by Hugh Walpole
He was interrupted by an extraordinary cry. He turned to see his father standing, one hand pressed back on the chair, his face white, his eyes black and empty, like sightless eyes.
“Martin! That’s blasphemy! ... Take care! Take care! ... Oh, my son, my son! ...”
Then he suddenly collapsed backwards, crouching on to the chair as though he were trying to flee from some danger. Martin sprang towards him. He caught him round the body, holding him to him — something was leaping like a furious animal inside his father’s breast.
“What is it?” he cried, desperately frightened.
“It’s my heart,” Warlock answered in a voice very soft and distant. “Bad ... Excitement ... Ring that bell ... Amy ...”
A moment later Amy entered. She came quickly into the room, she said nothing — only gave Martin one look.
She gave her father something from a little bottle, kneeling in front of him.
At last she turned to her brother. “You’d better go,” she said. “You can do nothing here.”
Miserable, repentant, feeling as though he had no place in the world and yet eager too to defend himself, he left the room.
CHAPTER VII
THE OUTSIDE WORLD
Maggie had a week.
She did not need it. From the first half-hour after Martin’s leaving her her mind was made up. This question of marriage did not, on further reflection, very greatly disturb her. She had known, in her time, a number of married people and they had been invariably unhappy and quarrelsome. The point seemed to be that you should be, in some way, near the person whom you loved, and she had only loved one person in all her life, and intended never to love another. Even this question of love was not nearly so tangled for her as it would be for any more civilised person. She knew very little about marriage and only in the most sordid fashion about sexual relations which were definitely connected in her mind with drunken peasants and her father’s cook. They had nothing at all to do with Martin.
The opinion of the world was an unknown factor in her vision, she only knew of the opinion of her aunts and Miss Warlock and with these she was already in rebellion.
She would have been in great trouble had she supposed that this woman still loved Martin and needed him, but that, from what Martin had said, was obviously not so. No, it was all quite clear. They would escape together, out of this tangle of unnatural mysteries and warnings, and live happily for ever after in the country.
As to Martin’s self-portrait, that did not greatly distress her. She had never supposed that he or any one else was “good.” She had never known a “good” person. Nor did it occur to her, in her pristine state of savagery, that you loved any one the less for their drawbacks. She would rather be with Martin at his worst than with any one else at their best — that was all.
Half-an-hour was enough time to settle the whole affair. She then waited patiently until the end of the week. She did not quite know how she would arrange a meeting, but that would, she expected, arrange itself.
Two events occurred that filled her mind and made the week pass quickly. One was that she received an answer to her adventurous letter, the other was a remarkable conversation with Miss Caroline Smith. The answer to her letter was lying on her plate when she came down to breakfast, and Aunt Elizabeth was watching it with an excited stare.
It read as follows:
14 BRYANSTON SQUARE.
Dear Miss CARDINAL,
Of course I remember you perfectly. I wondered whether you would write to me one day. I am married now and live most of the year in London. Would you come and see me at Bryanston Square? I am nearly always at home at tea-time. If you are free would you perhaps come next Friday?
It will be so nice to see you again.
Yours sincerely,
KATHERINE MARK. “You’ve got a letter, dear. Your aunt isn’t quite so well this morning, I’m afraid. Scrambled eggs.”
“Yes,” she looked her aunt in the face without any confusion. How strangely her decision about Martin had altered her relationship now to every one! What did it matter whether any one were angry? “I ought to have told you, Aunt Elizabeth. I wrote about a fortnight ago to a lady who came once to see us at home. She was a Miss Trenchard then. She said that if ever I wanted any help I was to write to her. So I have written — to ask her whether she can find me any work to do, and she has asked me to go and see her.”
“Work,” said Aunt Elizabeth. “But you won’t go away while your aunt’s so ill.”
Wouldn’t she? Maggie didn’t know so much about that.
“I want to be independent,” said Maggie, trying to fix Aunt Elizabeth’s eyes. “It isn’t fair that I should be a burden to you.”
