Maggie saw that Paul was, with every day, increasingly unhappy. He had

never been trained to conceal his feelings, and although he tried now

he succeeded very badly. He would come into her room in the early

morning hours and lie down beside her. He would put his arms around her

and kiss her, and, desperately, as though he were doing it for a wager,

make love to her. She felt, desperate also on her side, that she could

comfort and make him happy, if only he would want something less from

her than passion. But always after an hour or a little more, he crept

away again to his own room, disappointed, angered, frustrated. These

hours were the stranger because, during the day, he showed her nothing

of this mood, but was kindly and friendly and distant.

She would have done anything for him; she tried sometimes to be

affectionate to him, but always, at once, he turned upon her with a

hungry, impassioned look ...

She knew, without any kind of doubt, that the only way that she could

make him happy again was to leave him. His was not a nature to brood,

for the rest of his days, on something that he had lost.

Only once did he make any allusion to the coming Revival services. He

burst out one day, at luncheon: "The most scandalous thing!" he said.

"We had them here once, years ago, and the harm they did no one would

believe. I've been to Tamar about it; he can do nothing, unless they

disturb the public peace, of course. He had the impertinence to tell me

that they behaved very well last time they were here!"

"I don't like that man," said Grace. "I don't believe he makes his

money properly. Look at the clothes Mrs. Tamar wears! What I mean is, I

don't like his wife at all."

"It's very hard," said Paul, his voice trembling with indignation,

"that when men and women have been working for years to bring Christ

into the hearts of mankind that mountebanks and hypocrites should be

allowed to undo the work in the space of a night. I know this man

Thurston. They've had letters in the Church Times about him." "Fancy!"

said Grace, "and still he dares show his face."

"But do they really do so much harm?" asked Maggie. "I should have

thought if they only came once for a week in ten years they couldn't

make any real effect on anybody--"

"Maggie, dear," said Paul gently, "you don't understand."

As the day of the Revival approached, Maggie knew that she would go to

one of the services. She was now in a strange state of excitement. The

shock of her uncle's death had undoubtedly shaken her whole balance,

moral, physical, and mental. The fortnight that had followed it, when

she had clung like a man falling from a height and held by a rocky

ledge to the one determination not to look either behind or in front of

her, had been a strain beyond her strength.

She did not know; she did not feel any weakness; she felt rather a

curious atmosphere of light and expectation as though that cry to

Martin in her bedroom had truly been answered. And she felt more than

this. Old Magnus had once said to her: "I don't know what religion is

except that it is a fight--and some people join in because they want

to, some are forced to join in whether they want to or no, some just

leave it alone, and some (most) don't know there's one going on at all.

But if you don't join in you seem to me to have wasted your time."

She had not understood in the least what he meant; she did not

understand now; but, thinking of his words, it did seem to her that she

was sharing in some conflict. The vast armies hidden from her by mist,

the contested ground also hidden, but the clash of arms clearly to be

heard. Her own part of a struggle seemed to be round her love for

Martin; it was as though, if she could get some realisation of that,

she would have won her way to a vantage-point whence she could

visualise the next place. She did not think this out. She only felt in

her heart a little less lonely, a little less wicked and selfish, a

little less deserted, as though she were drawing nearer to some hidden

fire and could feel the first warm shadow of the flames.

She made one more appeal to Grace on the very morning of the first day

of the Revival.

After breakfast Maggie came into the drawing-room and found Grace

sitting there sewing.

She stood, timidly, in her old attitude, her hands clasped in front of

her, like a child saying her lesson.

"I beg your pardon, Grace."

Grace looked up. She had of course been conscious of Maggie ever since

her entrance into the room. Her hands had trembled and her heart leapt

furiously.

"Why, Maggie--" she said.

"I'm afraid I'm disturbing you," said Maggie, "but we haven't really

said anything to one another for the last fortnight. I don't suppose

that you want me to say anything now, but things get worse and worse if

no one says anything, don't they?" Now that she had begun she went on

quickly: "I wanted to say, Grace, how sorry I am for the trouble and

unhappiness that you and Paul have had during the last fortnight

through me. I've been nothing but a trouble to you since I first came

here, but it wasn't that that I wanted to say. I couldn't bear that you

should think that I was just selfishly full of my own affairs and

didn't understand how you and Paul must feel about--about my uncle. Not

that I mean," she went on rather fiercely, raising her head, "that he

was to blame. No one ever understood him. He could have done great

things if--if--some one had looked after him a little. But he hadn't

any one. That was my fault. I didn't want you and Paul to think I don't

blame myself. I do all the time. I can't promise to be better in the

future because I've promised so often and I never am. But I am sorry."

Grace said nothing for a moment. Her hands trembled more than ever.

Then, without looking up, she murmured as though to her sewing:

"Oh no. Maggie ... no one blames you, I'm sure."

There was another pause, then Grace said:

"I think I'm not well. No, I can't be well because I'm not sleeping,

although I've taken aspirin more, I'm sure, than I ought to. What I

mean is that they say it's bad for your heart. Of course things have

been very unfortunate, from the beginning one might say, but I'm sure

it's not been any one's fault exactly. What I mean is that these things

never are ... No, they aren't really. I expect we all want a change."

"What are you frightened of me for, Grace," asked Maggie.

Grace started as though Maggie had indeed dropped a bomb at her feet.

She looked up at Maggie, wildly, her eyes staring about the room as

though she were looking for some exit of escape.

"Frightened?" she repeated.

"Yes, you are," said Maggie. "That's what worries me most. No one's

ever been frightened of me before--at least I don't think any one has."

Maggie laughed. "Why, Grace, it seems so funny any one being frightened

of me. I couldn't hurt any one if I wanted to, and I'm sure I never

want to unless it's Mrs. Maxse. Be angry with me as much as you like,

Grace, but don't be frightened of me. Why, that's ridiculous!"

It was the worst word to have chosen. Grace flushed a dull unwholesome

purple.

"I'm sorry you think me ridiculous, Maggie," she said. "Perhaps I am.

I'm sure I don't know. Yes, perhaps I am. What I mean is that what's

ridiculous to one is not ridiculous to another. You're a strange girl,

Maggie, and you and I will never get on. No, never. But all I ask is

that you should make Paul happy. That is enough for me. I care for

nothing else. He isn't very happy just now. What I mean is that any one

can see he isn't eating his meals properly."

"Oh, Grace," cried Maggie. "I didn't mean that you were ridiculous. I

meant that any one being frightened of me was ridiculous. Anyway, I'm

very sorry that I've made you and Paul unhappy. That's all."

She turned and went.

It was the most lovely of April days, soft, primrose-coloured, the

sea-breeze gently tempered by mist-veiled sun. Maggie sat at her

bedroom window overlooking the drive and the blue-grey field that ran

to the woods. She knew that there would be no difficulty about her

escape to the Revival meeting. Paul had arranged that there should be

an evening service at the Church at the same hour, an act of rather

Un-Christian defiance. Maggie sat there, looking down in a condition of

strange bewildering excitement on to the laurel bushes. It was

wonderful to think that in another half-hour she would see Miss Avies

once more, hear those wild hymns again, catch the stridency of

Thurston's voice; all these things spoke of Martin. She felt as though

he were stealing towards her out of the dusk, it was as though, without

any reason, she expected to find him at the service ... although she

knew that he could not be there.

She heard the Church bell begin to ring, then the hall-door opened and

Paul came out. He had on his soft black hat, he was carrying his Bible

and prayer-book under his arm. He stood, for a moment, beside the

hall-door as though he were listening or expecting something. She had a

strange impulse to run down to him; so strong was it that she got up

and moved to the door. Then slowly she came back to the window and

stood looking down upon him. Suddenly, as though he felt her gaze, he

glanced up, saw her, and waved to her. She waved back to him. He turned

and walked quickly away, she heard the gate swing, screaming behind him.

She waited for a little, then put on her hat and coat and went out. She

knew the Flower Street Hall, a place occasionally used by touring

Companies, Wandering Lecturers, Charitable Concerts, and other casual

festivals. It was at the far end of the town towards the end of the

Promenade.

The town, dim in the first dusk, hummed with loiterers, girls released

from the shops walking with their young men, middle-aged couples

sauntering out to take a last whiff of the sea before going in to the

evening meal, one or two visitors from the Hotel strolling across to

the beach to watch the first evening stars and the rising moon. Pianos

were playing, children shouting over the last game of the day; all

hushed into a coloured mild tranquillity. In the fields beyond the

houses the quiet was absolute.

Maggie found the building. The facade was blazing with electric light.

A huge poster, of the now familiar pink, declared:

GRAND RELIGIOUS FESTIVAL. All are invited. IS ALL WELL WITH YOU,

BROTHER?

There was a crowd about the doors, and continually, with giggles and

shamefaced laughter, couples broke away and climbed the steps into the

Hall. Maggie, feeling that all eyes were upon her, entered the

building. In the vestibule two grave-faced women in black bonnets

handed papers with prayers and hymns to every newcomer. Maggie took

hers, a door was opened in front of her, and she went in. The

auditorium was a large one, semicircular in shape, with tiers of seats

rising circus-fashion to a ceiling decorated with silver stars and pink

naked cherubs. The stage had upon it a table, some chairs, and a

reading-desk draped in crimson cloth. Below the stage was a small

orchestra, consisting of two fiddles, a cornet, drum, and a piano.

There was also what seemed to Maggie a small choir, some women dressed

in white and some men in black coats and white bow ties. Across the

stage were suspended broad white bands of cloth with "Come to Jesus!"

"Come now!" "He is waiting for you!" in big black letters.

The hall seemed very full, and was violently illuminated with electric

light. Maggie took this in as she stood very timidly just inside the

door. A steward came forward and showed her a corner-seat. She saw,

then, with a dramatic flash of recognition, Thurston and Mr. Crashaw

sitting behind the table; then, with a still stranger emotion, Miss

Avies as one of the white-robed choir. The sight of those three

familiar faces seemed to close, finally and definitely, the impression

that she had had during all those last weeks. They had "got" her again,

and yet not they, but the power behind them. It seemed only five

minutes ago that she had sat in the London Chapel and heard old Crashaw

scream "Punishment! Punishment! Punishment!" She turned half in her

seat as though she expected to see Aunt Anne and Aunt Elizabeth sitting

one on either side of her. She looked at Thurston; he had coarsened

very much since she had seen him last. He was fatter, his cheeks

stained with an unnaturally high colour, his eyes brighter and sharper

and yet sensual too. He was smarter than he had been, his white bow tie

stiff and shapely, his cuffs clean and shining, his hair very carefully

brushed back from his high and bony forehead. His sharp eyes darted all

over the building, and Maggie felt as though at any moment she would be

discovered. Crashaw looked more like a decrepit monkey than ever,

huddled up in his chair, his back bow-shaped. He breathed into his

hands as though he wanted to warm them, and looked at nobody. Miss

Avies Maggie could not see clearly.

Her eyes wandered over the audience. She saw many townspeople whom she

knew, and she realised, for the first time, that tomorrow everywhere it

would be said that the Rector's wife had been at the Revival meeting.

And how different an audience from the old London one. Every one had

come on this occasion to see a show, and it was certainly a show that

they were going to see. Maggie had entered during a pause, and all the

faces that were there wore that look of expectation that demands the

rising of the curtain. Soon, Maggie felt, they would stamp and whistle

did the play not begin.

Thurston rose and announced:

"My brothers, we will sing hymn No. 14 on the paper."

Maggie looked and discovered that it was the hymn that had once moved

her so dramatically in London with the words

By all Thy sores and bloody pain

Come down and heal our sins again.

and with the last refrain:

By the blood, by the blood, by the blood of the Lamb

We beseech Thee.

Already, in spite of herself, in spite of her consciousness of the

melodrama and meretricious glitter of the scene, her heart was beating.

She was more deeply moved, even now, than she had ever been by all the

services of the Skeaton Church.

And Thurston had learnt his job by this time. Softly one of the violins

played the tune. Then Thurston said:

"The first verse of this hymn will be sung by the choir alone. The

congregation is asked to stand and then to join in the second verse.

