by Hugh Walpole
And then in that very first day she discovered that life was not quite so simple. In the first place, she wanted Martin desperately and he did not come; and although she had at once a thousand sensible reasons for the impossibility of his coming, nevertheless strange new troubles and suspicions that she had never known before rose in her heart. She had only kissed him once; he had only held her in his arms for a few moments ...She waited, looking from behind the drawing-room curtains out into the street. How could he let the whole day go by? He was prevented, perhaps, by that horrible sister of his. When the dusk came and the muffin-man went ringing his bell down the street she felt exhausted as though she had been running for miles ...
Then with sudden guilty realisation of the absorption that had held her all day she wondered how much her aunt had noticed.
During the afternoon when she had been watching the streets from behind the curtain Aunt Elizabeth had sat sewing, Thomas the cat lumped before the fire, the whole room bathed in afternoon silence. Maggie had watched as though hypnotized by the street itself, marking the long squares of light, the pools of shadow, the lamp-posts, the public-house at the corner, the little grocer’s shop with cases of oranges piled outside the door, the windows on the second floor of the dressmaker’s, through which you could see a dummy-figure and a young woman with a pale face and shiny black hair, who came and glanced out once and again, as though to reassure herself that the gay world was still there.
The people, the horses and carts, the cabs went on their way. Often it seemed that this figure must be Martin’s — now this — now this ... And on every occasion Maggie’s heart rose in her breast, hammered at her eyes, then sank again. Over and over she told to herself every incident of yesterday’s meeting. Always it ended in that same wonderful climax when she was caught to his breast and felt his hand at her neck and then his mouth upon hers. She could still feel against her skin the rough warm stuff of his coat and the soft roughness of his cheek and the stiff roughness of his hair. She could still feel how his mouth had just touched hers and then suddenly gripped it as though it would never let it go; then she had been absorbed by him, into his very heart, so that still now she felt as though with his strong arms and his hard firm body he was around her and about her.
Oh, she loved him! she loved him! but why did he not come? Had he been able only to pass down the street and smile up to her window as he went that would have been something. It would at least have reassured her that yesterday was not a dream, an invention, and that he was still there and thought of her and cared for her ...
She pulled herself together. At the sound of the muffin-man’s bell she came back into her proper world. She would be patient; as she had once resolved outside Borhedden Farm, so now she swore that she would owe nothing to any man.
If she should love Martin Warlock it would not be for anything that she expected to get from him, but only for the love that she had it in her to give. If good came of it, well, if not, she was still her own master.
But more than ever now was it impossible to be open with her aunts. How strange it was that from the very beginning there had been concealments between Aunt Anne and herself. Perhaps if they had been open to one another at the first all would have been well. Now it was too late.
Tea came in, and, with tea, Aunt Anne. It was the first time that day that Maggie had seen her, and now, conscious of the news that Martin had given her, she felt a movement of sympathy, of pity and affection. Aunt Anne had been in her room all day, and she seemed as she walked slowly to the fire to be of a finer pallor, a more slender body than ever. Maggie felt as though she could see the firelight through her body, and with that came also the conviction that Aunt Anne knew everything, knew about Martin and the posted letter and the thoughts of escape. Maggie herself was tired with the trial of her waiting day, she was exhausted and was beating, with all her resolve, against a disappointment that hammered with a thundering noise, somewhere far away in the recesses of her soul. So they all drew around the fire and had their tea.
Aunt Anne, leaning back in her chair, her beautiful hands stretched out on the arms, a fine white shawl spread on her knees, asked Maggie about last night.
“I hope you enjoyed yourself, dear.” “Very much, Aunt Anne. Uncle Mathew was very kind.”
“What did you do?”
Maggie flushed. It was deceit and lies now all the time, and oh! how she hated lies! But she went on:
“Do you know, Aunt Anne, I think Uncle Mathew is so changed. He’s younger and everything. He talked quite differently last night, about his business and all that he’s doing. He’s got his money in malt now, he says.”
“Whose money?” asked Aunt Anne.