“You’re no burden, dear.” Aunt Elizabeth looked uneasily round the room. “Your aunt depends on you.”
“Depends on me for what?”
“For everything.”
“Then she oughtn’t to, Aunt Elizabeth, I’ve said it again and again. I’m not fit for any one to depend on. I’m forgetful and careless and untidy. You know I am. And I’m different from every one here. I’m very grateful to Aunt Anne, but I’m not good enough for her to depend on.”
Aunt Elizabeth blinked nervously.
“She’s got very little. You mustn’t take away all she has.”
“I’m not all she has,” answered Maggie, knowing that she was becoming excited and cross. “I don’t belong to any one except myself.” “And Martin” her soul whispered. Then she added, suddenly moved by remorse as she looked at Aunt Elizabeth’s meek and trembling face, “You’re so good to me, both of you, and I’m so bad. I’ll give you anything but my freedom.”
“You talk so strangely, dear,” said Aunt Elizabeth. “But there are so many things I don’t understand.”
Maggie took the letter up to her bedroom and there read it a number of times. It all seemed wonderful to her, the stamped blue address, the rich white square notepaper, and above all the beautiful handwriting. She thought of her own childish scrawl and blushed, she even sat down, there and then, at her dressing-table and, with a pencil, began to imitate some of the letters.
On Friday! To-day was Tuesday. Bryanston Square. Wherever was Bryanston Square, and how would she find it? She determined to ask Caroline Smith.
She had not long to wait for her opportunity. On Wednesday evening about half-past five Miss Smith poked her head into the Cardinal drawing-room to discover Maggie sitting with her hands on her lap looking down on to the street.
“Are your aunts anywhere?” asked Caroline.
“No,” said Maggie. “Aunt Anne’s in bed and Aunt Elizabeth’s at Miss Pyncheon’s.”
“That’s right,” said Caroline, “because I haven’t seen you, darling, for ages.”
“The day before yesterday,” said Maggie.
“You’re a literal pet,” said Caroline kissing her. “I always exaggerate, of course, and it’s so sweet of you to tell me about it.” She rushed off to the fire and spread out her blue skirt and dangled her feet.
“Isn’t it cold and dark? You funny dear, not to have the blinds down and to sit staring into the beastly street like that ... I believe you’re in love.”
Maggie came to herself with a start, got up and slowly went over to the fire.
“Caroline, where’s Bryanston Square?”
“Oh, you pet, don’t you know where Bryanston Square is?” cried Caroline suddenly fixing her bright eyes upon Maggie with burning curiosity.
“If I did I wouldn’t ask,” said Maggie.
“Quite right — neither you would. Well, it’s near Marble Arch.”
“But I don’t know where the Marble Arch is.”
“Lord!” cried Caroline. “And she’s been in London for months. You really are a pet. Well, what you’d better do is to get into the first taxi you see and just say ‘Bryanston Square.’”
How stupid of her! She might have thought of that for herself.
“Is there a park near Bryanston Sq
uare?” she asked.
“Yes. Of course — Hyde Park.”
“And is it open at six?”
“Of course. You can’t shut Hyde Park.”
“Oh!”
Maggie pursued her thoughts. Caroline watched her with intense curiosity.
“What do you want with a Park, you darling?” she asked at last.
“Oh, nothing,” said Maggie, slowly. Then she went on, laughing: “I’ve been asked out to tea — for the first time in my life. And I’m terribly frightened.”
“How exciting!” said Caroline clapping her hands. “Who’s it with?”
“It’s a Mrs. Mark. She was a Miss Trenchard. She used to live in Glebeshire. She’s going to find me some work to do.”
“Work!” cried Caroline. “Aren’t you going to stay with your aunts then?”
“I want to be independent,” said Maggie slowly.
“Well!” said Caroline, amazed.
Could Maggie have seen just then into Miss Smith’s mind and could she only have realised that, with Miss Smith, every action and intention in the human heart pivoted upon love-affairs and love-affairs only, she might have been warned and have saved much later trouble. She was intent on her own plans and was thinking of Caroline only as a possible agent.
