To get up of a winter's morning to see his cows milked was not a usual
diversion with Chalfont, but to please Maggy he turned out at seven and
took her to the home farm to witness that process. She was absorbed by
it. She had never before been nearer to a cow than the average hedge
permits of; and to see them, as she did now, in the family circle, so to
speak, was a delightful novelty to her. Her love of animals was very
real. She went into raptures over Chalfont's velvety-nosed prize
Jerseys.
In her hurry to get up she had neglected to use any of the creams and
unguents which she deemed necessary for the adornment of her face. It
had been too dark for Chalfont to notice this omission at first, but on
their way back he became aware of it, and also of the flawlessness of
her complexion. Without stopping to think, he said:
"What have you done to yourself?"
"You mean, what have I not done?" she laughed. "I've forgotten my face.
Left it out."
He was on the point of apologizing for his blunder, but said instead: "I
like you much better as you are."
"That's what Lexie's always saying. But it's habit. When a girl
makes-up year in and year out she feels undressed without it. Savages
have that feeling, I suppose," she added comically. "I haven't wished
you a happy Christmas yet. I do hope you will be very happy--later on."
"Thank you. And I hope you will be happy always."
"I'm happy now, at any rate. I believe this is going to be the most
heavenly day of my life. I feel it in my bones."
A few moments later she burst into Alexandra's bedroom.
"Oh, Lexie dear, happy Christmas! I've been saying it to the cows and
the horses and the lodge-keeper's children ever since seven. Give me a
hug. I haven't got your Christmas present with me, because it's an
eider-down quilt. You'll find it on your bed when you get back. Don't
let's think of getting back though. It's so perfect here. What time
will church be? I suppose I mustn't take Onions to church? He chased
the fowls all over the farmyard this morning. Lord Chalfont says I can
leave him here if I like. It would be nice for Onions, but not for the
fowls. There's a bell! It must be for breakfast. Come along; I'm
famished."
Church followed on the heels of breakfast. Maggy had never been to a
Christmas service before. She was tremendously impressed by it. The
maternal instinct, always very strong in her, tugged at her heart
strings. Once, as she knelt, Alexandra noticed that she was quietly
crying. So did Chalfont.
Mrs. Pardiston and Alexandra stopped for Communion. Leaving the motor
for them, the other two walked back. Maggy was very quiet. With the
latent understanding that made Chalfont attune himself to her mood he
too refrained from speech. Presently she burst out:
"Why does the world only appreciate people after they're dead? What is
the good of birthdays when you're not alive? That poor little baby! If
He came down from Heaven again they'd let Him be born in a manger just
the same. Only children ought to go to church on Christmas day. They're
good enough. We're not. Do you know, I wondered I wasn't struck dumb
for being anywhere near to God. God was in church this morning. I felt
Him. I'm not religious, but I believe in God now. Oh, I wish I was
good, like Lexie. I wish I didn't know what love is. I wish I'd never
been wicked!"
She was wrought-up. She had forgotten the necessity for reticence. Her
confession had to come. The restraint of sex was forgotten. If she
thought of Chalfont at all at that moment, it was as a brother rather
than a man.
"Hush," he said. "You're not wicked."
"I am, I am," she reiterated. "_I_ ought to have had a baby.... People
must have thought the usual things of Mary because of hers.... But she
had Him."
"You poor little woman," he said unsteadily.
That he should express compassion where most men would have shown
despisement filled her with almost dog-like gratitude.
"I _do_ like you," she said with sudden vehemence. "If I had been dear
Mrs. Lambert I would have loved you."
"Thank you," he said very seriously.
Like a passing cloud, the strange emotional mood soon left her. Her
volatile spirits rose again. By the time she had taken Onions for a
scamper in the grounds she was quite her old self. Chalfont, watching
her flitting here and there, thought only of her rapturous enjoyment of
innocent pleasures, and succeeded for a little while in forgetting that
such a person as Woolf with his sullying associations was in existence.