“His own, he says. I never knew he had any. But he says yes, it’s in malt. It’s not a nice hotel, though, where he lives.”
“Not nice, dear?”
“No, I didn’t like it. But it’s only for men really of course.”
“I think he’d better take you somewhere else next time. I’ll speak to him. By the way, Maggie dear, Martha tells me you went out yesterday afternoon all alone — into the Strand. I think it would be better if you were to tell us.”
Maggie’s cheeks were hot. She set back her shoulders.
“How does Martha know?” she asked quickly. “I only went for a moment — only for a little walk. But I’m grown up, Aunt Anne. Surely I can go out by myself if ...” she stopped, looking away from them into the fire.
“It isn’t that, dear,” Aunt Anne said very gently. “It’s only that you’ve been so little a time in London that you can’t know your way about yet. And London’s a strange place. It might be unpleasant for you alone. I’d rather that you told us first.”
Then Maggie delivered her challenge.
“But, aunt, I won’t be always here. I’m going off to earn my living soon, aren’t I?”
Aunt Elizabeth drew her breath in sharply. Aunt Anne said quietly:
“You are free, dear, quite free. But whilst I am not quite myself — I don’t want to be selfish, dear — but you are a great comfort to us, and when I am stronger certainly you shall go ... even now if you wish, of course ... but my illness.”
Even as she spoke — and it was the first time that she had ever mentioned her illness — she caught at her breast and pressed her hand there as though she were in great pain. Maggie sprang to her side. She caught the girl’s hand with hers and held her. Maggie could feel her swift agonized breathing. Then with a little sigh the moment had passed. Maggie still knelt there looking up into her aunt’s face.
Martha’s voice was heard at the door.
“Mr. Martin Warlock, Miss. Could you see him? ...”
“Yes, Martha,” said Aunt Anne, her voice calm and controlled. “Ask him to come up.”
She had abandoned so completely any idea that he might still come that she could not now feel that it was he. She withdrew from her aunt’s side and stood in the shadow against the wall.
Although her heart beat wildly her whole mind was bent upon composure, upon showing nothing to her aunts, and on behaving to him as though she scarcely knew him, but so soon as he entered the room some voice cried in her: “He is mine! He is mine!” She did not stir from her wall, but her eyes fastened upon him and then did not move. He was wearing the same clothes as yesterday; his tie was different, it had been black and now it was dark blue. He looked quiet and self-possessed and at his ease. His rough stiff hair was carelessly brushed as always; good-humour shone from his eyes, he smiled, his walk had the sturdy broad strength of a man who is absolutely sure of himself but is not conceited. He seemed to have no trouble in the world.
He greeted the aunts, then shook hands with Maggie. He gave her one glance and she, suddenly feeling that that glance had not the things in it that she had wanted, was frightened, her confidence left her, she felt that if she did not have a word alone with him she would die.
He sat down near Aunt Anne.
“No, thank you, I won’
t have any tea,” he said. “We’re dining very early to-night because Father and Amy have a meeting right away over Golders Green way somewhere. It’s really on a message from him that I came.”
He did not look at her, placed like a square shadow against the dusky wall. He sat, leaning forward a little, his red-brown hand on his knee, his leg bulging under the cloth of his trouser, his neck struggling behind his collar — but his smile was pleasant and easy, he seemed perfectly at home.
“My father wonders whether you will mind some friends of Miss Avies sitting with you in your pew to-morrow evening. She has especially asked — two of them ... ladies, I believe. But it seems that there will be something of a crowd, and as your pew is always half empty — He would not have asked except that there seems nowhere else.”
Aunt Anne graciously assented.
“But, of course, Mr. Warlock, Maggie will be going with us, but still there will be room. Mr. Crashaw is going to speak after all, I hear. I was afraid that he would have been too ill.”
Martin laughed. “He is staying with us, you know, and already he is preparing himself. He’s about the oldest human being I’ve ever seen. He must be a hundred.”
“He’s a great saint,” said Aunt Anne.