The fourth verse will be sung by the soloist."

The audience rose. There was a hush of expectation throughout the

building. The choir, to the accompaniment of the fiddlers alone, sang

the first verse. They had been well selected and trained. Thurston

obviously spared no expense. For the second verse, the whole orchestra

combined, the drum booming through the refrain. At first the

congregation was timid, but the tune was simple and attractive. The

third verse was sung by every one, and Maggie found herself, almost

against her will, joining in. At the fourth verse there was again the

hush of expectation, then a soprano, thin and clear, accompanied again

by one violin, broke the silence.

There was no doubt that this was very moving. Men and women sat down at

the hymn's close quite visibly affected.

Thurston got up then and read a lesson from the Bible. He read from the

Revelations:

"After this I looked, and, behold, a door was opened in heaven: and the

first voice which I heard was as it were of a trumpet talking with me;

which said, Come up hither, and I will show thee things which must be

hereafter."

"And immediately I was in the Spirit: and, behold, a throne was set in

heaven, and one sat on the throne."

"And he that sat was to look upon like a jasper and a sardine stone:

and there was a rainbow round about the throne, in sight like unto an

emerald. And round about the throne were four and twenty seats: and

upon the seats I saw four and twenty elders sitting, clothed in white

raiment; and they had on their heads crowns of gold."

Thurston had worked hard during these last years, he had immensely

improved his accent, and his h's were all in their right places. He

read very dramatically, dropping his voice to a whisper, then pausing

and staring in front of him as though he saw God only a few yards away.

The people of Skeaton had had few opportunities of any first-class

dramatic entertainment. When Thurston finished there passed through the

building a wave of excitement, a stir, a faint murmur. An old woman

next to Maggie wiped her eyes. "Lovely!" Maggie heard her whisper.

"Lovely!"

They sang, then, another hymn, accompanied by the orchestra. This was a

dramatic hymn with a fiery martial tune:

The Lord of War He cometh down With Sword and Shield and Armour Bright,

His armies all behind him Frown, Who can withstand His Light?

Chorus. Trumpets Blare, The drum-taps Roll, Prepare to meet Thy God, Oh

Soul! Prepare! Prepare! Prepare to meet Thy God, oh Soul!

Never before had the men and women of Skeaton heard such hymns. The

Revival of ten years ago, lacking the vibrant spirit of Mr. John

Thurston, had been a very different affair. This was something quite

new in all Skeaton experience. Red-hot expectation flamed now in every

eye. Maggie could feel that the old woman next to her was trembling all

over.

Thurston announced:

"Brother Crashaw will now deliver an address."

Brother Crashaw, his head still lowered, very slowly got up from his

seat. He moved as though it were only with the utmost difficulty and

power of self-will that his reluctant body could be compelled into

action. He crept rather than walked from his chair to the reading-desk,

then very very painfully climbed on to the high platform. Maggie,

watching him, remembered that earlier time when he had climbed into

just such another desk. She remembered also that day at her aunts'

house when he had flirted with Caroline and shown himself quite another

Brother Crashaw. He had aged greatly since then. He seemed now to be

scarcely a man at all. Then suddenly, with a jerk, as though a string

had been pulled from behind, he raised his face and looked at them all.

Yes, that was alive. Monkey's mask you might call it, but the eyes

behind the yellow lids flamed and blazed. No exaggeration those words.

A veritable fire burned there, a fire, it might be, of mere physical

irritation and savage exasperation at the too-rapid crumbling of the

wilfully disobedient body, a glory, perhaps, of obstinate pride and

conceit, a fire of superstition and crass ignorance, but a fire to be

doubted of no man who looked upon it.

When he spoke his voice was harsher, angrier, more insulting than it

had been before. He spoke, too, in a hurry, tumbling his words one upon

another as though he were afraid that he had little mortal time left to

him and must make the most of what he had got.

From the first he was angry, rating the men of Skeaton as they had

never been rated before. And they liked it. They even revelled in it;

it did them no harm and at the same time tickled their skins. Sometimes

a preacher at the Methodist Chapel had rated them, but how mild and

halting a scolding compared with the fury of this little man. As he

continued they settled into their seats with the conviction that this

was the best free show that they had ever enjoyed in all their lives.

They had been afraid at first that it would not keep up its interest.

They had agreed with one another that they would go in "just for a

quarter of an hour to see what it was like." Now they were willing that

it should continue all night.

"What came ye out for to see?" he screamed at them. "Came out to see?

Ye didn't come out at all. None of you. That's what I've come to tell

you. For years you've been leading your lazy, idle, self-indulgent

lives, eating and drinking, sleeping, fornicating, lying with your

neighbours' wives, buying and selling, living like hogs and swine. And

is it for want of your being told? Not a bit of it. You are warned

again and again and again. Every day gives you signs and wonders had

you got eyes to see them and you will not see. Well, be it on your own

heads. Why should I care for your miserable, shrivelled-up, parched

little souls? Why should I care when I watch you all, with your hanging

stomachs and your double chins, marching straight into such a hell as

you've never conceived of. I know what's coming to you. I know what's

in store for those well-filled stomachs of yours. I can see you

writhing and screaming and wailing, 'Why didn't somebody tell us? Why

didn't somebody tell us?' Somebody has told you. Somebody's telling you

now. And will you listen? Not a bit of it. You'll have heard the music

to-night, the drums and the trumpets, you'll have joined in the

singing, and to-night you'll go back and tell your friends: 'Yes, we

had a fine evening. You ought to go. It's worth while and costs you

nothing.' And to-morrow you will have forgotten everything. But I tell

you that every man, woman, and child in this building stands in as

desperate peril as though his house was on fire over his head and there

was no way out."

He stopped for a moment to get breath, leaning forward over the desk

and panting. Over the building there was a great silence. Maggie was

stirred beyond any earlier experience. She did not know whether he were

charlatan or no. She did not care. She had lived for more than two

years in Skeaton, where everything and every one was dead. Now here was

life. The evidence of it reassured her, whispering to her that Martin

still lived, that he could be found, even that he was coming to her.

Her nervous excitement increased. The emotion of the people around her,

the bands, the singing, all seemed to cry to her, "He is coming! He is

coming! He is coming!" ... but it was Martin now and not God.

Old Crashaw, having recovered his breath, went on: he continued for

some time to abuse them all, screaming and beating the wooden desk with

his fists--then suddenly he changed, his voice softened, his eyes were

milder, there was something wistful and pathetic in his old ugly yellow

face.

"I know that you came in here to-night, all of you, just as you might

into a picture-house or a theatre. Entrance free. Well, then, why not?

Had we charged half-a-crown there wouldn't have been one of you.

Half-a-crown and the most important thing in life. I say the most

important--I say the only important thing in life. A man's soul, its

history and growth. What do you know of the soul, you ask me? How do

you know there is one? Well, I can only tell you my news. If a man

comes into your town and tells you that there is an army marching down

upon it to destroy it he may be true or he may not. If he is true then,

when you don't listen to him you are doomed. If you do listen the

preparation to meet that army will at any rate do you no harm even

though the army doesn't exist."

"I tell you that the Soul exists, that God exists, and that one day God

and the Soul will meet. You say that hasn't been proved, and until it

is proved you will spend your time over other things that you know to

be true. Try it at least, give it a chance. Why not? You give other

things a chance, marriage, doctors, trades, amusements. Why not the

Soul? Don't listen to any one else's definition of religion. Don't

believe in it. Make your own. Find out for yourself. My children, I am

an old man, I am shortly to die. If I have scolded forgive me. Let me

leave with you my blessing, and my earnest prayer that you will not

pass by God on the other side. The day will come when you cannot pass

Him by. Meet Him first of your own accord and then when that other day

comes He will know you as a friend ..."

The old man's voice faltered, failed, stopped. He himself seemed to be

deeply affected. Was it acting? Maggie could not tell. At any rate he

was old and ill and very shortly to die ...

The woman next her was crying rubbing the knuckles of her shabby old

gloves in her eyes, the bugles on her bonnet shaking like live things.

She snuffled through her nose to Maggie "Beautiful--beautiful--I

'aven't 'eard such preaching since I don't know when."

Thurston again rose.

"A solo will now be sung," he said. "After the singing of the solo

there will be a prayer offered, then a procession, headed by the choir,

will be formed to march, with lanterns, through the town, as a witness

to the glory of God. It is hoped that those of the congregation who

have received comfort and help during this service will join in the

procession. There will be a collection for the expenses of the Mission

at the door."

Maggie watching him wondered. Of what was he thinking? Was there any

truth in him? Had he, perhaps, behind the sham display and

advertisement that he had been building felt something stirring? Was he

conscious, against his own will, of his falsehood? Had he, while

building only his own success, made a discovery? She looked at him. The

dramatic mask hid him from her. She could not, tell what he was.

The soprano, who had sung a verse of the hymn earlier in the evening,

now undertook "Hear my Prayer." Very beautifully she sang it.

"Hear my prayer, Oh, God, incline Thine ear, Thyself from my distresses

do not hide ..."

The voice rose, soaring through the building to meet the silver stars

and the naked cherubs on the ceiling. "The enemy shouteth ... The enemy

shouteth ..."

Skeaton sat enraptured. Women let the tears stream down their faces,

men blew their noses.

Once again the voice arose.

"Hear my prayer, Oh, God, incline Thine ear ..."

It was Maggie's voice, Maggie's cry. From the very heart of the

charlatanism she cried out, appealing to a God who might exist or no,

she could not tell, but who seemed now to be leading her by the hand.

She saw Aunt Anne at St. Dreot's whispering "The Lord is my Shepherd.

He shall lead me ..."

In a dream she shared in the rest of the ceremony. In a dream she

passed with the others out of the building. The sea air blew about her;

down the promenade she could see the people, she could see the silver

stars in the sky, the faint orange light of the lanterns, the dim

stretch of the sand, and then the grey sea. She heard the splash and

withdrawal of the tide, the murmur of many voices, the singing of the

distant hymn, the blare of the trumpet.

Strange and mysterious, the wind blowing through it all like a promise

of beauty and splendour to come ...

She turned in the starlit dark, separated herself from the crowd, and

hurried home.

In the hall on the table under the lamp she saw a letter. She saw that

it was addressed to her and that the writing was Amy Warlock's. Before

she picked it up she stood there listening. The house was very still.

Grace and Paul had probably begun supper. She picked up the letter and

went up to her bedroom.

As though she were scanning something that she had already seen, she

read:

I made you a promise and I will now fulfil it.

My brother, Martin, arrived in London three days ago. He is staying at

No. 13A Lynton Street, King's Cross.

I have seen him but he has told me that he does not wish to see me

again. He is very ill; his heart is bad and his lungs are affected. He

has also spent all his money. I mentioned your name but he did not seem

to be at all interested. I think it fair to tell you this lest you

should have a fruitless journey. I have now kept my promise to you,

unwisely perhaps. AMY WARLOCK.

Maggie sat down on the bed and considered. There was a train at 10.30

reaching London about midnight. She could just catch it if she were

quick. She found a pencil and a piece of paper and wrote:

DEAR PAUL--I have to go to London suddenly on very urgent business. I

will write to you from there. Good-bye. MAGGIE.

She propped this up against the looking-glass. She put a few things,

including the box with Martin's letters and the ring into a little bag,

put on her hat and coat and went downstairs. She waited for a moment in

the hall but there was no sound anywhere. She went out down the dark

drive.

As she passed along the lonely road she heard the gate, screaming

faintly, behind her.

PART IV

THE JOURNEY HOME AGAIN

CHAPTER I

THE DARK ROOM

It was after midnight when Maggie was turned out on to the long grim

platform of the London station. On that other London arrival of hers

the terminus had been a boiling cauldron of roar and rattle. Now

everything was dead and asleep. No trains moved; they slept, ancient

monsters, chained down with dirt and fog. Two or three porters crept

slothfully as though hypnotised. The face of the great clock, golden in

the dusk, dominated, like a heathen god, the scene. Maggie asked a

porter the way to the Station Hotel. He showed her; she climbed stairs,

pushed back swing doors, trod oil-clothed passages, and arrived at a

tired young woman who told her that she could have a room.