The day passed with dream-like swiftness for the two girls. They
snatched at its fleeting pleasures according to their temperaments. To
Alexandra it was a delightful break in a life which she was beginning to
loathe, one for which she could not be too grateful. Its very
evanescence caused her to enjoy it with temperate zest. Maggy's
livelier feelings made her grasp at all it brought forth with both
hands. To her it was a glimpse into fairyland, or at least a world in
which she classed herself a complete outsider.
Chalfont had not forgotten her desire for a Christmas tree and the
presence of children to enjoy it. All the youngsters on the estate had
been bidden to the treat. There were small boys, rosy of cheek, in
their best; small girls, eager-eyed, in the whitest of pinafores.
Maggy, at Mrs. Pardiston's request, presided over the feast arranged for
them. She it was who afterwards distributed the gifts from the loaded
Christmas tree. Within five minutes the children were under her spell;
in ten she seemed to know all their names and a great deal about each of
them. When at last the tree was stripped of all but its candles she
started games and joined in them. She romped. She was a child among
children.
When they had all gone, Chalfont suggested that before dressing for
dinner the two girls should inspect the picture-gallery, which they had
not yet seen, and as soon as it was lighted up he led the way there.
Maggy's interest at once centered in the many portraits that lined the
walls. The landscapes and genre pictures that interspersed them she
passed by. Individualities only concerned her, and to these, in the
canvasses of dead and gone Chalfonts she gave a rapt attention, stopping
at each that appealed to her and asking for its history. One portrait
in particular, that of a very beautiful girl, she looked at for a long
time.
"Who was she?" she inquired.
"My grandmother," replied Chalfont. "It was painted just after her
marriage. She was only nineteen when she died, a year later."
"Oh, what a pity! Why?"
Chalfont passed to the next portrait.
"Her son," he said. "My father."
Maggy understood. She glanced back sadly at the youthful face of the
mother.
Chalfonts in armor, in uniform, in silk and velvet and in lace,
confronted her everywhere. She flitted from one to the other, admiring,
impressed.
"How proud of them all you must be," she said finally. "Fancy
having--ancestors!"
As she spoke she paused before the portrait of a woman, perceiving in it
something different from the rest. The face was handsome, yet lacked a
high-bred look.
"Another ancestress," said Chalfont. "An actress, a contemporary of
Mrs. Siddons."
"How did she come here?" wondered Maggy, almost jealous for the honor of
his house.
"She married the fourth Viscount."
"Married him!" She stared at the painted lady. "It was a mistake," she
said, as though to herself, and in so odd a tone that the others
laughed.
When Chalfont set the two girls down at the stage-door on Boxing night
Maggy pressed a note into his hand. He read it at his club, where he
went to dine before returning to the theater.
"'Thank you very much' sounds so beastly ordinary in words, so I must
write it, because I want you to know that I am ever so grateful for the
way you have treated me. It's proper for a darling saint like Lexie to
be asked to stay at Purton Towers. But me--that's another thing. I
shall get into hot water with Mr. Woolf for coming, and I don't suppose
he'll allow it again if you ask me, or even let me see you. But don't
ever think that I can forget your kindness. Although you know what I am
you have had me down to your beautiful home, with your sweet honorable
aunt just as if I wasn't a common girl, which I am. The only thing I
can say is that perhaps if I had been properly brought up and had a name
to be proud of I shouldn't have dragged it in the mud like I have my own
silly name which can't belong to me because it's the classy kind
actresses make up. Don't laugh. I'm not often serious, but I do say
God bless you and I mean it.
"MAGGY."
The overture was coming to an end when Chalfont took his seat in the
stalls. As the curtain swished up his eyes went to Maggy, scantily clad
in diaphanous chiffon. He was thinking of the golden heart of the girl,
not at all of her compulsorily over-exposed beauty.
But Maggy was blushing beneath her grease paint. A sudden access of
modesty had come over her. It was as baffling to herself as was the
remark she flung to the girl dancing beside her--one, two, three and a
kick.
"What wouldn't I give for a blanket!"