn't have married you when I knew that I would +always love Martin. I thought then that I should be able to make you +happy. If now I felt that I could I would come back at once, but you +know as well as I do that, after this, we shall never be happy +together again. I blame myself so much but I can't act differently. +Perhaps when Martin is well he will not want me at all, but even +then I don't think I could come back. Isn't it better that at least +I should stay away for a time? You can say that I am staying with +friends in London. You will be happier without me, oh, much happier- +-and Grace will be happier too. Perhaps you will think it better to +forget me altogether and then your life will be as it was before you +met me. + +I won't ask you to forgive me for all the trouble I have been to +you. I don't think you can. But I can't do differently now. Your +affectionate MAGGIE. + + She felt when she had finished it that it was miserably inadequate, +but at least it was truthful. As she wrote it her old feelings of +tenderness and affection for Paul came back in a great flood. She +saw him during the many, many times when he had been so good to her. +She was miserable as she finished it, but she knew that there was +nothing else to do. And he would know it too. + +A day later a long letter came from Paul. It was very +characteristic. It began by saying that of course Maggie must return +at once. Throughout, the voice was that of a grieved and angry elder +talking to a wicked and disobedient child. She saw that, far beyond +everything else, it was his pride that was wounded, wounded as it +had never been before. He could see nothing but that. Did she +realise, he asked her, what she was doing? Sinning against all the +laws of God and man. If she persisted in her wickedness she would be +cut off from all decent people. No one could say that he had not +shown her every indulgence, every kindness, every affection. Even +now he was ready to forgive her, but she must come back at once, at +once. Her extreme youth excused much, and both he and Grace realised +it. + +Through it all the strain--did she not see what she was doing? How +could she behave so wickedly when she had been given so many +blessings, when she had been shown the happiness of a Christian +home? . . . + +It was not a letter to soften Maggie's resolve. She wrote a short +reply saying that she could not come. She thought then that he would +run up to London to fetch her. But he did not. He wrote once more, +and then, for a time, there was silence. + +She had little interval in which to think about Paul; Martin soon +compelled her attention. He was well enough now to be up. He would +lie all day, without moving except to take his meals, on the old red +sofa, stretched out there, his arms behind his head, looking at +Maggie with a strange taunting malicious stare as though he were +defying her to stand up to him. She did stand up to him, although it +needed all her strength, moral and physical. He was attacking her +soul and she was saving his . . . + +He said no more about his going away. He accepted it as a fact that +she was there and that she would stay there. He had changed his +position and was fighting her on another ground. + +Maggie had once, years before, read in a magazine, a story about a +traveller and a deserted house. This traveller, lost, as are all +travellers in stories, in a forest, benighted and hungry, saw the +lights of a house. + +He goes forward and finds a magnificent mansion, blazing with light +in every window, but apparently deserted. He enters and finds room +after room prepared for guests. A fine meal is laid ready and he +enjoys it. He discovers the softest of beds and soon is fast asleep; +but when he is safely snoring back creep all the guests out of the +forest, hideous and evil, warped and deformed, maimed and rotten +with disease. They had left the house, that he might be lured in it, +knowing that he would never come whilst they were there. And so they +creep into all the rooms, flinging their horrible shadows upon the +gleaming walls, and gradually they steal about the bed . . . + +Maggie forgot the end of the story. The traveller escaped, or +perhaps he did not. Perhaps he was strangled. But that moment of his +awakening, when his startled eyes first stared upon those horrible +faces, those deformed bodies, those evil smiles! What could one do, +one naked and defenceless against so many? + +Maggie thought of this story during Martin's convalescence. She +seemed to see the evil guests, crowding back, one after the other +into his soul, and as they came back they peeped out at her, smiling +from the lighted windows. She saw that his plan was to thrust before +her the very worst of himself. He said: "Well, I've tried to get rid +of her and she won't go. That's her own affair, but if she stays, at +least she shall see me as I am. No false sentimental picture. I'll +cure her." + +It was the oldest trick in the world, but to Maggie it was new +enough. At first she was terrified. In spite of her early experience +with her father, when she had learnt what wickedness could be, she +was a child in all knowledge of the world. Above all she knew very +little about her own sex and its relation with men. But she +determined that she must take the whole of Martin; in the very first +days of her love she had resolved that, and now that resolution was +to be put to the test. Her terrified fear was lest the things that +he told her about himself should affect her love for him. She had +told him years before: "It isn't the things you've done that I mind +or care about: it's you, not actions that matter." But his actions +were himself, and what was she to do if all these things that he +said were true? + +Then she discovered that she had indeed spoken the truth. Her love +for him did not change; it rather grew, helped and strengthened by a +maternal pity and care that deepened and deepened. He seemed to her +a man really possessed, in literal fact, by devils. The story of the +lighted house was the symbol, only he, in the bitterness and +defiance of his heart, had invited the guests, not been surprised by +them. + +He pretended to glory in his narration, boasting and swearing what +he would do when he would return to the old scenes, how happy and +triumphant he had been in the midst of his filth--but young and +ignorant though she was she saw beneath this the misery, the shame, +the