“Caroline,” she asked, “would you take a note for me to some one?”
“Of course,” said Caroline. “Who is it?”
“Martin Warlock,” said Maggie.
At the name she suddenly blushed crimson. She knew that Caroline was looking at her with eager curiosity. She suspected then that she had done something foolish and would have given anything to recall her words, but to recall them now seemed only to make it the more suspicious.
“It’s only something his sister wanted to know,” she said casually. “I thought you’d be seeing him soon. I hardly ever do.”
“Yes, I’m going up there to-night,” said Caroline staring at Maggie. “Well, I’ll give it you before you go,” then she went on as casually as she could. “What’s been happening lately?”
“Of course you know all about the excitement,” said Caroline sitting back in the faded arm-chair with her blue dress spread all about her like a cloud.
“What excitement?” said Maggie, pulling herself up, with a desperate struggle, from her own private adventures.
“What! you don’t know?” Caroline exclaimed in an awed whisper.
“Know what?” Maggie asked, rather crossly, repenting more and more of asking Caroline to carry her note.
“Why, where DO you live? ... All about Mr. Warlock and his visions!”
“I’ve heard nothing at all,” said Maggie.
This was unexpected joy to Caroline, who had never imagined that there would be any one so near the Inner Saints as Maggie who yet knew nothing about these recent events.
“Do you really know nothing about it?”
“Nothing,” said Maggie.
“Aren’t you wonderful?” said Caroline. “What happened was this. About three weeks ago Mr. Warlock had a vision in the middle of the night. He saw God at about three in the morning.”
“How did he see God?” asked Maggie, awed in spite of herself.
Caroline’s voice dropped to a mysterious whisper. “He just woke up and there God was at the end of the bed. Of course he’s not spoken to me about it, but apparently there was a blaze of light and Something in the middle. And then a voice spoke and told Mr. Warlock that on the last night of this year everything would be fulfilled.”
“What did He mean?” asked Maggie.
“Different people think He meant different things,” said Caroline. “Of course there’s most fearful excitement about it. Mr. Warlock’s had two since.”
“Two what?” asked Maggie.
“Two visions. Just like the first. The blazing light and the voice and telling him that the last night of the year’s to be the time.” Caroline then began to be carried away by her excitement. She talked faster and faster. “Oh! You don’t know what a state every one’s in! It’s causing all sorts of divisions. First there are all his own real believers. Miss Pyncheon, your aunts, and the others. My father’s one. They all believe every word he says. They’re all quite certain that the last day of this year is to be the time of the Second Coming. They won’t any of them, look a minute further than that. Father doesn’t care a bit now what mother does with the money because, he says, we shan’t want any next year. Mother isn’t so sure so she’s taking as much care of it as ever, and of course it’s nice for her now to have it all in her own hands. They’re all of them doing everything to make themselves ready. It doesn’t matter how aggravating you are, father never loses his temper now. He’s so sweet that it’s maddening. Haven’t you noticed how good your aunts are?”
“They’re always the same,” said Maggie.
“Well. I expect they’re different really. Then there’s the middle-class like Mr. Thurston and Miss Avies who pretend to believe all that Mr. Warlock says, but of course, they don’t believe a word of it, and they hope that this will prove his ruin. They know there won’t be any Second Coming on New Year’s Eve, and then they think he will be finished and they’ll be able to get rid of him. So they’re encouraging him to believe in all this, and then when the moment comes they’ll turn on him!”
“Beasts!” said Maggie suddenly.
“Well, I daresay you’re right,” said Caroline. “Only it does make me laugh, all of it. Thurston and Miss Avies have all their plans made, only now they’re quarrelling because Thurston wants to marry Amy Warlock and Miss Avies meant him to marry her!”
“Is Mr. Thurston going to marry Miss Warlock?” cried Maggie.