Arrived there, herself somnambulistic, she flung off her clothes, crept

into bed, and was instantly asleep.

Next morning she kept to her room; she went down the long dusty stairs

before one o'clock because she was hungry, and she discovered the

restaurant and had a meal there; but all the time she was expecting

Martin to appear. Every step seemed to be his, every voice to have an

echo of his tones. Then in the dusky afternoon she decided that she

would be cowardly no longer. She started off on her search for No. 13A

Lynton Street, King's Cross.

She searched through a strange blue opaque light which always

afterwards she recollected as accompanying her with mystery, as though

it followed her about deliberately veiling her from the rest of the

world. She felt different from them all; she found an omnibus that was

going to King's Cross, but when she was inside it and looked at the

people around her she felt of them all that they had no reality beside

the intensity of her own search. She, hot like a fiery coal, existed in

a land of filmy ghosts. She repeated to herself over and over, "No. 13A

Lynton Street, King's Cross."

She got out opposite the huge station and looked about her. She saw a

policeman and went across to him.

"Can you tell me where Lynton Street is, please?" she asked him.

He smiled. "Yes, miss. Down on your right, then first to your right

again."

She thanked him and wanted for a silly moment to remain with him. She

wanted to stand there where she was, on the island, she couldn't go

back, she was afraid to go forward. Then the moment left her and she

moved on. When she saw Lynton Street written up her heart gave a

strange little whirr and then tightened within herself, but she marched

on and found 13A. A dirty house, pots with ferns in the two grimy

windows, and the walls streaky with white stains against the grey. The

door was ajar and, pushing it a little, she saw a servant-girl on her

knees scrubbing the floor. At the noise of her step the girl looked up.

"Is Mr. Warlock here?" Maggie asked, but the words were choked in her

throat.

"Wot d'ye sye?" the girl asked.

Maggie repeated her question.

"Yes--'e's upstairs. Always is. Fust floor, second door on yer left."

Maggie went up. She found the door. She knocked. There was no answer.

She pushed the door, peered through and looked in. She saw a room with

a dirty grimy window, a broken faded red sofa, a deal table. No one

there.

She entered and stood listening. A door beyond her opened and a man

came in. She knew at once that it was Martin. Her thoughts followed one

another in strange flurried inconsequence. Yes, it was Martin. He was

fatter than he had been--fat and ill. Very ill. His face was pale, his

hair, thinner than before, unbrushed. He was wearing an old dirty blue

suit with a coat that buttoned over the waistcoat like a seaman's

jacket. Yes, he was ill and fat and unkempt, but it was Martin. At that

reiterated assurance in the depths of her soul she seemed to sink into

a marvellous certain tranquillity--so certain that she shed, as it were

with a gesture, all the unhappiness and doubt and desolation with which

the last years had burdened her.

She had "touched" Martin again, and with that "touch" she was safe. It

did not matter how he treated her nor whether he wanted her. She was

sane and happy and whole again as she had not been since he left her.

Meanwhile he looked at her across the dark room, frowning.

"Who is it?" he asked. "What do you want?"

The sound of his voice moved her passionately. For how long she had

ached and yearned for it! He spoke more huskily, with a thicker tone

than he had done, but it was the same voice, rough a little and slow.

"Don't you know me, Martin?" she said, laughing for sheer happiness.

She saw before she spoke that he had recognised her. He said nothing,

staring at her across the table; and she, held by some safe instinct,

did not move from where she was.

At last he said:

"Well ... What do you want?"

"Oh, Martin, don't you recognise me? I'm Maggie."

He nodded. "Yes, I know. You mustn't come here, though. We've nothing

to say to one another nowadays--no, nothing." He didn't look at her;

his eyes were turned towards the grimy window.

She had an astonishing sense of her possession of him. She laughed and

came close to the table.

"I'm not going away, Martin ... not until we've had a talk. Nothing can

make me. So there!"

He was looking at her again.

"Why, you've cut your hair!" he said.

"Yes." she said.

Then he turned roughly right round upon her as though he meant to end

the matter once and for all.

"Look here! ... I do mean what I say--" He was cut off then by a fit of

coughing. He leant back against the wall and fought with it, his hand

against his chest. She made no movement and said no word while the

attack lasted.

He gasped, recovering his breath, then, speaking in a voice lower than

before: "I mean what I say. I don't want you. I don't want any one.

There's nothing for us to say to one another. It's only waste of time."

"Yes," she answered. "That's your side of the question. There's also

mine. Once before you had your own way and I was very miserable about

it. Now it's my turn. I'm going to stay here until we've talked."

He turned, his face working angrily, upon her.

"You can't stay here. It's impossible. What do you do it for when I

tell you I don't want you? First my sister ... then you ... come here

spying. Well, now you're seen what it's like, haven't you? Very jolly,

isn't it? Very handsome? You'd better go away again, then. You've seen

all you've wanted to."

"I'm not going away," repeated Maggie, "I didn't come to spy. You know

that. Of course you can turn me out, but you'll have to use force."

"Oh, no, I won't," he answered. "There are other ways."

He disappeared into the other room. A moment later he returned; he was

wearing a soft black hat and a shabby grey overcoat.

"You'll get tired of waiting, I expect," he said, and, without looking

at her but just touching her arm as he brushed past her, he left the

room. She heard him descend the stairs. Then the street-door closed.

She sat down upon the shabby red sofa and looked about her. What a

horrible room! Its darkness was tainted with a creeping coldness that

seemed to steal in wavering gusts from wall to wall. The carpet was

faded to a nondescript colour and was gashed into torn strips near the

fireplace. No pictures were on the walls from which the wall-paper was

peeling. He had done nothing whatever to make it more habitable.

He must have been staying there for several weeks, and yet there were

no signs of any personal belongings. Nothing of himself to be seen!

Nothing! It was as though in the bitterness of his spirit he had said

that he would not touch such a spot save, of necessity, with his body.

It should remain, so far as he might go, for ever tenantless.

She felt that. She seemed to be now marvellously perceptive. Until an

hour ago she had been lost, ostracised; now she was at home again,

clear in purpose, afraid of no one and of nothing. Strangely, although

his sickness both of body and soul touched her to the very depths of

her being, her predominant sensation was of happiness. She had found

him again! Oh, she had found him again! Nothing, in this world or the

next, counted in comparison with that. If she were close to him she

would make him well, she would make him rich, she would make him happy.

Where he had been, what he had done, mattered nothing. Where she had

been, what she had done, nothing. Nothing in their two lives counted

but their meeting again, and she who had been always so shy and so

diffident felt no doubt at all about his returning to her. There would

be a fight. As she looked around the gradually darkening room she

realised that. It might be a long fight and a difficult one, but that

she would win she had no doubt. It had been preordained that she should

win. No one on this earth or above it could beat her.

Gradually she became more practical. Slowly she formed her plans.

First, what had Martin done? Perhaps he had told the woman of the house

that she, Maggie, was to be turned out, did she not, of herself, go

away. No, Martin would not do that. Maggie knew quite confidently that

he would never allow any one to insult her. Perhaps Martin would not

come back at all. Perhaps his hat and his coat were his only

possessions. That was a terrible thought! Had he gone, leaving no

trace, how would she ever find him again? She remembered then that he

had gone straight downstairs and out of the house. He had not spoken to

the landlady. That did not look like a permanent departure. But she

would make certain.

She pushed open the other door and peeped into the further room. She

saw a dirty unmade bed, a tin washhand stand, and an open carpet-bag

filled with soiled linen. No, he would come back.

She sat there thinking out her plans. She was suddenly clear,

determined, resourceful, all the things that she had never been in her

life before. First she must see the landlady; next she must go to the

shops--but suppose he should return while she was there, pack his bag

and leave for ever? She must risk that. She thought that he would not

return at once because he would want, as he said, "to tire her out."

"To tire her out!" She laughed at that. She looked about the room and

decided how she would improve it. She nodded to herself. Yes, and the

bedroom too. All this time she was so happy that she could scarcely

prevent herself from singing aloud.

She went out, down the dark stairs, and found the maid, under a

swinging candle-flame, still scrubbing. How strange that in that short

space of time, when the whole of life had altered for her, that girl

had been on her knees scrubbing!

"Could you tell me, please," she asked, "whether I could see somebody

who is in charge of this house--the landlady or--"

"Is there anything I can do?" said a voice behind her.

She turned to find a short stout woman in voluminous black--black

bonnet, black cape, black gloves--watching her with sharp bright eyes.

"Are you the landlady?" Maggie asked.

"I ham," said the woman. "Mrs. Brandon--ma'am."

The servant-girl had suspended operations, kneeling up and watching

with open mouth developments.

"I'm very glad to meet you," said Maggie. "How do you do?"

"How do you do, ma'am?" said Mrs. Brandon.

"The point is just this," said Maggie, speaking rather fast as though

she were confused, which she was not. "Mr. Warlock is a very old friend

of mine and I'm afraid he's very ill indeed. He's very ill and there's

nobody to look after him. What I was wondering was whether there was a

bedroom in your house that I could have--so that I could look after

him, you see, and get him anything he wants."

Mrs. Brandon overlooked Maggie from head to foot--very slowly she did

it, her eyes passing over the rather shabby black hat, the short hair,

the plain black dress, the shoes worn and soiled. She also looked at

Maggie's wedding-ring.

"Well, Mrs.--" she began.

"Mrs. Trenchard is my name," said Maggie, blushing in spite of herself

at the long scrutiny.

"I 'ope you're not reproaching anybody with neglect of the gentleman."

She had an action, as she talked, of flinging a very seedy-looking

black boa back across her neck vindictively. "Wot I mean to say is that

gentleman lodgers must take their chance and e's two weeks overdue with

'is rent as it is ... but of course I'm not saying I couldn't oblige.

'E's a nice gentleman too, although not talkative so to speak, but if

it would give 'im 'appiness to 'ave a lady friend close at 'and as you

might say, why I wouldn't like to be one to stand in 'is way. 'Live and

let live,' 'as always been my motter, and a very good one too."

She said all this very slowly, with a good many significant pauses.

Maggie, however, felt nothing but happiness at the prospect of getting

her way. She had gone far beyond all personal sensations of shame or

fear or hesitation.

"Would you show me the room, please?" she asked.

They pushed past the servant-girl, whose eyes followed them up the

stairs with hungry curiosity.

They climbed to the top of the house. Mrs. Brandon displayed a dark

sulky little room with damp of the tomb clinging to its wall.

"Ten bob a week," she said. She sunk her voice to a confidential

whisper. "The best of this 'ouse is that you can do what you like. No

one minds and no one sees. 'Them as lives in glass 'ouses.' That's what

I say."

"I'll take it," said Maggie.

"You'll be wanting a key, my dear," said Mrs. Brandon, suddenly very

friendly. "To let yerself in an' out at nights. I'll fetch yer one."

She did. Maggie thanked her.

"I wonder," she said, "whether you have such a thing as a small basket

you could lend me. I'm going out to buy one or two necessaries."

"Certingly," said Mrs. Brandon, all smiles. "Certingly, and anythink

else you'll be needing. All you've got to do is ter ask."

This settled, Maggie departed on her shopping expedition. She was still

driven by a curious clarity and decision as to what she wanted to do.

She felt as though she could conquer the world to-day and then parcel

it out equitably and with success amongst the greedy kings of the

earth. What were kings to her now that she had found Martin? Less than

the dust ...

Lynton Street offered her nothing but dirty and grime-stained windows,

but she found her way into King Edward Street, and here there were many

shops. She had not very much money actually upon her, and the remainder

of her precious three hundred was locked up in a bank in Skeaton, but

it was a bank that had, she knew, branches in London. She looked in her

purse and found that she had three pounds, twelve shillings and

sixpence. Martin must have his meals upon something other than paper,

so the probability was that there was crockery of a kind in his

room--or perhaps Mrs. Brandon supplied it. Nevertheless Maggie's first

purchases were a blue teapot, two blue plates, and two blue cups and

saucers.