bitterness, the ignominy. He was down in the dust, in a despair +furious and more self-accusing than anything of which she had ever +conceived. + +Again and again, too, although this was never deliberately stated, +she saw that he spoke like a man caught in a trap. He did not blame +any one but himself for the catastrophe of his life, but he often +spoke, in spite of himself, like a man who from the very beginning +had been under some occult influence. He never alluded now to his +early days but she remembered how he had once told her that that +"Religion" had "got" him from the very beginning, and had weighted +all the scales against him. It was as though he had said: "I was +told from the very beginning that I was to be made a fighting-ground +of. I didn't want to be that. I wasn't the man for that. I was +chosen wrongly." + +He only once made any allusion to his father's death, but Maggie +very soon discovered that that was never away from his mind. "I +loved my father and I killed him," he said one day, "so I thought it +wise not to love any one again." + +Gradually a picture was created in Maggie's mind, a picture +originating in that dirty, dark room where they were. She saw many +foreign countries and many foreign towns, and in all of them men and +women were evil. The towns were always in the hour between daylight +and dark, the streets twisted and obscure, the inhabitants furtive +and sinister. + +The things that those inhabitants did were made quite plain to her. +She saw the dancing saloons, the women naked and laughing, the men +drunken and besotted, the gambling, the quarrelling, drugging, +suicide--all under a half-dead sky, stinking and offensive. + +One day, at last, she laughed. + +"Martin," she cried, "don't let's be so serious about it. You can't +want to go back to that life--it's so dull. At first I was +frightened, but now!--why it's all the same thing over and over +again." + +"I'm only telling you," he said; "I don't say that I do want to go +back again. I don't want anything except for you to go away. I just +want to go to hell my own fashion." + +"You talk so much about going to hell," she said. "Why, for ten days +now you've spoken of nothing else. There are other places, you +know." + +"You clear out and get back to your parson," he said. "You must see +from what I've told you it isn't any good your staying. I've no +money. My health's gone all to billyoh! I don't want to get better. +Why should I? Perhaps I did love you a little bit--once--in a queer +way, but that's all gone now. I don't love any one on this earth. I +just want to get rid of this almighty confusion going on in my head. +I can't rest for it. I'd finish myself off if I had pluck enough. I +just haven't." + +"Martin," she said, "why did you write all those letters to me?" + +"What letters?" he asked. + +"Those that Amy stopped--the ones from abroad." + +"Oh, I don't know," he looked away from her. "I was a bit lonely, I +suppose." + +"Tell me another thing," she said. "These weeks I've been here have +I bored you ?" + +"I've been too ill to tell . . . How do I know? Well, no, you +haven't. You're such a queer kid. You're different from any other +human--utterly different. No, you haven't bored me--but don't think +from that I like having you here. I don't--you remind me of the old +life. I don't want to think of it more than I must. You'll admit +I've been trying to scare you stiff in all I've told you, and I +haven't scared you. It's true, most of it, but it isn't so damned +sensational as I've tried to make it . . . But, all the same, what's +the use of your staying? I don't love you, and I'm never likely to. +I've told you long ago you're not the sort of woman to attract me +physically. You never did. You're more like a boy. Why should you +ruin your own life when there's nothing to gain by it? You will ruin +it, you know, staying on here with me. Every one thinks we're living +together. Have you heard from your parson?" + +"Yes," said Maggie. + +"What does he say?" + +"He says I've got to go back at once." + +"Well, there you are." + +"But don't you see, Martin, I shouldn't go back to him even if I +left you. I've quite decided that. He'll never be happy with me +unless I love him, which I can't do, and there's his sister who +hates me. And he's just rooted in Skeaton. I can't live there after +Uncle Mathew!" + +"Tell me about that." + +"No," she said, shrinking back. "I'll never tell any one. Not even +you." + +"Now, look here," he went on, after a pause. "You must see how +hopeless it is, Maggie. You've got nothing to get out of it. As soon +as I'm well enough I shall go off and leave you. You can't follow +me, hunting me everywhere. You must see that." + +"Yes, but what you don't, Martin, see," she answered him, "is that +I've got some right to think of my own happiness. It's quite true +what you say, that if you get well and decide you don't want to see +me I won't follow you. Of course I won't. Perhaps one day you will +want me all the same. But I'm happy only with you, and so long as I +don't bore you I'm going to stay. I've always been. wrong with every +one else, stupid and doing everything I shouldn't. But with you it +isn't so. I'm not stupid, and however you behave I'm happy. I can't +help it. It's just so." + +"But how can you be happy?" he said, "I'm not the sort for any one +to be happy with. When I've been drinking I'm impossible. I'm sulky +and lazy, and I don't want to be any better either. You may think +you're happy these first few weeks, but you won't be later on." + +"Let's try," said Maggie, laughing. "Here's a bargain, Martin. You +say I don't bore you. I'll stay with you until you're quite well. +Then if you don't want me I'll go and not bother you until you ask +for me. Is that a bargain?" + +"You'd much better not," he said. + +"Oh, don't think I'm staying," she answered, "because I think you so +splendid that I can't leave you. I don't think you splendid at all. +And it's not because I think myself splendid either. I'm being quite +selfish about it. I'm staying simply because I'm happier so." + +"You'd much better not," he repeated. + +"Is that a bargain?" + +"Yes, if you like," he answered, looking at her with puzzled eyes. +It was the first long conversation that they had had. After it, he +was no nicer than before. He never kissed her, he never touched her, +he seldom talked to her; when she talked, he seemed to be little +interested. For hours he