“He’s always in a terrible temper though,” said Martin. “He mutters to himself — and he eats nothing. His room is next to mine, and he walked up and down all night talking. I don’t know how he keeps alive.”
Perhaps Aunt Anne thought Martin’s tone irreverent. She relapsed into herself and seemed suddenly, with a spiritual wave of the hand, to have dismissed the whole company.
Martin took his leave. He barely touched Maggie’s hand, but his eyes leapt upon hers with all the fire of a greeting too long delayed. His lips did not move, but she heard the whisper “Soon!” Then he was gone.
Soon! She felt as though she could not wait another instant but must immediately run after him, follow him into the street, and make clear his plans both for himself and her.
Then, continuing her struggle of the long day, she beat into herself endurance; she was in a new world, in a world with roads and cities, mountains, rivers, seas and forests that had to be traversed by her, to be learnt and remembered and conquered, and for the success of this she must have her own spirit absolutely aloof and firm and brave. She loved him. That must be enough for her, and meanwhile she need not lose her common sense and vision of everyday life ...But meanwhile it hurt. She was now twice as lonely as she had been before because she did not know what he intended to do, and always with her now there was something strange and unknown that might at any moment be stronger than she.
But by next morning she had conquered herself. She would see him at Chapel that night and perhaps have a word with him, and so already she had arrived at her now lover’s calendar of dates and seasons. There was the time before she would see him and the time after — no other time than that.
The trouble that weighed upon her most heavily was her deceitfulness to the aunts. Fifty times that day she was on the edge of speaking and telling them all, but she was held back by the vagueness of her relations to Martin. Were they engaged? Did he even love her? He had only kissed her. He had said nothing. No, she must wait, but with this definite sense of her wickedness weighing upon her — not wickedness to herself, for that she cared nothing, but wickedness to them — she tried, on this day, to be a pattern member of the household, going softly everywhere that she was told, closing doors behind her, being punctual and careful. Unhappily it was a day of misfortune, it was one of Aunt Anne’s more worldly hours and she thought that she would spend it in training Maggie. Very good — but Maggie dropped a glass into which flowers were to have been put, she shook her pen when she was addressing some envelopes so that some drops of ink were scattered upon the carpet, and, in her haste to be punctual, she banged her bedroom door so loudly that Aunt Anne was waked from her afternoon nap.
A scene followed. Aunt Anne showed herself very human, like any other aunt justly exasperated by any other niece.
“I sometimes despair of you, Maggie. You will not think of others. I don’t wish to be hard or unjust, but selfishness is the name of your greatest weakness.”
Maggie, standing with her hands behind her, a spot of ink on her nose and her short hair ruffled, was hard and unrepentant.
“You must send me away,” she said; “I’m not a success here. You don’t like me.”
Aunt Anne looked at Maggie with eyes that were clear and cold like deep unfriendly waters. “You mustn’t say that. We love you, but you have very much to learn. To-night I shall speak to Miss Avies and arrange that you go to have a talk with her sometimes. She is a wise woman who knows many things. My sister and I are not strong enough to deal with you, and we are weakened perhaps by our love for you.”
“I don’t want to go to-night,” Maggie said, then she burst out: “Oh, can’t I lead an ordinary life like other girls — be free and find things out for myself, not only go by what older people tell me — earn my living and be free? I’ve never lived an ordinary life. Life with Father wasn’t fair, and now—”
Aunt Anne put out her arm and drew her towards her. “Poor Maggie ... Aren’t you unfair to us? Do you suppose really that we don’t love you? Do you think that I don’t understand? You shall be free, afterwards, if you wish — perfectly free — but you must have the opportunity of learning what this life is first, what the love of God is, what the companionship of Him is. If after you have seen you still reject it, we will not try to keep you. But it is God’s will that you stay with us for a time.”
“How do you know that it is God’s will?” asked Maggie, melted nevertheless, as she always was by any sign of affection.
“He has told me,” Aunt Anne answered, and then closed her eyes.