As to food she must get something that could be cooked easily on his

fire. She bought three of the freshest possible eggs, half a dozen

sausages, a loaf of bread, half a pound of butter, two pots of jam, one

pot of marmalade, some apples, a pound of tea, a pound of sugar.

"This will do as a start," she said to herself.

She was just about to turn into Lynton Street when she stopped at a

flower shop. In the window, smiling at her most fragrantly under the

gas-light was a white hyacinth in a blue pot. It seemed to speak to her

with, the same significance as once the ring with the three pearls; as

though it said: "You've got to use me. I'm a link in the chain."

She went in and asked its price; not very much, considering the

splendour of the blue pot. She bought it. She was glad that 13A was not

far, because now the basket and the flower weighed heavily upon her.

She climbed the stairs to Martin's room with beating heart. Suppose he

had returned and was there and would not let her in? Or suppose, worse

than that, that he had returned, packed his bag and gone away again?

Her heart was beating so terribly when at last she had arrived outside

the door that she had to put down the hyacinth and the basket and stand

for a minute there, panting.

She pushed back the door; the room was lit by the reflection from a

lamp in a window on the opposite side of the road; this flickered with

a pale uncertain glow across the floor. He was not here. She opened the

bedroom door. He had not packed his bag. She sighed with relief. She

found a bell and pressed it. To her great surprise the scrubbing maid

almost instantly presented herself; curiosity had undoubtedly hastened

her steps.

"What's your name?" asked Maggie, smiling.

"Emily," said the girl.

"The first thing I want is a box of matches," said Maggie. "You'll

light the gas for me, won't you. The truth is, I'm not quite tall

enough to reach it."

Emily lit the gas.

"Thank you so much," said Maggie. "I must have a fire. That's the next

thing. This cold room must have been a bad thing for Mr. Warlock with

his cough."

"Yes, 'e 'as got a corf," said Emily, watching Maggie with all her eyes.

"Well, do you think I could have a fire?" asked Maggie.

Emily considered.

"I'll ask the missus," she said; "I shouldn't wonder."

She returned soon with coal, wood and newspaper. She also informed

Maggie that Mrs. Brandon would like to have a "little in advance if

convenient, that being the custom."

Maggie delivered up ten and sixpence and was left with exactly two

shillings in her pocket. But how beautiful the room appeared! Emily,

whose ugly bony countenance now wore a look of excited breathlessness

as though she were playing a new kind of game, discovered a piece of

dark sad cloth somewhere in the lower region and this was pinned up

over the window. The fire was soon blazing away as though the fireplace

rejoiced to have a chance of being warm once more. A shabby but clean

table-cloth was discovered and placed upon the table, and in the middle

of this the hyacinth was triumphantly stationed.

"Now I tell you what would be nice," said Maggie, also by this time

breathless, "and that's a lamp. This gas isn't very pleasant, is it,

and it DOES make such a noise."

"It DOES make a noise," said Emily, looking at the gas as though she

were seeing it for the first time.

"Well, do you think there's a lamp somewhere?"

Emily licked her finger.

"I'll ask the missus," she said and disappeared. Soon she returned with

a lamp, its glories hidden beneath a bright pink paper shade.

Maggie removed the paper shade, placed the lamp on the table, then the

blue plates, the blue cups and saucers, the blue teapot.

A shrill voice was heard calling for Emily. Maggie had then her kingdom

to herself.

She stood there, waiting and listening. The approaching interview must

have seemed to her the climax of her whole life. She stood, clasping

and unclasping her hands, going to the table, moving the plates, then

moving them back again. Perhaps he would not return at all that night,

perhaps not until midnight or later. He might be drunk, he might be

violent. She did not care. It was enough for her that he should be

there.

"Oh I do wish he'd come," she whispered aloud.

She had looked at her watch and seen that it was just eight o'clock

when she heard a step on the stair. She had already borrowed from Emily

a frying-pan. Quickly she put the sausages into it, placed them on the

fire and then stood over them.

The door opened. She knew who it was because she heard him start

suddenly with a little exclamation of surprise. She turned and looked

at him. Her first thought was that he seemed desperately weary, weary

with a fatigue not only physical. His whole bearing was that of a man

beaten, defeated, raging, it might be, with the consciousness of his

defeat but beyond all hope of avenging it. Her pity for him made her

tremble but, with that, she realised that the worst thing that she

could do was to show pity. What had he expected? To find her gone? To

find her still sitting defiantly where he had left her? To see her

crying, perhaps on her knees before him, beseeching him? Anything but

not this.

She could see that he was astonished and was resolved not to let her

know it.

He moved past her without a word, and went into the other room. She

said nothing, but bent over the sausages. They were sizzling and flung

out a splendid smell.

He came back without his hat and coat. He stood by the bedroom door and

slowly looked round the room, taking everything in.

"I thought you'd have gone," he said; "I warned you."

She looked up at him, laughing:

"I haven't," she said. "Whatever happens afterwards, Martin, we may as

well have one meal together. I'm very hungry. I know you'll forgive my

using your room like this, but I didn't want to go to a shop. So I just

brought the things in here."

His eyes lighted on the hyacinth.

"I know what your game is," he said huskily. "But it isn't any good.

You may as well chuck it."

"All right," she said. "After we've had a meal."

Straightening herself up from the heat of the fire she had a terrible

temptation then to go to him. It overwhelmed her in a flood; her knees

and hands trembled. She wanted just to touch his arm, to put her hand

on his shoulder. But she knew that she must not.

"Sit down for a bit," she said very quietly, "and let's have our meal.

There's nothing terrible in that, Martin. I've not put poison in your

food or anything and the sausages do smell nice."

To her surprise he sat down, suddenly collapsing as though he were too

tired to stand any longer. He said nothing more. She finished the

sausages, put them on the table, then took a saucepan (also Emily's

gift), filled it with water and put in the eggs.

"Come on," she said gently, "or the sausages will get cold."

He went then to the table, cut off some bread and began to eat

ravenously. Her heart felt a dim distant triumph when she saw that he

was so hungry, but it was too early to feel triumph yet.

She came to the table and began to eat, although she felt no hunger.

"You're married, aren't you?" he asked suddenly.

"Yes," she answered.

"Where's your husband?"

"A place called Skeaton."

"Well, you'd better get back there to-night--"

"I'm staying in London for a day or two."

"Where?"

"Here. I've got a bedroom upstairs."

"You can do what you damn well please," he said. "It doesn't matter to

me. I'm going away from here to-morrow morning." Then, after another

pause, he said:

"What sort of a man's your husband?"

"A clergyman," she answered.

"A clergyman ... good Lord!" He laughed grimly. "Still religious, I

see."

All this time she was thinking how ill he was. Every breath that he

drew seemed to hurt him. His eyes were dull and expressionless. He

moved his hands, sometimes, with a groping movement as though he could

not see. He drank his tea thirstily, eagerly.

At last he had finished. He bent forward, leaning on his hands, looking

her steadily in the face for the first time.

"It was clever of you to do this," he said; "damn clever. I was hungry,

I don't mind confessing ... but that's the last of it. Do you hear? I

can look after myself. I know. You're feeling sorry for me. Think I'm

in a dirty room with no one to look after me. Think I'm ill. I bet Amy

told you I was ill. 'Oh, poor fellow,' you thought, 'I must go and look

after him.' Well, I'm not a poor fellow and I don't want looking after.

I can manage for myself very nicely. And I don't want any women hanging

round. I'm sick of women, and that's flat."

"I'm not pretending it's not all my own fault. It is. ALL my own fault,

but I don't want any one coming round and saying so. AND I don't want

any pity. You've had a nice romantic idea in your head, saving the

sinner and all the rest of it. Well, you can get back to your parson.

He's the sort for that kind of stuff."

"Indeed I haven't," said Maggie. "I don't care whether you're a sinner

or not. You're being too serious about it all, Martin. We were old

friends. When I heard you were in London I came to see you. That's all.

I may as well stay here as anywhere else. Aunt Anne's dead

and--and--Uncle Mathew too. There's nowhere else for me to go. I don't

pity you. Why should I? You think too much about yourself, Martin. It

wasn't to be clever that I got these things. I was hungry, and I didn't

want to eat in an A.B.C. shop."

"Oh, I don't know," he said, turning away from the table.

He stood up, fumbling in his pocket. He produced a pipe and some

tobacco out of a paper packet. As he filled it she saw that his hand

was trembling.

He turned finally upon her.

"Whatever your plan was it's failed," he said. "I'm going to bed

straight away now. And to-morrow morning early I'm off. Thank you for

the meal and--good-night and good-bye."

He gave her one straight look. She looked up at him, calmly. He dropped

his eyes; then, clumsily he walked off, opened his bedroom door, closed

it behind him, and was gone.

She sat there, staring in front of her, thinking. What was she to do

now? At least she might clear up. She had nowhere to wash the things.

She would put them ready for the morning. She tidied the table, put the

plates and cups together, then, overcome by a sudden exhaustion, she

sat down on the sofa.

She realised then the fight that the day had been. Yes, a fight! ...

and she was still only at the beginning of it. If he really went away

in the morning what could she do? She could not follow him all round

London. But she would not despair yet. No, she was far from despair.

But she was tired, tired to death.

She sat on there in a kind of dream. There were no sounds in the house.

The fire began to drop very low. There were no more coals. The room

began to be very chilly. She laid her head back on the sofa; she was

half asleep. She was dreaming--Paul was there and Grace--the Skeaton

sands--the Revival procession with the lanterns--the swish of the sea...

Suddenly she was wide awake. The lamp had burnt down to a low rim of

light. Martin was coughing in the other room. Coughing! She had never

heard such a cough, something inhuman and strange. She stood up, her

hands clutched. She waited. Then, as it continued, growing fiercer and

fiercer, so that in spite of the closed door it seemed to be in the

very room with her, she could bear it no longer.

She opened the door and went in. The room was lit by a candle placed on

a chair beside the bed. Martin was sitting up, his hands clenched, his

face convulsed. The cough went on--choking, convulsing, as though some

terrible enemy had hands at his windpipe. He grasped the bedclothes,

his eyes, frightened and dilated, staring in front of him.

She went to him. He did not look at her, but whispered in a voice that

seemed to come from miles away:

"Bottle ... over there ... glass."

She saw on the wash-hand stand a bottle with a medicine glass behind

it. She read the directions, poured out the drops, took it over and

gave it to him. He swallowed it down. She put out her arm to steady him

and felt his whole body tremble beneath her hand. Gradually he was

quieter. Utterly exhausted he slipped back, his head on the pillow.

She drew her chair close to the bed. He was too exhausted to speak and

did not look at her at all. After a while she put her hand on his

forehead and stroked it. He did not draw away from her. Slowly his head

turned towards her. He lay there in the crook of her arm, she bending

forward over him.

Her heart beat. She tried not to be conscious of his closeness to her,

but her hand trembled as it touched his cheek.

Still he did not move away. After, as it seemed to her, a long time he

was asleep. She listened to his breathing, and only then, when she knew

that he could not hear, she whispered:

"Oh, Martin, I love you so! Dear Martin, I love you so much!"

She blew out the candle and, her arm beneath his head, sat there,

watching.

CHAPTER II

HOBGOBLINS

The dawn had made the dark room grey when Maggie, stiff and sore from

the strained position in which she had been sitting, went up to her

room. She had intended not to go to bed, but weariness overcame her;

she lay down on her bed, dressed as she was, and fell into a deep,

exhausted slumber.

When she woke it was broad daylight. She was panic-stricken. How could

she have slept? And now he might have gone. She washed her face and

hands in the horrible little tin basin, brushed her hair, and then,

with beating heart, went downstairs. His sitting-room was just as she

had left it, the unwashed plates piled together, the red cloth over the

window, the dead ashes of the fire in the grate. Very gently she opened

his bedroom door. He was still in bed. She went over to him. He was

asleep, muttering, his hands clenched on the counterpane. His cheeks

were flushed. To her inexperienced eyes he looked very ill.

She touched him on the shoulder and with a start he sprang awake, his

eyes wide open with terror, and he crying:

"What is it? No ... no ... don't. Don't."