lay there, looking in front of him, saying +nothing. When the little doctor came they wrangled and fought +together but seemed to like one another. + +Through it all Maggie could see that he was riddled with deep shame +and self-contempt and haunted, always, by the thought of his father. +She longed to speak to him about his father's death, but as yet she +did not dare. If once she could persuade him that that had not been +his fault, she could, she thought, really help him. That was the +secret canker at his heart and she could not touch it. + +Strangely, as the days passed, the years that had been added to him +since their last meeting seemed to fall away. He became to her more +and more the boy that he had been when she had known him before. In +a thousand ways he showed it, his extraordinary youth and +inexperience in spite of all that he had been and done. She felt +older now than he and she loved him the more for that. Most of all +she longed to get him away from this place where he was. Then one +day little Abrams said to her: + +"He'll never get well here." + +"That's what I think," she said. + +"Can't you carry him off somewhere? The country's the place for him- +-somewhere in the South." + +Her heart leapt. + +"Oh, Glebeshire!" she cried. + +"Well, that's not a bad place," he said. "That would pick him up." + +At once she thought, night and day, of St. Dreot's. A very hunger +possessed her to get back there. And why not? For one thing, it +would be so much cheaper. Her money would not last for ever, and +Mrs. Brandon robbed her whenever possible. She determined that she +would manage it. At last, greatly fearing it, she mentioned it to +him, and to her surprise he did not scorn it. + +"I don't care," he said, looking at her with that curious puzzled +expression that she often saw now in his eyes, "I'm sick of this +room. That's a bargain, Maggie, you can put me where you like until +I'm well. Then I'm off." + +She had a strange superstition that Borhedden was fated to see her +triumph. She had wandered round the world and now was returning +again to her own home. She remembered a Mrs. Bolitho who had had the +farm in her day. She wrote to her, and two days later received a +letter saying that there was room for them at Borhedden if they +wished. + +She was now all feverish impatience. Dr. Abrams said that Martin +could be moved if they were very careful. All plans were made. Mrs. +Brandon and the ugly little doctor both seemed quite sorry that they +were going, and Emily even sniffed and wiped her eye with the corner +of her apron. The world seemed now to be turning a different face to +Maggie. Human beings liked her and were no longer suspicious to her +as they had been before. + +She felt herself how greatly she had changed. It was as though, +until she had found Martin again, everything had been tied up in +her, constrained. She had been some one lost and desolate. +Nevertheless, how difficult these days were! Through all this time +she spoke to him no affectionate word nor touched him with an +affectionate gesture. She was simply a good-humoured companion, +laughing at him, assuming, through it all, an off-hand indifference +that meant for her so difficult a pretence that she thought he must +discover it. He did not; he was in many ways more simple than she. +She laid to sleep his suspicions. She could feel his relief that she +was not romantic, that she wanted nothing whatever from him. He was +ill--therefore was often churlish. He tried to hurt her again and +again with cruel words and then waited to see whether she were hurt. +She never showed him. He treated her with contempt, often not +answering her questions, laughing at her little stupidities, +complaining of her forgetfulness and, sometimes, her untidiness-- +telling her again and again to "go back to her parson." + +She gave no sign. She fought her way. But it hurt; she could not +have believed that anything could hurt so much. She was being always +drawn to him, longing to put her arm around him, to dare to kiss +him, risking any repulse. He seemed so young, so helpless, so +unhappy. Every part of him called to her, his hair, his eyes, his +voice, his body. But she held herself in, she never gave way, she +was resolute in her plan. + +On their last evening in Lynton Street, for five minutes, he was +suddenly kind to her, almost the old Martin speaking with the old +voice. She held her breath, scarcely daring to let herself know how +happy she was. + +"What do you think about God, Maggie?" he asked, turning on the sofa +and looking at her. + +"Think about God?" she said, repeating his words. + +"Yes . . .Is there one?" + +"I don't know. I haven't any intelligence about those things." + +"Is there immortality?" + +"I don't know." + +"I hope not. Your parson thinks there is, doesn't he?" + +"Of course he does." + +"Did he have lots of services and did you hare to go to them?" + +"Yes." + +"Poor Maggie--always having to go to them. Well, it's queer. Funny +if there isn't anything after all when there's been such a fight +about it so long. Did they make you very religious at Skeaton or +wherever the place was?" + +"No," said Maggie. "They thought me a terrible heathen. Grace was +terrified of me, I seemed so wicked to her. She thought I was +bewitching Paul's soul--" + +"Perhaps you were." + +"No. So little did I that he hasn't even come up to London to fetch +me." + +"Which did you like best--Skeaton or the Chapel?" + +"I don't know. I was wrong in both of them. They were just +opposite." Maggie waited a little. Then she said: "Martin there must +be something. I can feel it as though it were behind a wall +somewhere--I can hear it and I can't see anything. Aunt Anne and-- +and--your father, and Paul, and Mr. Magnus were all trying . . . It +feels like a fight, but I don't know who's fighting who." + +Her allusion to his father had been unfortunate. + +"It's all damned rot if you ask me," he said, turned his face to the +wall and wouldn't say another word. + +Next morning they started. Mrs. Brandon's bill was as large as she +could make it and still not very large. Dr. Abrams, to Maggie's +immense surprise, would not take a penny. + +"I'm not wantin' money just now," he said. "I'm robbing a rich old +man who lives near here. I'm a sort of highway man, you know, rob +the rich and spend it how I like. Now don't you press me to make up +a bill or I shall change my mind and give you. one and it will be so +large that you won't be able to go down to Glebeshire. How would you +like that? Oh, don't think I'm doing it from fine motives. You're +both a couple of babies, that's what you are, and it would be a +shame to rob you. How you're ever going to get through the world +don't know. The Babes in the Wood weren't in it. He thinks he's +wicked, doesn't he?" + +"Yes, he does," said Maggie. + +"Wicked! Why, he doesn't know what wickedness is. A couple of +children. Look after his heart or he'll be popping off one fine +morning." + +Maggie turned pale. "Oh no," she said, her voice trembling. + +"He's going to get well." + +Abrams sniffed. "If he doesn't drink and leads a healthy life he +may. But leopards don't change their spots. He's worrying over +something. What is it?" + +"His father's death," said Maggie. "He loved his father more than +any one and he's got it into his head that he gave him a shock and +killed him." + +"Well, you get it out of his head," said Abrams. "He won't be better +until you do." + +Next morning they were at Paddington, Martin very feeble but +indifferent to everything. They had a third-class compartment to +themselves until they got to Exeter, and all that while Martin never +spoke a word. During this time Maggie did a lot of quiet thinking. +She was worried, of course, about many things but especially +finances. She knew very little about money. She gathered from Martin +that he had not only spent ail that his and had left him, but had +gone considerably beyond it, that he was badly in debt and saw no +way of paying. This did not seem to worry him but it worried Maggie. +Debts seemed to her awful things, and she could not imagine how any +one lived under the burden of them. Supposing Martin were ill for a +long time, how would they two live? Her little stock of money would +not last very long. She must get work, but she knew more about the +world after her years at Skeaton. She knew how ignorant she was, how +uneducated and how unsophiscated. She did not doubt her ability to +fight her way, but there might be weary months first, and meanwhile +what of Martin? + +She looked at him, asleep now in a corner of the carriage, his soft +hat pulled down over his eyes, his head sunk, his hands heavy and +idle on his lap. A fear caught at her heart as she watched him; he +looked, indeed, terribly ill, exhausted with struggle, and now, with +all the bitterness and despair drowned in sleep, very gentle and +helpless. She bent over and folded the rug more closely round his +knees. Had he woken then and seen her gaze! Her hand'' routed for an +instant on his, then she withdrew back into her own corner. + +That coming back into Glebeshire could not but be wonderful to her. +She had been away for so long and it was her home. + +The tranquillity and peace of the spring evening clothed her like a +garment, the brown valleys, the soft green of the fields, the mild +blue of the sky touched her until she could with difficulty keep +back her tears. + +"Oh, make it right!" she whispered; "make it right! Give him to me +again--I do love him so!" + +It was dusk when they arrived at Clinton St. Mary's. + +The little station stood open to all the winds of heaven blowing in +from the wide expanses of St. Mary's Moor. Maggie remembered, as +though it were yesterday, her arrival at that station with Aunt +Anne. Yes, she had grown since then. + +A trap was waiting for them. Martin was still very silent, but he +liked the air with the tang of the sea in it, and he asked sometimes +about the names of places. As they drew nearer and nearer to all the +old--remembered scenes, Maggie's heart beat faster and faster--this +lane, that field, that cottage. And then, at last, there was the +Vicarage perched on the top of the hill, with its chimneys like +cats' ears! + +She thought of Uncle Mathew. The sight of the tranquil evening the +happiness and comfort of the fields enabled her to think of him, for +the first time, quietly. She could face deliberately his death. It +was as though he had been waiting for her here and had come forward +to reassure her. + +They drove through the quiet little village, out on to the high +road, then down a side lane, the hedges brushing against the sides +of the jingle, then through the gates, into the yard, with Borhedden +Farm, bright with its lighted windows, waiting for them. + +Mrs. Bolitho was standing in the porch and greeted them warmly. + +"You'll be just starved," she said. "It's wisht work driving in an +open jingle all the way from Clinton. Supper's just about ready." + +They were shown up to the big roomy bedroom, smelling of candles and +clover and lavender. Martin stood there looking about, then-- + +"Oh, Martin, isn't it nice!" Maggie cried. "I do hope you'll be +happy here!" + +The emotion of returning home, of seeing the old places, sniffing +the old scents, reviving the old memories was too much for her. She +flung her arms round his neck and kissed him on the lips. For a +moment, for a wonderful moment it seemed that he was going to +respond. She felt him move towards her. His hands tightened about +hers. Then, but very gently, he drew away from her and walked to the +window. + + + + +CHAPTER III + +THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE + + +Maggie, before she left London, had written both to Paul and Mr. +Magnus giving them her new address. She had intended to see Magnus, +but Martin's illness had absorbed her so deeply that she could not +proceed outside it. She told him quite frankly that she was going +down to Glebeshire with Martin and that she would remain with him +there until he was well. She did not try to defend herself; she did +not argue the case at all; she simply stated the facts. + +Mr. Magnus wrote to her at once. He was deeply concerned, he did not +chide her for what she had done, but he begged her to realise her +position. She felt through every line of his letter that he +disapproved of and distrusted Martin. His love for Maggie (and she +felt that he had indeed love for her) made him look on Martin as the +instigator in this affair. He saw Maggie, ignorant of the world, led +away by a seducer from her married life, persuaded to embark upon +what his own experience had taught him to be a dangerous, lonely, +and often disastrous voyage. He had never heard of any good of +Martin; he had been always in his view, idle, dissolute, and +selfish. What could he think but that Martin had, most