“So they say,” said Caroline again watching Maggie curiously. “Well, anyway, Miss Avies is the strongest of the lot really. I’d back her against anybody. I’m terrified of her myself, I tell you frankly. She’d wring any one’s neck for twopence. Oh yes, she would! ... Then there are the third lot who simply don’t believe in Mr. Warlock’s visions at all and just laugh at him. People like Miss Smythe and Mrs. Bellaston. A lot of them are leaving the chapel. Mr. Warlock won’t listen to anybody. He’s getting stranger and stranger, and his heart’s so bad they say he might die any day if he had a shock. Then he’s always quarrelling with Martin.”
Caroline suddenly stopped. She looked at Maggie.
“Martin’s a terrible trial to his father,” she said.
But Maggie was secure now.
“Is he?” she asked indifferently. Then she added slowly, “What do you believe, Caroline?”
“What do I believe?”
“Yes, about Mr. Warlock’s visions.”
“Oh, of course, it’s only because he’s ill and prays for hours without getting off his knees, and won’t eat enough, that he sees things. And yet I don’t know. There may be something in it. If I were on my knees for weeks I’d never see anything. But I’ll be terribly sorry for Mr. Warlock if the time comes and nothing happens. He’ll just have to go.”
They sat a little longer together and then Caroline said: “Well, darling, I must be off. Where’s that note?” She hesitated, looking at Maggie with a wicked gleam in her pale blue eyes. “You know, Maggie, I can’t make up my mind. I’ve had an offer of marriage.”
“I’m so glad, Caroline,” said Maggie.
“Yes, but I don’t know what to do. It’s a man — Mr. Purdie. His father’s ever so rich and they’ve got a big place down at Skeaton.”
“Where’s that?” asked Maggie.
“Oh, don’t you know? Skeaton-on-Sea. It’s a seaside resort. I’ve known William for a long time. His father knows father. He came to tea last week, and proposed. He’s rather nice although he’s so silent.”
“Why don’t you marry him then?” asked Maggie.
“Well, I know Martin Warlock’s going to ask me. It’s been getting closer and closer. I expect he will this week. Of course, he isn’t so safe as William, but he’s much more exciting. And he’s got
quite a lot of money of his own.”
Strange, the sure, confident, happy security that Maggie felt in her heart at this announcement.
“I should wait for Martin Warlock,” she said. “He’d be rather fun to marry.”
“Do you think so?” answered Caroline. “Do you know, I believe I will. You’re always right, you darling ... Only suppose I should miss them both. William won’t wait for ever! Got that note, dear?”
Maggie was defiant. She would just show the creature that she wasn’t afraid of her. She’d give her the note and she might imagine what she pleased.
She got a pencil and a piece of paper and wrote hurriedly.
The week is up on Friday. Will you meet me that evening at a quarter past six under the Marble Arch? MAGGIE.
The boldness, the excitement of this inflamed her. It was so like her to challenge any action once she was in it by taking it to its furthest limit. She put it in an envelope and wrote Martin’s name with a flourish.
“There!” she said, giving it to Caroline.
“Thank you,” said Caroline, and with a number of rather wet and elaborate kisses (Maggie hated kissing) departed.
But her afternoon was not yet over; hardly had Caroline left when the door was opened and Miss Avies was shown in. Maggie started up with dismay and began to stammer excuses. Miss Avies brushed them aside.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “You’ll do as well — even, it may be, better.”
A strange woman Miss Avies! Maggie had, of course, seen her at Chapel, but this was the first time that they had been alone together. Miss Avies was like a thin rod of black metal, erect and quivering and waiting to strike. Her long sallow face was stiff, not with outraged virtue, or elaborate pride, or burning scorn, but simply with the accumulated concentration of fiery determination. She was the very symbol of self-centred energy, inhuman, cold, relentless. Her hair was jet black and gleamed like steel, and she had thick black eyebrows like ink-marks against her forehead of parchment. Her eyes were dead, like glass eyes, and she had some false teeth that sometimes clicked in her mouth. She wore a black dress with no ornament and thin black gloves.