"It's all right, Martin. It's I, Maggie," she said.

He stared at her; then dropping back on to the pillow, he muttered

wearily as though he were worn out after a long struggle:

"I'm bad ... It's my chest. There's a doctor. They'll tell you ... He's

been here before."

She went into the other room and rang the bell. After a time Mrs.

Brandon herself appeared.

"I'm afraid Mr. Warlock is very ill," said Maggie, trying to keep her

voice from trembling. "He's asked me to fetch the doctor who's been

here to see him before. Can you tell me who he is and where he lives?"

Mrs. Brandon's bright and inquisitive eyes moved round the room, taking

in the blue china, the hyacinth and the lamp. "Certingly," she said.

"That must be Dr. Abrams. 'E lives in Cowley Street, No. 4--Dr. Emanuel

Abrams. A good doctor when 'e's sober, and the morning's the best time

to be sure of 'im. Certingly 'e's been in to see your friend several

times. They've been merry together more than once."

"Where is Cowley Street?" asked Maggie.

"First to the right when you get out of the 'ouse, and then second to

the left again. No. 4's the number. It's most likely 'e'll be asleep.

Yes, Dr. Abrams, that's the name. 'E's attended a lot in this 'ouse.

Wot a pretty flower! Cheers the room up I must say. Will you be wanting

another fire?"

"Yes," said Maggie. "Could Emily see to that while I'm away?"

"Certingly," said Mrs. Brandon, looking at Maggie with a curious

confidential smile--a hateful smile, but there was no time to think

about it.

Maggie went out. She found Cowley Street without any difficulty. Dr.

Abrams was up and having his breakfast. His close, musty room smelt of

whisky and kippers. He himself was a little, fat round Jew, very red in

the face, very small in the eye, very black in the hair, and very dirty

in the hands.

He was startled by Maggie's appearance--very different she was from his

usual patients.

"Looked just a baby," he informed Mrs. Brandon afterwards.

"Mrs. Warlock?" he asked.

"No," said Maggie defiantly. "I'm a friend of Mr. Warlock's."

"Ah, yes--quite so." He wiped his mouth, disappeared into another room,

returned with a shabby black bag and a still shabbier top hat, and

declared himself ready to start.

"It's pneumonia," he told her as they went along. "Had it three weeks

ago. Of course if he was out in yesterday's fog that finished him."

"He was out," said Maggie, "for a long time."

"Quite so," said Dr. Abrams. "That's killed him, I shouldn't wonder."

He snuffled in his speech and he snuffled in his walk.

Before they had gone very far he put his hand on Maggie's arm; she

hated his touch, but his last words had so deeply terrified her that

nothing else affected her. If Martin were killed by going out yesterday

then she had killed him. He had gone out to escape her. But she drove

that thought from her as she had driven so many others.

"The pneumonia's bad enough," said the little man, becoming more

confidential as his grip tightened on her arm, "but it's heart's the

trouble. Might finish him any day. Tells me his father was the same.

What a nice warm arm you've got, my dear--it's a pleasant day, too."

They entered the house and Dr. Abrams stayed chatting with Emily in the

passage for a considerable time. Any one of the opposite sex seemed to

hare an irresistible attraction for him.

When they went upstairs the doctor was so held by his burning curiosity

that it was difficult to lead him into Martin's bedroom. Everything

interested him; he bent down and felt the tablecloth with his dirty

thumb, then the soil round the hyacinth, then the blue china. Between

every investigation he stared at Maggie as though he were now seeing

her for the first time. At last, however, he was bending over Martin,

and his examination was clever and deft; he had been, like his patient,

used to better days. Martin was very ill.

"The boy's bad," he said, turning sharply round upon Maggie.

From the speaking of that word, for six days and six nights he was

Maggie's loyal friend and fellow-combatant. They fought, side by side,

in the great struggle for Martin's life. They won; but when Maggie

tried to look back afterwards on the history of that wrestling, she saw

nothing connectedly, only the candle-light springing and falling, the

little doctor's sharp eyes, the torn paper of the wall, the ragged

carpet, and always that strange mask that was Martin's face and yet the

face of a stranger, something tortured and fantastic, passing from

Chinese immobility to frenzied pain, from pain to sweating exhaustion,

from exhaustion back to immobility.

On the eighth day she rose, as a swimmer rises from green depths, and

saw the sunshine and the landscape again.

"He'll do if you're careful," said Dr. Abrams, and suddenly became once

more the curious, dirty, sensual little creature that he had been at

first. Her only contact with the outer world had been her visits to the

neighbouring streets for necessaries and one journey to the bank (the

nearest branch was in Oxford Street) to settle about her money. But

now, with the doctor's words, the rest of the world came back to her.

She remembered Paul. She was horrified to realise that during these

days she had entirely forgotten him. He, of course could not write to

her because he did not know her address. When she saw that Martin was

quietly sleeping she sat down and wrote the following letter:

13A LYNTON STREET, KING'S CROSS, April 28th, 1912.

MY DEAR PAUL,--I have been very wrong indeed not to write to you before

this. It's only of a piece with all my other bad behaviour to you, and

it's very late now to saw that I am ashamed. I will tell you the truth,

which is that on the day I left you I had received a letter telling me

that the friend of whom I have often told you was in England, very ill,

and with no one to care for him. I had to go. I don't know whether it

was right or wrong--wrong I suppose--but I always knew that if he ever

wanted me I SHOULD go. I've always been truthful to you about that.

When I came here I found that he was in horrible lodgings, very ill

indeed, and with no one to look after him. I HAD to stay, and now for a

week he has been between life and death. He had pneumonia some weeks

ago and went out too soon. His heart also is bad. I believe now he can

get well if great care is taken.

Dear Paul, I don't know what to say to you. I have a bedroom in this

house and every one is very kind to me, but you will think me very

wicked. I can't help it. I can't come back to you and Grace. Perhaps

later when he is quite well I shall be able to, but I don't think so.

You don't need me; I have never been satisfactory to you, only a worry.

Grace will never be able to live with me again, and I can't stay in

Skeaton any more after Uncle Mathew's death. It has all been a wretched

mistake, Paul, our marriage, hasn't it? It was my fault entirely. I

shouldn't have married you when I knew that I would always love Martin.

I thought then that I should be able to make you happy. If now I felt

that I could I would come back at once, but you know as well as I do

that, after this, we shall never be happy together again. I blame

myself so much but I can't act differently. Perhaps when Martin is well

he will not want me at all, but even then I don't think I could come

back. Isn't it better that at least I should stay away for a time? You

can say that I am staying with friends in London. You will be happier

without me, oh, much happier--and Grace will be happier too. Perhaps

you will think it better to forget me altogether and then your life

will be as it was before you met me.

I won't ask you to forgive me for all the trouble I have been to you. I

don't think you can. But I can't do differently now. Your affectionate

MAGGIE.

She felt when she had finished it that it was miserably inadequate,

but at least it was truthful. As she wrote it her old feelings of

tenderness and affection for Paul came back in a great flood. She saw

him during the many, many times when he had been so good to her. She

was miserable as she finished it, but she knew that there was nothing

else to do. And he would know it too.

A day later a long letter came from Paul. It was very characteristic.

It began by saying that of course Maggie must return at once.

Throughout, the voice was that of a grieved and angry elder talking to

a wicked and disobedient child. She saw that, far beyond everything

else, it was his pride that was wounded, wounded as it had never been

before. He could see nothing but that. Did she realise, he asked her,

what she was doing? Sinning against all the laws of God and man. If she

persisted in her wickedness she would be cut off from all decent

people. No one could say that he had not shown her every indulgence,

every kindness, every affection. Even now he was ready to forgive her,

but she must come back at once, at once. Her extreme youth excused

much, and both he and Grace realised it.

Through it all the strain--did she not see what she was doing? How

could she behave so wickedly when she had been given so many blessings,

when she had been shown the happiness of a Christian home? ...

It was not a letter to soften Maggie's resolve. She wrote a short reply

saying that she could not come. She thought then that he would run up

to London to fetch her. But he did not. He wrote once more, and then,

for a time, there was silence.

She had little interval in which to think about Paul; Martin soon

compelled her attention. He was well enough now to be up. He would lie

all day, without moving except to take his meals, on the old red sofa,

stretched out there, his arms behind his head, looking at Maggie with a

strange taunting malicious stare as though he were defying her to stand

up to him. She did stand up to him, although it needed all her

strength, moral and physical. He was attacking her soul and she was

saving his ...

He said no more about his going away. He accepted it as a fact that she

was there and that she would stay there. He had changed his position

and was fighting her on another ground.

Maggie had once, years before, read in a magazine, a story about a

traveller and a deserted house. This traveller, lost, as are all

travellers in stories, in a forest, benighted and hungry, saw the

lights of a house.

He goes forward and finds a magnificent mansion, blazing with light in

every window, but apparently deserted. He enters and finds room after

room prepared for guests. A fine meal is laid ready and he enjoys it.

He discovers the softest of beds and soon is fast asleep; but when he

is safely snoring back creep all the guests out of the forest, hideous

and evil, warped and deformed, maimed and rotten with disease. They had

left the house, that he might be lured in it, knowing that he would

never come whilst they were there. And so they creep into all the

rooms, flinging their horrible shadows upon the gleaming walls, and

gradually they steal about the bed ...

Maggie forgot the end of the story. The traveller escaped, or perhaps

he did not. Perhaps he was strangled. But that moment of his awakening,

when his startled eyes first stared upon those horrible faces, those

deformed bodies, those evil smiles! What could one do, one naked and

defenceless against so many?

Maggie thought of this story during Martin's convalescence. She seemed

to see the evil guests, crowding back, one after the other into his

soul, and as they came back they peeped out at her, smiling from the

lighted windows. She saw that his plan was to thrust before her the

very worst of himself. He said: "Well, I've tried to get rid of her and

she won't go. That's her own affair, but if she stays, at least she

shall see me as I am. No false sentimental picture. I'll cure her."

It was the oldest trick in the world, but to Maggie it was new enough.

At first she was terrified. In spite of her early experience with her

father, when she had learnt what wickedness could be, she was a child

in all knowledge of the world. Above all she knew very little about her

own sex and its relation with men. But she determined that she must

take the whole of Martin; in the very first days of her love she had

resolved that, and now that resolution was to be put to the test. Her

terrified fear was lest the things that he told her about himself

should affect her love for him. She had told him years before: "It

isn't the things you've done that I mind or care about: it's you, not

actions that matter." But his actions were himself, and what was she to

do if all these things that he said were true?

Then she discovered that she had indeed spoken the truth. Her love for

him did not change; it rather grew, helped and strengthened by a

maternal pity and care that deepened and deepened. He seemed to her a

man really possessed, in literal fact, by devils. The story of the

lighted house was the symbol, only he, in the bitterness and defiance

of his heart, had invited the guests, not been surprised by them.

He pretended to glory in his narration, boasting and swearing what he

would do when he would return to the old scenes, how happy and

triumphant he had been in the midst of his filth--but young and

ignorant though she was she saw beneath this the misery, the shame, the

bitterness, the ignominy. He was down in the dust, in a despair furious

and more self-accusing than anything of which she had ever conceived.

Again and again, too, although this was never deliberately stated, she

saw that he spoke like a man caught in a trap. He did not blame any one

but himself for the catastrophe of his life, but he often spoke, in

spite of himself, like a man who from the very beginning had been under

some occult influence. He never alluded now to his early days but she

remembered how he had once told her that that "Religion" had "got" him

from the very beginning, and had weighted all the scales against him.

It was as though he had said: "I was told from the very beginning that

I was to be made a fighting-ground of. I didn't want to be that. I

wasn't the man for that. I was chosen wrongly."

He only once made any allusion to his father's death, but Maggie very

soon discovered that that was never away from his mind. "I loved my

father and I killed him," he said one day, "so I thought it wise not to

love any one again."

Gradually a picture was created in Maggie's mind, a picture originating

in that dirty, dark room where they were. She saw many foreign

countries and many foreign towns, and in all of them men and women were

evil. The towns were always in the hour between daylight and dark, the

streets twisted and obscure, the inhabitants furtive and sinister.