wickedly, +persuaded her to abandon her safety? + +She answered his letter, telling him in the greatest detail the +truth. She told him that Martin had done all he could to refuse, +that, had he not been so ill, he would have left her, that he had +threatened her, again and again, with what he would do if she did +not the him. + +She showed him that it had been her own determination and absolute +resolve that had created the situation--and she told him that she +was happy for the first time in her life. + +But his letter did force her to realise the difficulties of her +position. In writing to Mrs. Bolitho she had spoken of herself as +Martin's wife, and now when she was called "Mrs. Warlock" she +tacitly accepted that, hating the deceit, but wishing for anything +that might keep the situation tranquil and undisturbed. She asked +Mrs. Bolitho to let her have a small room near the big one, telling +her that Martin was so ill that he must be undisturbed at night. +Then Mr. Magnus's letter arrived addressed to "Miss Cardinal," and +she thought that Mrs. Bolitho looked at her oddly when she gave it +to her. Martin's illness, too, seemed to disturb the household. He +cried out in his dreams, his shouts waking the whole establishment. +Bolitho, once, thinking that murder was being committed, went to his +room, found him sitting up in bed, sweating with terror. He caught +hold of Bolitho, flung his arms around him, would not let him go, +urging him "not to help them, to protect him. They would catch +him . . . they would catch him. They would catch him." + +The stout and phlegmatic farmer was himself frightened, sitting +there on the bed, in his night-shirt, and "seeing ghosts" in the +flickering light of the candle. Martin's conduct during the day was +not reassuring. He had lost all his ferocity and bitterness; he was +very quiet, speaking to no one, lying on a sofa that over-looked the +moor, watching. + +Mrs. Bolitho's really soft heart was touched by his pallor and +weakness, but she could not deny that there was something queer +here." Maggie almost wished that his old mood of truculence would +return. She was terrified, too, of these night scenes, because they +were so bad for his heart. The local doctor, a clever young fellow +called Stephens, told her that he was recovering from the pneumonia, +but that his heart was "dickey." + +"Mustn't let anything excite him, Mrs. Warlock," he said. + +There came then gradually over the old house and the village the +belief that Martin was "fey." Mrs. Bolitho was in most ways a +sensible, level-headed, practical woman, but like many of the +inhabitants of Glebeshire, she was deeply superstitious. It was not +so very many years since old Jane Curtis had been ducked in the St. +Dreot's pond for a witch, and even now, did a cow fall sick or the +lambs die, the involuntary thought in the Glebeshire "pagan mind" +was to look for the "evil eye." But Mrs. Bolitho herself had had a +very recent example in her own family of "possession." There had +been her old grandfather, living in the farm with them, as hale and +hearty a human of sixty-five years as you'd be likely to find in a +day's march through Glebeshire. "He lost touch with them," as Mrs. +Bolitho put it. In a night his colour failed him, his cheerful +conversation left him, he could "do nought but sit and stare out o' +window." A month later he died. + +Martin had not been long at Borhedden before she came to her +conclusions about him, told them to her James, and found that his +slow but sure brains had come to the same decision. In the sense of +the tragedy overhanging the poor young man she forgot to consider +the possible impropriety of his relations with Maggie. He was +removed at once from human laws and human judgment. He became "a +creature of God" and was surrounded with something of the care and +reverence with which the principal "softie" in the village was +regarded. + +It was not that Martin's behaviour was in any way odd. After a few +days in the utter peace and quiet of the moor and farm he screamed +no more at night. He was gentle and polite to every one, ate his +meals, took little walks out on to the moor and into the village, +but liked best to sit in front of the parlour window and look out on +to the heath and grass, watching the shadows and the sunlight and +the driving sheets of rain. + +Mrs. Bolitho had a tender heart and Maggie shared in her +superstitious pity. Looking back to her youth she had always thought +Maggie a "wisht little thing." "Poor worm," what chance had she ever +had with that great scandalous chap of a father? She saw her still +in her shabby clothes trying to keep that dilapidated house +together. No, what chance had she ever had? She was still a "wisht +little thing." + +Nor did it need very shrewd eyes to see how desperately devoted +Maggie was to Martin. The sight of that touched the hearts of every +human being in the farm. Not that Maggie was foolish; she did not +hang about Martin all the time, she never, so far as Mrs. Bolitho +could see, kissed him or fondled him, or was with him when he did +not want her. She was not sentimental to him, not sighing nor +groaning, nor pestering him to answer romantic questions. On the +contrary, she was always cheerful, practical, and full of common +sense, although she was sometimes forgetful, and was not so neat and +tidy as Mrs. Bolitho would have wished. She always spoke as though +Martin's recovery were quite certain, and Dr. Stephens told Mrs. +Bolitho that he did not dare to speak the truth to her. "The chances +against his recovery," Stephens said, "are about one in a hundred. +He's been racketing about too long. Too much drink. But he's got +something on his mind. That's really what's the matter with him." + +Mrs. Bolitho was as naturally inquisitive as are most of her sex, +and this knowledge that Martin was a doomed creature with a guilty +conscience vastly excited her curiosity. What had the man done? What +had been his relations with Maggie? Above all, did he really care +for Maggie, or no? That was finally the question that was most +eagerly discussed in the depths of the Bolitho bedchamber. James +Bolitho maintained that he didn't care "that" for her; you could see +plain enough, he asserted, when a man cared for a maid--there were +signs, sure and certain, just as there were with cows and horses. + +"You may know about cows and horses," said Mrs. Bolitho; "you're +wrong about humans." The