by Hugh Walpole
Amongst the men she recognised Mr. Smith, Caroline’s father, two old men, brothers, who had followed Mr. Warlock from their youth, and a young pale man who had once been to tea with her aunts. Martin she saw at once was not there.
For some time, perhaps for ten minutes, they all sat in silence, and only the gruff comment of the clock sounded in the building. Then the lights went up with a flare and Thurston, followed by Mr. Warlock, entered. It was at that moment that Maggie had a revelation. The faces around her seemed to be suddenly gathered in front of her, and it was with a start of surprise that she suddenly realised: “Oh, but they don’t believe in this any more than I do!” The faces around her were agitated, with odd humble beseeching looks, as though they were helpless utterly and were hoping that some one would suddenly come and lead them somewhere that they might be comfortable again and at ease.
There was not to-night, as there had been on other occasions (and especially during that service that Mr. Crashaw had conducted), any sign of religious and mystical excitement. The people seemed huddled together in the cold and draughty place against their will, and the very fact that the Chapel was only half full chilled the blood. No drama of exultation here, no band of God’s servants gloriously preparing to meet Him, only the frightened open-mouthed gaze of a little gathering of servant girls and old maids. That was Maggie’s first impression; then, when the service began, when the first hymn had been sung and Thurston had stumbled into his extempore prayer. Maggie found herself caught into a strange companionship with the people around her. Not now ecstasy nor the excitement of religious fanaticism nor the superstitious preparation for some awful events — none of these emotions now lifted her into some strained unnatural sphere — no, nothing but a strange sympathy and kindness and understanding that she had never known in all her life before. She felt the hunger, the passionate appeal: “Oh God come! Prove Thyself! We have waited so long. We have resisted unbelievers, we have fought our own doubts and betrayals, give us now a Sign! something by which we may know Thee!” and with that appeal the conviction in the hearts of almost all present that nothing would happen, that God would give no sign, that the age of miracles was past.
“Oh, why did He want to be so definite,” she thought. “Why couldn’t He have left them as they were without forcing them to this.”
They were sitting down now, and Thurston, with his cheap sense of the dramatic and false emphasis, was reading from the New Testament. Maggie looked to where Mr. Warlock was, a little to the right of Thurston, in his black gown, his head a little lowered, his hands on his lap.
When she saw him she was touched to the very heart. Why, he had aged in the last month a hundred years! He looked, sitting there, so frail and helpless that it seemed wonderful that he should have been able to get there at all.
His hair seemed to have an added intensity of whiteness to-night, and his beard lay against the black cloth of his gown with a contrast so sharp that it was unreal. Maggie fancied, as she watched him, that he was bewildered and scarcely knew where he was. Once he looked up and round about him; he put his hand to his brow and then let it fall as though he had no longer any control over it.
She was now so touched by the pathos of his helplessness that she could think of nothing else and longed to go to him and comfort him. Time stole on and it was now ten minutes to twelve. They sang another hymn, but the voices were very weak and feeble and the words quivered round the building in a ghostly whisper. Then Thurston came to the Master and gave him his arm and led him to the reading-desk. The old man seemed for a moment as though he would fall, then, holding to the front of the desk, he spoke in a very weak and faltering voice. Maggie could not catch many of his words: “My children — only a little time — Our preparation now is finished ... God has promised ... Not the least of these His little ones shall perish ... Let us not fear but be ready to meet Him as our Friend ... our Friend ... God our Father ...” Then in a stronger voice: “Now during these last minutes let us kneel in silent prayer.”
They all knelt down. Maggie had no thoughts, no desire except that the time might pass; she seemed to kneel there asleep waiting for the moment when some one should tell her that the time had gone and she was safe. The moments dragged eternally; a thrilling suspense like a flood of water pouring into an empty space had filled the Chapel. No one moved. Suddenly into the heart of the silence there struck the first note of the clock tolling the hour. With Maggie it was as though that sound liberated her from the spell that had been upon her. She looked up; she saw the master standing, his hands stretched out, his face splendid with glory and happiness.
He looked beyond them all, beyond the Chapel, beyond the world. He gave one cry:
“My God, Thou art come.” Some other words followed but were caught up and muffled. He fell forward, collapsing in a heap against the desk. His head struck the wood and then he lay there perfectly still.
Maggie could only dimly gather what happened after the sound of that fall. There seemed to her to be a long and terrible silence during which the clock continued remorselessly to strike. The Chapel appeared to be a place of shadows as though the gas had suddenly died to dim haloes; she was conscious that people moved about her, that Aunt Anne had left them, and that Aunt Elizabeth was saying to her again and again: “How terrible! How terrible! How terrible!”
Then as though it were some other person, Maggie found herself very calmly speaking to Aunt Elizabeth.
“Are we to wait for Aunt Anne?” she whispered.
“Anne said we were to go home.”
“Then let’s go,” whispered Maggie.
They went to the door, pushing, it seemed, through shadows who whispered and forms that vanished as soon as one looked at them.