The things that those inhabitants did were made quite plain to her. She

saw the dancing saloons, the women naked and laughing, the men drunken

and besotted, the gambling, the quarrelling, drugging, suicide--all

under a half-dead sky, stinking and offensive.

One day, at last, she laughed.

"Martin," she cried, "don't let's be so serious about it. You can't

want to go back to that life--it's so dull. At first I was frightened,

but now!--why it's all the same thing over and over again."

"I'm only telling you," he said; "I don't say that I do want to go back

again. I don't want anything except for you to go away. I just want to

go to hell my own fashion."

"You talk so much about going to hell," she said. "Why, for ten days

now you've spoken of nothing else. There are other places, you know."

"You clear out and get back to your parson," he said. "You must see

from what I've told you it isn't any good your staying. I've no money.

My health's gone all to billyoh! I don't want to get better. Why should

I? Perhaps I did love you a little bit--once--in a queer way, but

that's all gone now. I don't love any one on this earth. I just want to

get rid of this almighty confusion going on in my head. I can't rest

for it. I'd finish myself off if I had pluck enough. I just haven't."

"Martin," she said, "why did you write all those letters to me?"

"What letters?" he asked.

"Those that Amy stopped--the ones from abroad."

"Oh, I don't know," he looked away from her. "I was a bit lonely, I

suppose."

"Tell me another thing," she said. "These weeks I've been here have I

bored you?"

"I've been too ill to tell ... How do I know? Well, no, you haven't.

You're such a queer kid. You're different from any other human--utterly

different. No, you haven't bored me--but don't think from that I like

having you here. I don't--you remind me of the old life. I don't want

to think of it more than I must. You'll admit I've been trying to scare

you stiff in all I've told you, and I haven't scared you. It's true,

most of it, but it isn't so damned sensational as I've tried to make it

... But, all the same, what's the use of your staying? I don't love

you, and I'm never likely to. I've told you long ago you're not the

sort of woman to attract me physically. You never did. You're more like

a boy. Why should you ruin your own life when there's nothing to gain

by it? You will ruin it, you know, staying on here with me. Every one

thinks we're living together. Have you heard from your parson?"

"Yes," said Maggie.

"What does he say?"

"He says I've got to go back at once."

"Well, there you are."

"But don't you see, Martin, I shouldn't go back to him even if I left

you. I've quite decided that. He'll never be happy with me unless I

love him, which I can't do, and there's his sister who hates me. And

he's just rooted in Skeaton. I can't live there after Uncle Mathew!"

"Tell me about that."

"No," she said, shrinking back. "I'll never tell any one. Not even you."

"Now, look here," he went on, after a pause. "You must see how hopeless

it is, Maggie. You've got nothing to get out of it. As soon as I'm well

enough I shall go off and leave you. You can't follow me, hunting me

everywhere. You must see that."

"Yes, but what you don't, Martin, see," she answered him, "is that I've

got some right to think of my own happiness. It's quite true what you

say, that if you get well and decide you don't want to see me I won't

follow you. Of course I won't. Perhaps one day you will want me all the

same. But I'm happy only with you, and so long as I don't bore you I'm

going to stay. I've always been wrong with every one else, stupid and

doing everything I shouldn't. But with you it isn't so. I'm not stupid,

and however you behave I'm happy. I can't help it. It's just so."

"But how can you be happy?" he said, "I'm not the sort for any one to

be happy with. When I've been drinking I'm impossible. I'm sulky and

lazy, and I don't want to be any better either. You may think you're

happy these first few weeks, but you won't be later on."

"Let's try," said Maggie, laughing. "Here's a bargain, Martin. You say

I don't bore you. I'll stay with you until you're quite well. Then if

you don't want me I'll go and not bother you until you ask for me. Is

that a bargain?"

"You'd much better not," he said.

"Oh, don't think I'm staying," she answered, "because I think you so

splendid that I can't leave you. I don't think you splendid at all. And

it's not because I think myself splendid either. I'm being quite

selfish about it. I'm staying simply because I'm happier so."

"You'd much better not," he repeated.

"Is that a bargain?"

"Yes, if you like," he answered, looking at her with puzzled eyes. It

was the first long conversation that they had had. After it, he was no

nicer than before. He never kissed her, he never touched her, he seldom

talked to her; when she talked, he seemed to be little interested. For

hours he lay there, looking in front of him, saying nothing. When the

little doctor came they wrangled and fought together but seemed to like

one another.

Through it all Maggie could see that he was riddled with deep shame and

self-contempt and haunted, always, by the thought of his father. She

longed to speak to him about his father's death, but as yet she did not

dare. If once she could persuade him that that had not been his fault,

she could, she thought, really help him. That was the secret canker at

his heart and she could not touch it.

Strangely, as the days passed, the years that had been added to him

since their last meeting seemed to fall away. He became to her more and

more the boy that he had been when she had known him before. In a

thousand ways he showed it, his extraordinary youth and inexperience in

spite of all that he had been and done. She felt older now than he and

she loved him the more for that. Most of all she longed to get him away

from this place where he was. Then one day little Abrams said to her:

"He'll never get well here."

"That's what I think," she said.

"Can't you carry him off somewhere? The country's the place for

him--somewhere in the South."

Her heart leapt.

"Oh, Glebeshire!" she cried.

"Well, that's not a bad place," he said. "That would pick him up."

At once she thought, night and day, of St. Dreot's. A very hunger

possessed her to get back there. And why not? For one thing, it would

be so much cheaper. Her money would not last for ever, and Mrs. Brandon

robbed her whenever possible. She determined that she would manage it.

At last, greatly fearing it, she mentioned it to him, and to her

surprise he did not scorn it.

"I don't care," he said, looking at her with that curious puzzled

expression that she often saw now in his eyes, "I'm sick of this room.

That's a bargain, Maggie, you can put me where you like until I'm well.

Then I'm off."

She had a strange superstition that Borhedden was fated to see her

triumph. She had wandered round the world and now was returning again

to her own home. She remembered a Mrs. Bolitho who had had the farm in

her day. She wrote to her, and two days later received a letter saying

that there was room for them at Borhedden if they wished.

She was now all feverish impatience. Dr. Abrams said that Martin could

be moved if they were very careful. All plans were made. Mrs. Brandon

and the ugly little doctor both seemed quite sorry that they were

going, and Emily even sniffed and wiped her eye with the corner of her

apron. The world seemed now to be turning a different face to Maggie.

Human beings liked her and were no longer suspicious to her as they had

been before.

She felt herself how greatly she had changed. It was as though, until

she had found Martin again, everything had been tied up in her,

constrained. She had been some one lost and desolate. Nevertheless, how

difficult these days were! Through all this time she spoke to him no

affectionate word nor touched him with an affectionate gesture. She was

simply a good-humoured companion, laughing at him, assuming, through it

all, an off-hand indifference that meant for her so difficult a

pretence that she thought he must discover it. He did not; he was in

many ways more simple than she. She laid to sleep his suspicions. She

could feel his relief that she was not romantic, that she wanted

nothing whatever from him. He was ill--therefore was often churlish. He

tried to hurt her again and again with cruel words and then waited to

see whether she were hurt. She never showed him. He treated her with

contempt, often not answering her questions, laughing at her little

stupidities, complaining of her forgetfulness and, sometimes, her

untidiness--telling her again and again to "go back to her parson."

She gave no sign. She fought her way. But it hurt; she could not have

believed that anything could hurt so much. She was being always drawn

to him, longing to put her arm around him, to dare to kiss him, risking

any repulse. He seemed so young, so helpless, so unhappy. Every part of

him called to her, his hair, his eyes, his voice, his body. But she

held herself in, she never gave way, she was resolute in her plan.

On their last evening in Lynton Street, for five minutes, he was

suddenly kind to her, almost the old Martin speaking with the old

voice. She held her breath, scarcely daring to let herself know how

happy she was.

"What do you think about God, Maggie?" he asked, turning on the sofa

and looking at her.

"Think about God?" she said, repeating his words.

"Yes ...Is there one?"

"I don't know. I haven't any intelligence about those things."

"Is there immortality?"

"I don't know."

"I hope not. Your parson thinks there is, doesn't he?"

"Of course he does."

"Did he have lots of services and did you hare to go to them?"

"Yes."

"Poor Maggie--always having to go to them. Well, it's queer. Funny if

there isn't anything after all when there's been such a fight about it

so long. Did they make you very religious at Skeaton or wherever the

place was?"

"No," said Maggie. "They thought me a terrible heathen. Grace was

terrified of me, I seemed so wicked to her. She thought I was

bewitching Paul's soul--"

"Perhaps you were."

"No. So little did I that he hasn't even come up to London to fetch me."

"Which did you like best--Skeaton or the Chapel?"

"I don't know. I was wrong in both of them. They were just opposite."

Maggie waited a little. Then she said: "Martin there must be something.

I can feel it as though it were behind a wall somewhere--I can hear it

and I can't see anything. Aunt Anne and--and--your father, and Paul,

and Mr. Magnus were all trying ... It feels like a fight, but I don't

know who's fighting who."

Her allusion to his father had been unfortunate.

"It's all damned rot if you ask me," he said, turned his face to the

wall and wouldn't say another word.

Next morning they started. Mrs. Brandon's bill was as large as she

could make it and still not very large. Dr. Abrams, to Maggie's immense

surprise, would not take a penny.

"I'm not wantin' money just now," he said. "I'm robbing a rich old man

who lives near here. I'm a sort of highway man, you know, rob the rich

and spend it how I like. Now don't you press me to make up a bill or I

shall change my mind and give you one and it will be so large that you

won't be able to go down to Glebeshire. How would you like that? Oh,

don't think I'm doing it from fine motives. You're both a couple of

babies, that's what you are, and it would be a shame to rob you. How

you're ever going to get through the world don't know. The Babes in the

Wood weren't in it. He thinks he's wicked, doesn't he?"

"Yes, he does," said Maggie.

"Wicked! Why, he doesn't know what wickedness is. A couple of children.

Look after his heart or he'll be popping off one fine morning."

Maggie turned pale. "Oh no," she said, her voice trembling.

"He's going to get well."

Abrams sniffed. "If he doesn't drink and leads a healthy life he may.

But leopards don't change their spots. He's worrying over something.

What is it?"

"His father's death," said Maggie. "He loved his father more than any

one and he's got it into his head that he gave him a shock and killed

him."

"Well, you get it out of his head," said Abrams. "He won't be better

until you do."

Next morning they were at Paddington, Martin very feeble but

indifferent to everything. They had a third-class compartment to

themselves until they got to Exeter, and all that while Martin never

spoke a word. During this time Maggie did a lot of quiet thinking. She

was worried, of course, about many things but especially finances. She

knew very little about money. She gathered from Martin that he had not

only spent ail that his and had left him, but had gone considerably

beyond it, that he was badly in debt and saw no way of paying. This did

not seem to worry him but it worried Maggie. Debts seemed to her awful

things, and she could not imagine how any one lived under the burden of

them. Supposing Martin were ill for a long time, how would they two

live? Her little stock of money would not last very long. She must get

work, but she knew more about the world after her years at Skeaton. She

knew how ignorant she was, how uneducated and how unsophisticated. She

did not doubt her ability to fight her way, but there might be weary

months first, and meanwhile what of Martin?

She looked at him, asleep now in a corner of the carriage, his soft hat

pulled down over his eyes, his head sunk, his hands heavy and idle on

his lap. A fear caught at her heart as she watched him; he looked,

indeed, terribly ill, exhausted with struggle, and now, with all the

bitterness and despair drowned in sleep, very gentle and helpless. She

bent over and folded the rug more closely round his knees. Had he woken

then and seen her gaze! Her hand'' routed for an instant on his, then

she withdrew back into her own corner.

That coming back into Glebeshire could not but be wonderful to her. She

had been away for so long and it was her home.

The tranquillity and peace of the spring evening clothed her like a

garment, the brown valleys, the soft green of the fields, the mild blue

of the sky touched her until she could with difficulty keep back her

tears.