way that she put it was that Martin cared +for Maggie but "couldn't get it out." "He doesn't want her to know +it," she said. + +"Why shouldn't he?" asked James. + +"Now you're asking," said Mrs. Bolitho. + +"Nice kind of courtin' that be," said James; "good thing you was a +bit different, missus. Lovin' a lass and not speaking--shouldn't +like!" + +Mrs. Bolitho's heart grew very tender towards Maggie. Married or +not, the child was in a "fiery passion of love." Nor was it a +selfish passion, neither--wanted very little for herself, but only +for him to get well. There was true romance here. Maggie, however, +gave away no secrets. She had many talks with Mr. Bolitho: about the +village, about the new parson, about Mrs. Bolitho's son, Jacob, now +in London engineering, and the apple of her eye,--about many things +but never about herself, the past history nor her feeling for +Martin. + +The girl never "let on" that she was suffering, and yet "suffering +she must be." You could see that she was just holding herself +"tight" like a wire. The strange intensity of her determination was +beautiful but also dangerous. "If anything was to happen--" said +Mrs. Bolitho. She saw Martin, too, many times, looking at Maggie in +the strangest way, as though he were travelling towards some +decision. He certainly was a good young man in his behaviour, doing +now exactly what he was told, never angry, never complaining, and +that, Mrs. Bolitho thought, was strange, because you could see in +his eye that he had a will and a temper of his own, did he like to +exercise them. After all, he himself was the merest boy, scarcely +older than Jacob. She could, herself, see that he must have been a +fine enough lad when he had his health--the breadth of his +shoulders, the thick sturdiness of his shape, the strength of his +thighs and arms. Her husband had seen the boy stripped, and had told +her that he must have been a "lovely man." Drink and evil women--ay, +they'd brought him down as they'd brought many another--and she +thought of her Jacob in London with a catch at her heart. She +stopped in her cooking and prayed there and then, upon her kitchen +floor, that he might be kept safe from all harm. + +Nearly every one in the village, of course, remembered Maggie, and +they could not see that she was "any changed." "Cut 'er 'air short-- +London fashion" they supposed. They had liked her as a child and +they liked her now. She was more cheerful and friendly, they +thought, then she used to be. + +Nevertheless all the village awaited, with deep interest, for what +they felt would be a very moving climax. The young man was "fey." +God had set His mark upon him, and nothing that any human being +could do would save him. In old days they would have tried to come +near him and touch him to snatch some virtue from the contact. They +did not do that, but they felt when they had spoken to him that they +had received some merit or advantage. The new parson came to call +upon Martin and Maggie, but he got very little from his visit. + +"Poor fellow," he said to his wife on his return. "His days are +numbered, I fear." + +To every one it was as though Martin and Maggie were enclosed in +some world of their own. No one could come near them, no one could +tell of what they were really thinking, of their hopes or fears, +past or future. + +"Only," as Mrs. Bolitho said to her husband, "one thing's certain, +she do love 'im with all her heart and soul--poor lamb." + +When Martin and Maggie had been at the farm about a fort-night, +there came to St. Dreot's a travelling circus. This was a very small +affair, but it came every year, and provided considerable excitement +for the village population. There were also gipsies who came on the +moor, and telling the fortunes of any who had a spare sixpence with +which to cross their palms. The foreign and exotic colour that the +circus and the gipsies brought into the village was exactly suited +to the St. Dreot blood. Many centuries ago strange galleys had +forced their way into bays and creeks of the southern coast, and +soon dark strangers had penetrated across the moors and fields and +had mingled with the natives of the plain. Scarcely an inhabitant of +St. Dreot but had some dark colour in his blood, a gift from those +Phoenician adventurers; scarcely an inhabitant but was conscious +from time to time of other strains, more tumultuous passions, than +the Saxon race could show. + +This coming of the circus had in it, whether they knew it or no, +something of the welcoming of their own people back to them again. +They liked to see the elephant and the camel tread solemnly the +uneven stones of the village street, they liked to hear the roar of +the wild beasts at night when they were safe and warm in their own +comfortable beds, they liked to have solemn consultations with the +gipsy girls as to their mysterious destinies. The animals, indeed, +were not many nor, poor things, were they, after many years' chains +and discipline, very fierce--nevertheless they roared because they +knew it was their duty so to do, and when the lion's turn came a +notice was hung up outside his cage saying: "This is the Lion that +last year, at Clinton, bit Miss Harper." There were also performing +dogs, a bear, and two seals. + +The circus was quite close to the farm. + +"I do hope," said Mrs. Bolitho to Martin, "that the roaring of the +animals won't disturb you." + +It did not disturb him. He seemed to like it, and went out and stood +there watching all the labours of the gipsies and the tent men, and +even went into "The Green Boar" and drank a glass of beer with Mr. +Marquis, the proprietor of the circus. + +On the third day after their arrival there was a proper Glebeshire +mist. It was a day, also, of freezing, biting cold, such a day as +sometimes comes in of a Glebeshire May--cold that seems, in its damp +penetration, more piercing than any frost. + +The mist came rolling up over the moor in wreaths and spirals of +shadowy grey, sometimes shot with a queer dull light as though the +sun was fighting behind it to beat a way through, sometimes so dense +and thick that standing at the door of the farm you could not see +your hand in front of your face. It was cold with the chill of the +sea foam, mysterious in its ever-changing intricacies of shape and +form, lifting for a sudden instant and showing green grass and the +pale spring flowers in the border by the windows, then