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 Thyself! 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 very 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, Katherine'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 an 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."