"Oh, make it right!" she whispered; "make it right! Give him to me

again--I do love him so!"

It was dusk when they arrived at Clinton St. Mary's.

The little station stood open to all the winds of heaven blowing in

from the wide expanses of St. Mary's Moor. Maggie remembered, as though

it were yesterday, her arrival at that station with Aunt Anne. Yes, she

had grown since then.

A trap was waiting for them. Martin was still very silent, but he liked

the air with the tang of the sea in it, and he asked sometimes about

the names of places. As they drew nearer and nearer to all the

old--remembered scenes, Maggie's heart beat faster and faster--this

lane, that field, that cottage. And then, at last, there was the

Vicarage perched on the top of the hill, with its chimneys like cats'

ears!

She thought of Uncle Mathew. The sight of the tranquil evening the

happiness and comfort of the fields enabled her to think of him, for

the first time, quietly. She could face deliberately his death. It was

as though he had been waiting for her here and had come forward to

reassure her.

They drove through the quiet little village, out on to the high road,

then down a side lane, the hedges brushing against the sides of the

jingle, then through the gates, into the yard, with Borhedden Farm,

bright with its lighted windows, waiting for them.

Mrs. Bolitho was standing in the porch and greeted them warmly.

"You'll be just starved," she said. "It's wisht work driving in an open

jingle all the way from Clinton. Supper's just about ready."

They were shown up to the big roomy bedroom, smelling of candles and

clover and lavender. Martin stood there looking about, then--

"Oh, Martin, isn't it nice!" Maggie cried. "I do hope you'll be happy

here!"

The emotion of returning home, of seeing the old places, sniffing the

old scents, reviving the old memories was too much for her. She flung

her arms round his neck and kissed him on the lips. For a moment, for a

wonderful moment it seemed that he was going to respond. She felt him

move towards her. His hands tightened about hers. Then, but very

gently, he drew away from her and walked to the window.

CHAPTER III

THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE

Maggie, before she left London, had written both to Paul and Mr. Magnus

giving them her new address. She had intended to see Magnus, but

Martin's illness had absorbed her so deeply that she could not proceed

outside it. She told him quite frankly that she was going down to

Glebeshire with Martin and that she would remain with him there until

he was well. She did not try to defend herself; she did not argue the

case at all; she simply stated the facts.

Mr. Magnus wrote to her at once. He was deeply concerned, he did not

chide her for what she had done, but he begged her to realise her

position. She felt through every line of his letter that he disapproved

of and distrusted Martin. His love for Maggie (and she felt that he had

indeed love for her) made him look on Martin as the instigator in this

affair. He saw Maggie, ignorant of the world, led away by a seducer

from her married life, persuaded to embark upon what his own experience

had taught him to be a dangerous, lonely, and often disastrous voyage.

He had never heard of any good of Martin; he had been always in his

view, idle, dissolute, and selfish. What could he think but that Martin

had, most wickedly, persuaded her to abandon her safety?

She answered his letter, telling him in the greatest detail the truth.

She told him that Martin had done all he could to refuse, that, had he

not been so ill, he would have left her, that he had threatened her,

again and again, with what he would do if she did not the him.

She showed him that it had been her own determination and absolute

resolve that had created the situation--and she told him that she was

happy for the first time in her life.

But his letter did force her to realise the difficulties of her

position. In writing to Mrs. Bolitho she had spoken of herself as

Martin's wife, and now when she was called "Mrs. Warlock" she tacitly

accepted that, hating the deceit, but wishing for anything that might

keep the situation tranquil and undisturbed. She asked Mrs. Bolitho to

let her have a small room near the big one, telling her that Martin was

so ill that he must be undisturbed at night. Then Mr. Magnus's letter

arrived addressed to "Miss Cardinal," and she thought that Mrs. Bolitho

looked at her oddly when she gave it to her. Martin's illness, too,

seemed to disturb the household. He cried out in his dreams, his shouts

waking the whole establishment. Bolitho, once, thinking that murder was

being committed, went to his room, found him sitting up in bed,

sweating with terror. He caught hold of Bolitho, flung his arms around

him, would not let him go, urging him "not to help them, to protect

him. They would catch him ... they would catch him. They would catch

him."

The stout and phlegmatic farmer was himself frightened, sitting there

on the bed, in his night-shirt, and "seeing ghosts" in the flickering

light of the candle. Martin's conduct during the day was not

reassuring. He had lost all his ferocity and bitterness; he was very

quiet, speaking to no one, lying on a sofa that over-looked the moor,

watching.

Mrs. Bolitho's really soft heart was touched by his pallor and

weakness, but she could not deny that there was something queer here.

Maggie almost wished that his old mood of truculence would return. She

was terrified, too, of these night scenes, because they were so bad for

his heart. The local doctor, a clever young fellow called Stephens,

told her that he was recovering from the pneumonia, but that his heart

was "dickey."

"Mustn't let anything excite him, Mrs. Warlock," he said.

There came then gradually over the old house and the village the belief

that Martin was "fey." Mrs. Bolitho was in most ways a sensible,

level-headed, practical woman, but like many of the inhabitants of

Glebeshire, she was deeply superstitious. It was not so very many years

since old Jane Curtis had been ducked in the St. Dreot's pond for a

witch, and even now, did a cow fall sick or the lambs die, the

involuntary thought in the Glebeshire "pagan mind" was to look for the

"evil eye." But Mrs. Bolitho herself had had a very recent example in

her own family of "possession." There had been her old grandfather,

living in the farm with them, as hale and hearty a human of sixty-five

years as you'd be likely to find in a day's march through Glebeshire.

"He lost touch with them," as Mrs. Bolitho put it. In a night his

colour failed him, his cheerful conversation left him, he could "do

nought but sit and stare out o' window." A month later he died.

Martin had not been long at Borhedden before she came to her

conclusions about him, told them to her James, and found that his slow

but sure brains had come to the same decision. In the sense of the

tragedy overhanging the poor young man she forgot to consider the

possible impropriety of his relations with Maggie. He was removed at

once from human laws and human judgment. He became "a creature of God"

and was surrounded with something of the care and reverence with which

the principal "softie" in the village was regarded.

It was not that Martin's behaviour was in any way odd. After a few days

in the utter peace and quiet of the moor and farm he screamed no more

at night. He was gentle and polite to every one, ate his meals, took

little walks out on to the moor and into the village, but liked best to

sit in front of the parlour window and look out on to the heath and

grass, watching the shadows and the sunlight and the driving sheets of

rain.

Mrs. Bolitho had a tender heart and Maggie shared in her superstitious

pity. Looking back to her youth she had always thought Maggie a "wisht

little thing." "Poor worm," what chance had she ever had with that

great scandalous chap of a father? She saw her still in her shabby

clothes trying to keep that dilapidated house together. No, what chance

had she ever had? She was still a "wisht little thing."

Nor did it need very shrewd eyes to see how desperately devoted Maggie

was to Martin. The sight of that touched the hearts of every human

being in the farm. Not that Maggie was foolish; she did not hang about

Martin all the time, she never, so far as Mrs. Bolitho could see,

kissed him or fondled him, or was with him when he did not want her.

She was not sentimental to him, not sighing nor groaning, nor pestering

him to answer romantic questions. On the contrary, she was always

cheerful, practical, and full of common sense, although she was

sometimes forgetful, and was not so neat and tidy as Mrs. Bolitho would

have wished. She always spoke as though Martin's recovery were quite

certain, and Dr. Stephens told Mrs. Bolitho that he did not dare to

speak the truth to her. "The chances against his recovery," Stephens

said, "are about one in a hundred. He's been racketing about too long.

Too much drink. But he's got something on his mind. That's really

what's the matter with him."

Mrs. Bolitho was as naturally inquisitive as are most of her sex, and

this knowledge that Martin was a doomed creature with a guilty

conscience vastly excited her curiosity. What had the man done? What

had been his relations with Maggie? Above all, did he really care for

Maggie, or no? That was finally the question that was most eagerly

discussed in the depths of the Bolitho bedchamber. James Bolitho

maintained that he didn't care "that" for her; you could see plain

enough, he asserted, when a man cared for a maid--there were signs,

sure and certain, just as there were with cows and horses.

"You may know about cows and horses," said Mrs. Bolitho; "you're wrong

about humans." The way that she put it was that Martin cared for Maggie

but "couldn't get it out." "He doesn't want her to know it," she said.

"Why shouldn't he?" asked James.

"Now you're asking," said Mrs. Bolitho.

"Nice kind of courtin' that be," said James; "good thing you was a bit

different, missus. Lovin' a lass and not speaking--shouldn't like!"

Mrs. Bolitho's heart grew very tender towards Maggie. Married or not,

the child was in a "fiery passion of love." Nor was it a selfish

passion, neither--wanted very little for herself, but only for him to

get well. There was true romance here. Maggie, however, gave away no

secrets. She had many talks with Mr. Bolitho: about the village, about

the new parson, about Mrs. Bolitho's son, Jacob, now in London

engineering, and the apple of her eye,--about many things but never

about herself, the past history nor her feeling for Martin.

The girl never "let on" that she was suffering, and yet "suffering she

must be." You could see that she was just holding herself "tight" like

a wire. The strange intensity of her determination was beautiful but

also dangerous. "If anything was to happen--" said Mrs. Bolitho. She

saw Martin, too, many times, looking at Maggie in the strangest way, as

though he were travelling towards some decision. He certainly was a

good young man in his behaviour, doing now exactly what he was told,

never angry, never complaining, and that, Mrs. Bolitho thought, was

strange, because you could see in his eye that he had a will and a

temper of his own, did he like to exercise them. After all, he himself

was the merest boy, scarcely older than Jacob. She could, herself, see

that he must have been a fine enough lad when he had his health--the

breadth of his shoulders, the thick sturdiness of his shape, the

strength of his thighs and arms. Her husband had seen the boy stripped,

and had told her that he must have been a "lovely man." Drink and evil

women--ay, they'd brought him down as they'd brought many another--and

she thought of her Jacob in London with a catch at her heart. She

stopped in her cooking and prayed there and then, upon her kitchen

floor, that he might be kept safe from all harm.

Nearly every one in the village, of course, remembered Maggie, and they

could not see that she was "any changed." "Cut 'er 'air short--London

fashion" they supposed. They had liked her as a child and they liked

her now. She was more cheerful and friendly, they thought, then she

used to be.

Nevertheless all the village awaited, with deep interest, for what they

felt would be a very moving climax. The young man was "fey." God had

set His mark upon him, and nothing that any human being could do would

save him. In old days they would have tried to come near him and touch

him to snatch some virtue from the contact. They did not do that, but

they felt when they had spoken to him that they had received some merit

or advantage. The new parson came to call upon Martin and Maggie, but

he got very little from his visit.

"Poor fellow," he said to his wife on his return. "His days are

numbered, I fear."

To every one it was as though Martin and Maggie were enclosed in some

world of their own. No one could come near them, no one could tell of

what they were really thinking, of their hopes or fears, past or future.

"Only," as Mrs. Bolitho said to her husband, "one thing's certain, she

do love 'im with all her heart and soul--poor lamb."

When Martin and Maggie had been at the farm about a fort-night, there

came to St. Dreot's a travelling circus. This was a very small affair,

but it came every year, and provided considerable excitement for the

village population. There were also gipsies who came on the moor, and

telling the fortunes of any who had a spare sixpence with which to

cross their palms. The foreign and exotic colour that the circus and

the gipsies brought into the village was exactly suited to the St.

Dreot blood. Many centuries ago strange galleys had forced their way

into bays and creeks of the southern coast, and soon dark strangers had

penetrated across the moors and fields and had mingled with the natives

of the plain. Scarcely an inhabitant of St. Dreot but had some dark

colour in his blood, a gift from those Phoenician adventurers; scarcely

an inhabitant but was conscious from time to time of other strains,

more tumultuous passions, than the Saxon race could show.