charging down +again with fold on fold of vapour thicker and thicker, swaying and +throbbing with a purpose and meaning of its own. Early in the +afternoon Mrs. Bolitho took a peep at her lodgers. She did not +intend to spy--she was an honest woman--but she shared most vividly +the curiosity of all the village about "these two queer ignorant +children," as she called them. Standing in the bow-window of her own +little parlour she could see the bow-window and part of the room on +the opposite side of the house-door. Maggie and Martin stood there +looking out into the mist. The woman could see Maggie's face, dim +though the light was, and a certain haunting desire in it tugged at +Mrs. Bolitho's tender heart. "Poor worm," she thought to herself, +"she's longing for him to say something to her and he won't." They +were talking. Then there was a pause and Martin turned away. +Maggie's eyes passionately besought him. What did she want him to +do--to say? Mrs. Bolitho could see that the girl's hands were +clenched, as though she had reached, at last, the very limits of her +endurance. He did not see. His back was half turned to her. He did +not speak, but stood there drumming with his hands on the glass. + +"Oh, I could shake him," thought Mrs. Bolitho's impatience. For a +time Maggie waited, never stirring, her eyes fixed, her body taut. + +Then she seemed suddenly to break, as though the moment of endurance +was past. She turned sharply round, looking directly out of her +window into Mrs. Bolitho's room--but she didn't see Mrs. Bolitho. + +That good woman saw her smile, a strange little smile of defiance, +pathos, loneliness, cheeriness defeated. She vanished from her +window although he stood there. A moment later, in a coat and hat, +she came out of the front door, stood for a moment on the outskirts +of the mist looking about her, then vanished on to the moor. + +"She oughtn't to be out in this," thought the farmer's wife. "It's +dangerous." + +She waited a little, then came and knocked on the door of the other +sitting-room. She met Martin in the doorway. + +"Oh, Mrs. Bolitho," he said, "I thought I'd go to the circus for +half an hour." + +"Very well, sir," she said. + +He too disappeared. She sat in her kitchen all the afternoon busily +mending the undergarments of her beloved James. But her thought were +not with her husband. She could not get the picture of those two +young things standing at the window facing the mist-drunk moor out +of her head. The sense that had come to the farm with Martin's entry +into it of something eerie and foreboding increased now with every +tick of the heavy kitchen clock. She seemed to listen now for sounds +and portents. The death-tick on the wall--was that foolish? Some men +said so, but she knew better. Had she not heard it on the very night +of her grandfather's death? She sat there and recounted to herself +every ghost-story that, in the course of a long life, had come her +way. The headless horseman, the coach with the dead travellers, the +three pirates and their swaying gibbets, the ghost of St. Dreot's +churchyard, the Wailing Woman of Clinton, and many, many others, all +passed before her, making pale her cheek and sending her heart in +violent beats up and down the scale. + +The kitchen grew darker and darker. She let the underclothes lie +upon her lap. Soon she must light the lamp, but meanwhile, before +the oven she let her fancies overwhelm her, luxuriating in her +terror. + +Suddenly the kitchen-door was flung open. She started up with a cry. +Martin stood there and in a voice, so new to her that she seemed +never to have heard it before, he shouted, "Where's Maggie?" + +She stood up in great agitation. He came towards her and she saw +that his face was violent with agitation, with a kind of rage. + +"Where's Maggie?" he repeated. + +She saw that he was shaking all over and it was as though he did not +know who she was. + +"Maggie?" she repeated. + +"My wife! My wife!" he cried, and he shouted it again as though he +were proclaiming some fact to the whole world. + +"She went out," said Mrs. Bolitho, "about three hours back I should +think." + +"Went out!" he stormed at her. "And in this?" + +Then, before she could say another word, he was gone. It was in very +truth like an apparition. + +She sat there for some time staring in front of her, still shaken by +the violence of his interruption. She went then to the kitchen-door +and listened--not a sound in the house. She went farther, out +through the passage to the hall-door. She opened it and looked out. +A sea of driving mist, billowing and driving as though by some +internal breeze, met her. + +"Poor things," she said to herself. "They shouldn't be out in this." +She shut the door and went back into the house. She called, "Jim! +Jim! Where are you?" At last he came, stumping up from some +mysterious labour in the lower part of the house. + +"What is't?" he said, startled by her white face and troubled eyes. + +"The two of them," she said, "have gone out on to the moor in this +mist. It isn't safe." + +"Whatever for?" he asked. + +"How should I know? She went out first and now he's after her. +'Tisn't safe, Jim. You'd best follow them." + +He didn't argue with her, being an obedient husband disciplined by +many years of matrimony. + +"Well, I'll go," he said slowly. "Best take William, though." + +He went off in search of his man. + +But Bolitho need not trouble. Half an hour later Maggie returned, +stood in the sitting-room looking about her, took off her jacket and +hat, then, pursuing her own thoughts, slowly put them on. She was +then about to leave the room when the door burst open and Martin +tumbled in. He stood at the doorway staring at her, his mouth open. +"Why!" he stammered. "I thought . . . I thought . . . you were out-- +" She looked at him crossly. + +"You shouldn't have gone out--an afternoon like this. If I'd been +here--" + +"Well, you weren't. You shouldn't have gone out either for the +matter of that. And I was at the circus--a damned poor one too. Your +things are soaking," he added, suddenly looking up at her. "You talk +about me. You'd better go and change." + +"I'm going out again," she said. + +"Out again?" + +"Yes . . . There's a train at Clinton at seven. I'm catching that." + +"A train?" He stared at her, completely bewildered. + +"Yes. That's what I went out to get my head clear about. Martin, +you've beaten me. After all these years you have. After