Maggie went away with a sensation of being tracked by some stealthy mysterious force that was creeping ever closer and closer upon her, that she could only feel but not see. For instance, she might have said that she would not go to Chapel to-night, and she might have taken her stand upon that. And yet she could not say that. Of course she must go because she must see Martin, but even if she had known that he would not be there she would have gone. Was it curiosity? Was it reminiscence? Was it superstition? Was it cowardice? Was it loneliness? All these things, perhaps, and yet something more than they ...
All through the afternoon of the lovely November day she anticipated that evening’s services as though it were in some way to be a climax. She knew that it was to be for all of them an especial affair. She had heard during the last days much discussion of old Mr. Crashaw. He was an old man with, apparently, a wonderful history of conversions behind him. His conversions had been, it seemed, of the forcible kind, seizing people by the neck and shoving them in; he was a fierce and militant kind of saint; he believed, it seemed, in damnation and eternal hell fire, and could make you believe in them too; his accent was on the tortures rather than the triumphs of religion.
But Maggie had other thoughts, in this, outside Mr. Crashaw. She had never lost the force of that first meeting with Mr. Warlock; she had avoided him simply because she was afraid lest he should influence her too much, but now after her friendship with Martin she felt that she could never meet old Mr. Warlock frankly again. What he would say to her if he knew that she meant to take his son away from him she knew well enough. On every side there was trouble and difficulty. She could not see a friend anywhere unless it was Caroline, whom she did not completely trust, and Mr. Magnus, whom her deception of her aunt would, she knew, most deeply distress. Meanwhile she was being pushed forward more and more into the especial religious atmosphere of the house, the Chapel and the Chapel sect. Of no use to tell herself that this was only a tiny fragment of the whole world, that there, only five yards away from her, in the Strand, was a life that swept past the Chapel and its worshippers with the utmost, completest indifference. She had always this feeling that she was caught, that she could only escape by a desperate viol
ent effort that would hurt others and perhaps be, for herself, a lasting reproach. She wanted so simple a thing ... to be always with Martin, working, with all this confusing, baffling, mysterious religion behind her; this simple thing seemed incredibly difficult of attainment.
Nevertheless, when they started that evening for the Chapel she felt, in spite of herself, a strange almost pleasurable excitement. There was, in that plain, ugly building some force that could not be denied. Was it the force of the worshippers’ belief? Was it the force of some outside power that watched ironically the efforts of those poor human beings to discover it? Was it the love of a father for his children? No, there was very little love in this creed — no more than there had been in her father’s creed before. As she walked along between her aunts her brain was a curious jumble of religion, Martin, and how she was ever going to learn to be tidy and punctual.
“Well, I won’t care,” was the resolution with which she always brought to an end her discussions and misgivings. “I’m myself. Nobody can touch me unless I let them.”
It was a most lovely evening, very pale and clear with an orange light in the sky like the reflection of some far distant towering fire. The air was still and the rumble of the town scarcely penetrated into their street; they could hear the ugly voice of the little Chapel bell jangling in the heart of the houses, there was a scent of chrysanthemums from somewhere and a very faint suggestion of snow — even before they reached the Chapel door a few flakes lazily began to fall.
Maggie was thinking now only of Martin. There was a gas-lamp already lighted in the Chapel doorway, and this blinded her eyes. She had hoped that he would be there, waiting, so that he might have a word with her before they went in, but when they were all gathered together under the porch she saw with a throb of disappointment that he was not there. She saw no one whom she knew, but it struck her at once that here was a gathering quite different from that of the first time that she had come to the Chapel. There seemed to be more of the servant class; rather they were older women with serious rapt expressions and very silent. There were men too, to-night, four or five gathered together inside the passage, standing gravely, without a word, not moving, like statues. Maggie was frightened. She felt like a spy in an enemy’s camp, and a spy waiting for an inevitable detection, with no hope of securing any news. As she went up the aisle behind her aunts her eyes searched for Martin. She could not see him. Their seat was close to the front, and already seated in it were the austere Miss Avies and two lady friends.