Out in the open air Maggie was aware that she was trembling from head to foot, but a determined idea that she must get Aunt Elizabeth home at once drove her like a goad. Very strange it was out here, the air ringing with the clamour of bells. The noise seemed deafening, whistles blowing from the river, guns firing and this swinging network of bells echoing through the fog. Figures, too, ran with lights, men singing, women laughing, all mysteriously in the tangled darkness.
They were joined at once by Aunt Anne, who said:
“God has called him home,” by which Maggie understood that Mr. Warlock was dead.
They went home in silence. Inside the hall Aunt Elizabeth began to cry. Aunt Anne put her arm around her and led her away; they seemed completely to forget Maggie, leaving her standing in the dark hall by herself.
She found a candle and went up to her room. The noise in the streets had ceased quite suddenly as though some angry voice had called the world to order.
Maggie undressed and lay down in her bed. She lay there staring in front of her without closing her eyes. She watched the grey dawn, then the half-light, then, behind her blind, bright sunshine. The fog was no more.
The strangest fancies and visions passed through her brain during that time. She saw Mr. Warlock hanging forward like a sack of clothes, the blood trickling stealthily across his beard. Poor old man! What were the others all thinking now? Were they sorry or glad? Were they disappointed or relieved? After all, he had, perhaps, spoken the truth so far as he was himself concerned. God had come for him. He was now it might be happy somewhere at peace and at rest. Then like a flash of lightning across the darkness came the thought of Martin. What had he said? “If anything happened to his father—”
The terror of that made her heart stop beating. She wanted instantly to go to him and see what he was doing. She even rose from her bed, stumbled in the darkness towards her dressing-table, then remembered where she was and what time and went back and sat upon her bed.
She sat there, her fingers tightly pressed together, staring in front of her until the morning came. She felt at her heart a foreboding worse than any pain that she had ever known. She determined that, directly after breakfast, whatever the aunts would say, she would go to his house and demand to se
e him. She did not mind who might try to prevent her, she would fight her way through them all. Only one look, one word of assurance from him, and then she could endure anything. That she must have or she would die.
At last Martha knocked on the door; she had her bath, dressed, still with this terrible pain at her heart.
She was alone at breakfast, she drank some coffee, then went up to the drawing-room to think for a moment what course she should pursue. The room was flooded with sunlight that struck the fire into a dead, lifeless yellow.
As she stood there she heard through the open door voices in the hall. But before she had heard the voices she knew that it was Martin.
Martha was expostulating, her voice following his step up the hall.
“I shall go and tell my mistress,” Maggie heard.
Then Martin came in.
When she saw him she stood speechless where she was. The change in him terrified her so that her heart seemed to leap into her throat choking her. The colour had drained from his face, leaving it dry and yellow. He had an amazing resemblance to his father, his eyes had exactly the same bewildered expression as though he were lost and yet he seemed quite calm, his only movement was one hand that wandered up and down his waistcoat feeling the buttons one after the other.
He looked at her as though he did not know her, and yet he spoke her name.
“Maggie,” he said, “I’ve come to say good-bye. You know what I said before. Well, it’s come true. Father is dead, and I killed him.”
With a terrible effort, beating down a terror that seemed personally to envelop her, she said:
“No, Martin. I saw him die. It wasn’t you, Martin dear.”
“It was I,” he answered. “You don’t know. I came into the house drunk and he heard what I said to Amy. He nearly died then. The doctor in the evening said he must have had some shock.”
She tried to come to him then. She was thinking: “Oh, if I’ve only got time I can win this. But I must have time. I must have time.”
He moved away from her, as he had done once before.
“Anyway, it doesn’t matter,” he said. “I’ve killed him by the way I’ve been behaving to him all these months. I’m going away where I can’t do any harm.”
She desperately calmed herself, speaking very quietly.
“Listen, Martin. You haven’t done him any harm. He’s happier now than he’s been for years. I know he is. And that doesn’t touch us. You can’t leave me now. Where you go I must go.”
“No,” he answered. “No, Maggie. I ought to have gone before. I knew it then, but I know it absolutely now. Everything I touch I hurt, so I mustn’t touch anything I care for.”
She put her hands out towards him; words had left her. She would have given her soul for words and she could say nothing.
She was surrounded with a hedge of fright and terror and she could not pass it.
He seemed to see then in her eyes her despair. For an instant he recognised her. Their eyes met for the first time; she felt that she was winning. She began eagerly to speak: “Listen, Martin dear. You can’t do me any harm. You can only hurt me by leaving me. I’ve told you before. Just think of that and only that.”
The door opened and Aunt Anne came in.
He turned to her very politely. “I beg your pardon for coming, Miss Cardinal,” he said. “I know what you must think of me, but it’s all right. I’ve only come to say good-bye to Maggie. It’s all right. Neither you nor Maggie will be bothered with me again.”
He turned to the open door. Aunt Anne stood aside to let him pass. Maggie said:
“Martin, don’t go! Martin, don’t leave me! Don’t leave me, Martin!”
He seemed to break then in his resolution.
“It’s better. It’s better,” he cried, as though he were shouting himself down, and then pushing Aunt Anne with his arm he hurried out almost running, his steps stumbling down the stairs.