all my fine +speeches, too." + +He began to drum on the window. He tried to speak casually. + +"I haven't beaten you, Maggie." + +"Yes, you have. I said you wouldn't be able to send me away. Well, +you've managed to and in the only way you could--by your silence. +You haven't opened your mouth for a fortnight. You're better now, +too, and Mrs. Bolitho will look after you. I was determined to hang +on to you, but I find I can't. I'm going back to London to get some +work." + +His hand dropped from the window. Then, with his head turned from +her and his voice so low that she could scarcely hear the-- + +"No, Maggie, don't go." + +She smiled across at him. "There's no need to be polite, Martin. +We're both of us beyond that by this time. I'll come back if you +really want me. You know that I always will, but at last, after all +these years, I've found a scrap of self-respect. Here am I always +bundling about--first the aunts, then you, then Paul, then you +again, and nobody wanting me. I don't suppose," she said laughing, +"that there can be anybody less wanted in the world. So I'm just +going to look after myself now. It's quite time I did." + +"But I want you," he said, his voice still very low. She looked up, +her eyes lit as though with some sudden recognition. + +"If you really mean that," she said, "say it again. If you don't +mean it, don't humbug me. I won't be humbugged any more." + +"I haven't humbugged you--ever," he answered. "You're the only +person I've always been absolutely straight with. I've always, from +the very beginning, told you to have nothing to do with me. It's +more true than ever now. I've been trying ever since you came back +to me in London to get you to leave me. But it's too late. I can't +fight it any more . . . I loved you all the time I was abroad. I +oughtn't to have written to you, but I did. I came back to London +with the one hope of seeing you, but determined not to." + +"I loved you more than ever when you came into my lodging there, but +I was sick and hadn't any money, besides all my other failings . . . +It's the only decent thing I've ever really tried to do, to keep you +away from me, and now I've failed in that. When I came in and found +you were gone this afternoon I thought I'd go crazy." + +"I'm not going to struggle any more. If you go away I'll follow you +wherever you go. I may as well try to give up keeping you out of it. +It's like keeping myself out of it." + +Slowly she took her hat and coat off again. + +"Well, then," she said, "I'd better stay, I suppose." + +He suddenly sat down, his face white. She came across to him. + +She put her hand on his forehead. + +"You'd better go to bed, Martin, dear. I'll bring your tea in." + +He caught her hand. She knelt down, put her arms round him, and so +they stayed, cheek to cheek, for a long time. + +When he had gone to his room she sat in the arm-chair by the fire, +her hands idly folded on her lap. She let happiness pour in upon her +as water floods in upon a dried and sultry river-bed. She was +passive, her tranquillity was rich and full, too full for any +outward expression. + +She was so happy that her heart was weighted down and seemed +scarcely to beat. It was not, perhaps, the exultant happiness that +she had expected this moment to bring her. + +When, in after days, she looked back to that quiet half-hour by the +fire she saw that it was then that she had passed from girlhood into +womanhood. The first chapter of her life was, at that moment's +laying of her hand on Martin's forehead, closed. The love for him +that filled her so utterly was in great part maternal. It was to be +her destiny to know the deep tranquil emotions of life rather than +the passionate and transient. She was perhaps the more blessed in +that. + +Even now, at the very instant of her triumph, she deceived herself +in nothing. There were many difficulties ahead for her. She had +still to deal with Paul: Martin was not a perfect character, nor +would he suddenly become one. Above all that strange sense of being +a captive in a world that did not understand her, some one curious +and odd and alien--that would not desert her. That also was true of +Martin. It was true--strangely true--of so many of the people she +had known--of the aunts, Uncle Mathew, Mr. Magnus, of Paul and of +Grace, of Mr. Toms, and even perhaps of Thurston and Amy Warlock-- +all captives in a strange country, trying to find the escape, each +in his or her own fashion, back to the land of their birth. + +But the land was there. Just as the lion, whose roar very faintly +she could hear through the thick walls, remembered in his cage the +jungles and mountains of his happiness, so was she aware of hers. +The land was there, the fight to get hack to it was real. + +She smiled to herself, looking back on the years. Many people would +have said that she had had no very happy time since that sudden +moment of her father's death, but it did not seem to her, in +retrospect, unhappy. There had been unhappy times, tragic times, but +life was always bringing forward some magnificent moment, some +sudden flash of splendour that made up for all the rest. How could +you be bitter about people when you were all in the same box, all as +ignorant, as blind, as eager to do well, as fallible, as brave, as +mistaken? + +The thoughts slipped dimly through her mind. She was too happy to +trace them truly. She had never been one for conscious philosophy. + +Nevertheless she did not doubt but that life was worth while, that +there was something immortal in her, and that the battle was good to +fight--but what it really came to was that she loved Martin, and +that at last some one needed her, that she need never be lonely any +more. + +Mrs. Bolitho stepped in with the tea. + +"I'll take it in to him," Maggie said, standing up and stretching +out her arms for the tray. + +The woman looked at her and gave a little "Ah!" of satisfaction, as +though, at length, she saw in Maggie's eyes that for--which she had +been searching. + +"Why, I do believe," she said, "that walk's done 'ee good." + +"I do believe," Maggie said, laughing, "it has." + +Carrying the tray carefully she went through into Martin's room. + + + + + +End The Project Gutenberg Etext of The Captives, by Hugh Walpole + diff --git a/old/cptvs10.zip b/old/cptvs10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..4dd16c2 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/cptvs10.zip |