This coming of the circus had in it, whether they knew it or no,

something of the welcoming of their own people back to them again. They

liked to see the elephant and the camel tread solemnly the uneven

stones of the village street, they liked to hear the roar of the wild

beasts at night when they were safe and warm in their own comfortable

beds, they liked to have solemn consultations with the gipsy girls as

to their mysterious destinies. The animals, indeed, were not many nor,

poor things, were they, after many years' chains and discipline, very

fierce--nevertheless they roared because they knew it was their duty so

to do, and when the lion's turn came a notice was hung up outside his

cage saying: "This is the Lion that last year, at Clinton, bit Miss

Harper." There were also performing dogs, a bear, and two seals.

The circus was quite close to the farm.

"I do hope," said Mrs. Bolitho to Martin, "that the roaring of the

animals won't disturb you."

It did not disturb him. He seemed to like it, and went out and stood

there watching all the labours of the gipsies and the tent men, and

even went into "The Green Boar" and drank a glass of beer with Mr.

Marquis, the proprietor of the circus.

On the third day after their arrival there was a proper Glebeshire

mist. It was a day, also, of freezing, biting cold, such a day as

sometimes comes in of a Glebeshire May--cold that seems, in its damp

penetration, more piercing than any frost.

The mist came rolling up over the moor in wreaths and spirals of

shadowy grey, sometimes shot with a queer dull light as though the sun

was fighting behind it to beat a way through, sometimes so dense and

thick that standing at the door of the farm you could not see your hand

in front of your face. It was cold with the chill of the sea foam,

mysterious in its ever-changing intricacies of shape and form, lifting

for a sudden instant and showing green grass and the pale spring

flowers in the border by the windows, then charging down again with

fold on fold of vapour thicker and thicker, swaying and throbbing with

a purpose and meaning of its own. Early in the afternoon Mrs. Bolitho

took a peep at her lodgers. She did not intend to spy--she was an

honest woman--but she shared most vividly the curiosity of all the

village about "these two queer ignorant children," as she called them.

Standing in the bow-window of her own little parlour she could see the

bow-window and part of the room on the opposite side of the house-door.

Maggie and Martin stood there looking out into the mist. The woman

could see Maggie's face, dim though the light was, and a certain

haunting desire in it tugged at Mrs. Bolitho's tender heart. "Poor

worm," she thought to herself, "she's longing for him to say something

to her and he won't." They were talking. Then there was a pause and

Martin turned away. Maggie's eyes passionately besought him. What did

she want him to do--to say? Mrs. Bolitho could see that the girl's

hands were clenched, as though she had reached, at last, the very

limits of her endurance. He did not see. His back was half turned to

her. He did not speak, but stood there drumming with his hands on the

glass.

"Oh, I could shake him," thought Mrs. Bolitho's impatience. For a time

Maggie waited, never stirring, her eyes fixed, her body taut.

Then she seemed suddenly to break, as though the moment of endurance

was past. She turned sharply round, looking directly out of her window

into Mrs. Bolitho's room--but she didn't see Mrs. Bolitho.

That good woman saw her smile, a strange little smile of defiance,

pathos, loneliness, cheeriness defeated. She vanished from her window

although he stood there. A moment later, in a coat and hat, she came

out of the front door, stood for a moment on the outskirts of the mist

looking about her, then vanished on to the moor.

"She oughtn't to be out in this," thought the farmer's wife. "It's

dangerous."

She waited a little, then came and knocked on the door of the other

sitting-room. She met Martin in the doorway.

"Oh, Mrs. Bolitho," he said, "I thought I'd go to the circus for half

an hour."

"Very well, sir," she said.

He too disappeared. She sat in her kitchen all the afternoon busily

mending the undergarments of her beloved James. But her thought were

not with her husband. She could not get the picture of those two young

things standing at the window facing the mist-drunk moor out of her

head. The sense that had come to the farm with Martin's entry into it

of something eerie and foreboding increased now with every tick of the

heavy kitchen clock. She seemed to listen now for sounds and portents.

The death-tick on the wall--was that foolish? Some men said so, but she

knew better. Had she not heard it on the very night of her

grandfather's death? She sat there and recounted to herself every

ghost-story that, in the course of a long life, had come her way. The

headless horseman, the coach with the dead travellers, the three

pirates and their swaying gibbets, the ghost of St. Dreot's churchyard,

the Wailing Woman of Clinton, and many, many others, all passed before

her, making pale her cheek and sending her heart in violent beats up

and down the scale.

The kitchen grew darker and darker. She let the underclothes lie upon

her lap. Soon she must light the lamp, but meanwhile, before the oven

she let her fancies overwhelm her, luxuriating in her terror.

Suddenly the kitchen-door was flung open. She started up with a cry.

Martin stood there and in a voice, so new to her that she seemed never

to have heard it before, he shouted, "Where's Maggie?"

She stood up in great agitation. He came towards her and she saw that

his face was violent with agitation, with a kind of rage.

"Where's Maggie?" he repeated.

She saw that he was shaking all over and it was as though he did not

know who she was.

"Maggie?" she repeated.

"My wife! My wife!" he cried, and he shouted it again as though he were

proclaiming some fact to the whole world.

"She went out," said Mrs. Bolitho, "about three hours back I should

think."

"Went out!" he stormed at her. "And in this?"

Then, before she could say another word, he was gone. It was in very

truth like an apparition.

She sat there for some time staring in front of her, still shaken by

the violence of his interruption. She went then to the kitchen-door and

listened--not a sound in the house. She went farther, out through the

passage to the hall-door. She opened it and looked out. A sea of

driving mist, billowing and driving as though by some internal breeze,

met her.

"Poor things," she said to herself. "They shouldn't be out in this."

She shut the door and went back into the house. She called, "Jim! Jim!

Where are you?" At last he came, stumping up from some mysterious

labour in the lower part of the house.

"What is't?" he said, startled by her white face and troubled eyes.

"The two of them," she said, "have gone out on to the moor in this

mist. It isn't safe."

"Whatever for?" he asked.

"How should I know? She went out first and now he's after her. 'Tisn't

safe, Jim. You'd best follow them."

He didn't argue with her, being an obedient husband disciplined by many

years of matrimony.

"Well, I'll go," he said slowly. "Best take William, though."

He went off in search of his man.

But Bolitho need not trouble. Half an hour later Maggie returned, stood

in the sitting-room looking about her, took off her jacket and hat,

then, pursuing her own thoughts, slowly put them on. She was then about

to leave the room when the door burst open and Martin tumbled in. He

stood at the doorway staring at her, his mouth open. "Why!" he

stammered. "I thought ... I thought ... you were out--" She looked at

him crossly.

"You shouldn't have gone out--an afternoon like this. If I'd been

here--"

"Well, you weren't. You shouldn't have gone out either for the matter

of that. And I was at the circus--a damned poor one too. Your things

are soaking," he added, suddenly looking up at her. "You talk about me.

You'd better go and change."

"I'm going out again," she said.

"Out again?"

"Yes ... There's a train at Clinton at seven. I'm catching that."

"A train?" He stared at her, completely bewildered.

"Yes. That's what I went out to get my head clear about. Martin, you've

beaten me. After all these years you have. After all my fine speeches,

too."

He began to drum on the window. He tried to speak casually.

"I haven't beaten you, Maggie."

"Yes, you have. I said you wouldn't be able to send me away. Well,

you've managed to and in the only way you could--by your silence. You

haven't opened your mouth for a fortnight. You're better now, too, and

Mrs. Bolitho will look after you. I was determined to hang on to you,

but I find I can't. I'm going back to London to get some work."

His hand dropped from the window. Then, with his head turned from her

and his voice so low that she could scarcely hear the--

"No, Maggie, don't go."

She smiled across at him. "There's no need to be polite, Martin. We're

both of us beyond that by this time. I'll come back if you really want

me. You know that I always will, but at last, after all these years,

I've found a scrap of self-respect. Here am I always bundling

about--first the aunts, then you, then Paul, then you again, and nobody

wanting me. I don't suppose," she said laughing, "that there can be

anybody less wanted in the world. So I'm just going to look after

myself now. It's quite time I did."

"But I want you," he said, his voice still very low. She looked up, her

eyes lit as though with some sudden recognition.

"If you really mean that," she said, "say it again. If you don't mean

it, don't humbug me. I won't be humbugged any more."

"I haven't humbugged you--ever," he answered. "You're the only person

I've always been absolutely straight with. I've always, from the very

beginning, told you to have nothing to do with me. It's more true than

ever now. I've been trying ever since you came back to me in London to

get you to leave me. But it's too late. I can't fight it any more ... I

loved you all the time I was abroad. I oughtn't to have written to you,

but I did. I came back to London with the one hope of seeing you, but

determined not to."

"I loved you more than ever when you came into my lodging there, but I

was sick and hadn't any money, besides all my other failings ... It's

the only decent thing I've ever really tried to do, to keep you away

from me, and now I've failed in that. When I came in and found you were

gone this afternoon I thought I'd go crazy."

"I'm not going to struggle any more. If you go away I'll follow you

wherever you go. I may as well try to give up keeping you out of it.

It's like keeping myself out of it."

Slowly she took her hat and coat off again.

"Well, then," she said, "I'd better stay, I suppose."

He suddenly sat down, his face white. She came across to him.

She put her hand on his forehead.

"You'd better go to bed, Martin, dear. I'll bring your tea in."

He caught her hand. She knelt down, put her arms round him, and so they

stayed, cheek to cheek, for a long time.

When he had gone to his room she sat in the arm-chair by the fire, her

hands idly folded on her lap. She let happiness pour in upon her as

water floods in upon a dried and sultry river-bed. She was passive, her

tranquillity was rich and full, too full for any outward expression.

She was so happy that her heart was weighted down and seemed scarcely

to beat. It was not, perhaps, the exultant happiness that she had

expected this moment to bring her.

When, in after days, she looked back to that quiet half-hour by the

fire she saw that it was then that she had passed from girlhood into

womanhood. The first chapter of her life was, at that moment's laying

of her hand on Martin's forehead, closed. The love for him that filled

her so utterly was in great part maternal. It was to be her destiny to

know the deep tranquil emotions of life rather than the passionate and

transient. She was perhaps the more blessed in that.

Even now, at the very instant of her triumph, she deceived herself in

nothing. There were many difficulties ahead for her. She had still to

deal with Paul: Martin was not a perfect character, nor would he

suddenly become one. Above all that strange sense of being a captive in

a world that did not understand her, some one curious and odd and

alien--that would not desert her. That also was true of Martin. It was

true--strangely true--of so many of the people she had known--of the

aunts, Uncle Mathew, Mr. Magnus, of Paul and of Grace, of Mr. Toms, and

even perhaps of Thurston and Amy Warlock--all captives in a strange

country, trying to find the escape, each in his or her own fashion,

back to the land of their birth.

But the land was there. Just as the lion, whose roar very faintly she

could hear through the thick walls, remembered in his cage the jungles

and mountains of his happiness, so was she aware of hers. The land was

there, the fight to get hack to it was real.

She smiled to herself, looking back on the years. Many people would

have said that she had had no very happy time since that sudden moment

of her father's death, but it did not seem to her, in retrospect,

unhappy. There had been unhappy times, tragic times, but life was

always bringing forward some magnificent moment, some sudden flash of

splendour that made up for all the rest. How could you be bitter about

people when you were all in the same box, all as ignorant, as blind, as

eager to do well, as fallible, as brave, as mistaken?

The thoughts slipped dimly through her mind. She was too happy to trace

them truly. She had never been one for conscious philosophy.

Nevertheless she did not doubt but that life was worth while, that

there was something immortal in her, and that the battle was good to

fight--but what it really came to was that she loved Martin, and that

at last some one needed her, that she need never be lonely any more.

Mrs. Bolitho stepped in with the tea.

"I'll take it in to him," Maggie said, standing up and stretching out

her arms for the tray.

The woman looked at her and gave a little "Ah!" of satisfaction, as

though, at length, she saw in Maggie's eyes that for--which she had

been searching.

"Why, I do believe," she said, "that walk's done 'ee good."

"I do believe," Maggie said, laughing, "it has."

Carrying the tray carefully she went through into Martin's room.