Maggie ran to the door. Her aunt stopped her, holding her back.
“It’s better, Maggie dear,” she said very gently, repeating Martin’s words.
The sound of the hall door closing echoed through the house.
Maggie struggled, crying again and again: “Let me go! Let me go! I must go with him! I can’t live without him! Let me go!”
She fought then, and with one hand free hit Aunt Anne’s face, twisting her body. Then, suddenly weak, so that she saw faintness coming towards her like a cloak, she whispered:
“Oh, Aunt Anne, let me go! Oh, Aunt Anne, let me go! Please, please, let me go!”
Suddenly the house was darkened, at her feet was a gulf of blackness, and into it she tumbled, down, far down, with a last little gasping sigh of distress.
PART III. THE WITCH
CHAPTER I
THE THREE VISITS
On a spring day, early in March of the next year, 1908, Mathew Cardinal thought that he would go and discover how his niece was prospering. He had seen nothing of her for a very long time.
He did not blame himself for this, but then he never blamed himself for anything. A fate, often drunken and always imbecile, was to blame for everything that he did, and he pitied himself sincerely for having to be in the hands of such a creature. He happened to be just now very considerably frightened about himself, more frightened than he had been for a very long time, so frightened in fact that he had drunk nothing for weeks. For many years he had been leading a see-saw existence, and the see-saw had been swung by that mysterious force known as Finance. He had a real gift for speculation, and had he been granted from birth a large income he might have ended his days as a Justice of the Peace and a Member of Parliament. Unfortunately he had never had any private means, and he had never been able to make enough by his mysterious speculations to float him into security— “Let me once get so far,” he would say to himself, “and I am a made man.” But drink, an easy tolerance of bad company, and a rather touching conceit had combined to divorce him from so fine a destiny. He had risen, he had fallen, made a good thing out of this tip, been badly done over that, and missed opportunity after opportunity through a fuddled brain and an overweening self-confidence.
Last year for several months everything had succeeded; it was during that happy period that he had visited Maggie. Perhaps it was well for his soul that success had not continued. He was a man whom failure improved, having a certain childish warmth of heart and simplicity of outlook when things went badly with him. Success made him abominably conceited, and being without any morality self-confidence drove him to disastrous lengths. Now once more he was very near destruction and he knew it, very near things like forging and highway robbery, and other things worse than they. He knew that he was very near; he peered over into the pit and did not wish to descend. He was not a bad man, and had he not believed himself to be a clever one all might yet have been well. The temptation of his cleverness lured him on. A stroke of the pen was a very simple thing...
To save his soul he thought that he would go and see Maggie. His affection for her, conceited and selfish though it was, was the most genuine thing in him. For three-quarters of the year he forgot her, but when life went badly he thought of her again — not that he expected to get anything out of her, but she was good to him and she knew nothing about his life, two fine bases for safety.
“What have they been doing to her, those damned hypocrites, I wonder,” was his thought. He admired, feared, and despised his sisters. “All that stuff about God” frightened him in spite of himself, and he knew, in his soul, that Anne was no hypocrite.
He rang the bell and faced Martha. He had dressed himself with some care and was altogether more tidy just then, having a new mistress who cared about outside appearances. Also, having been sober for nearly two months, he looked a gentleman.
“Is my niece at home?” he asked, blinking because he was frightened of Martha.
She did not seem to be prepared to let him in.
“Miss Maggie has been very ill,” she said, frowning at
him.
“Ill?” That really hurt him. He stammered, “Why? ... When?”
She moved aside then for him to pass into the hall. He came into the dark stuffy place.
“Yes,” said Martha. “Just after Christmas. Brain-fever, the doctors said. They thought she’d die for weeks. Had two doctors ... You can’t see her, sir,” she ended grumpily.
Then Aunt Anne appeared, coming through the green-baize door.
“Why, Mathew,” she said. Mathew thought how ill she looked.
“They’re all ill here,” he said to himself.
“So Maggie’s ill,” he said, dropping his eyes before her as he always did.
“Yes,” Aunt Anne answered. “She was very ill indeed, poor child. I’m glad to see you, Mathew. It’s a long time since you’ve been.”
He thought she was gentler to him than she had been, so, mastering his fear of her, fingering his collar, he said:
“Can’t I see her?”
“Well, I’m not ... I think you might. It might do her good. She wants taking out of herself. She comes down for an hour or two every day now. I’ll go and see.” She left him standing alone there. He looked around him, sniffing like a dog. How he hated the house and everything in it! Always had ... You could smell that fellow Warlock’s trail over everything. The black cat, Tom, came slipping along, looked for a moment as though he would rub himself against Mathew’s stout legs, then decided that he would not. Mysterious this place like a well, with its green shadows. No wonder the poor child had been ill here. At the thought of her being near to death Mathew felt a choke in his throat. Poor child, never had any fun all her life and then to die in a green well like this. And his sisters wouldn’t care if she did, hard women, hard women. Funny how religion made you hard, darn funny. Good thing he’d been irreligious all his life. Think of his brother Charles! There was religion for you, living with his cook and preaching to her next morning. Bad thing religion!