Delphi Collected Works of Hugh Walpole (Illustrated)

by Hugh Walpole

  Aunt Anne returned, coming down the stairs with that queer halting gait of hers.

  “Maggie’s in the drawing-room,” she said. “She’ll like to see you.”

  As they went up, Aunt Anne said: “Be careful with her, Mathew. She’s still very weak. Don’t say anything to upset her?”

  He mumbled something in his throat. Couldn’t trust him. Of course they couldn’t. Never had ... Fine sort of sisters they were.

  Maggie was sitting by the fire, a shawl over her shoulders. By God, but she looked ill. Mathew had another gulp in his throat. Poor kid, but she did look ill. Poor kid, poor kid.

  “Sorry you’ve been bad, Maggie,” he said.

  She looked up, smiling with pleasure, when she saw who it was. Yes, she was really pleased to see him. But how different a smile from the old one! No blood behind it, none of that old Maggie determination. He was filled with compassion. He took a chair close beside her and sat down, leaning towards her, his large rather sheepish eye gazing at her.

  “What’s been the matter?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” Maggie said. “I was suddenly ill one day, and after that I didn’t know any more for weeks. But I’m much better now.”

  “Well, I’m delighted to hear that anyway,” he said heartily. He was determined to cheer her up. “You’ll be as right as rain presently.”

  “Of course I shall. I’ve felt so lazy, as though I didn’t want to do anything. Now I must stir myself.”

  “Have the old women been good to you?” he asked, dropping his voice.

  “Very,” she answered.

  “Not bothering you about all their religious tommy-rot?”

  She looked down at her hands.

  “No,” she said.

  “And that hypocritical minister of theirs hasn’t been at you again?”

  “Mr. Warlock’s dead,” she answered very quietly.

  “Warlock dead!” Uncle Mathew half rose from his chair in his astonishment. “That fellow dead! Well, I’m damned, indeed I am. That fellow — ! Well, there’s a good riddance! I know it isn’t good form to speak about a man who’s kicked the bucket otherwise than kindly, but he was a weight on my chest that fellow was, with his long white beard and his soft voice ... Well, well. To be sure! Whatever will my poor sisters do? And what’s happened to that young chap, his son, nice lad he was, took dinner with us that day last year?”

  “He’s gone away,” said Maggie. Mathew, stupid though he was, heard behind the quiet of Maggie’s voice a warning. He flung her a hurried surreptitious look. Her face was perfectly composed, her hands still upon her lap. Nevertheless he said to himself, “Danger there, my boy! Something’s happened there!”

  And yet his curiosity drove him for a moment further.

  “Gone, has he? Where to?”

  “He went abroad,” said Maggie, “after his father’s death. I don’t know where he’s gone.”

  “Oh, did he? Pity! Restless, I expect — I was at his age.”

  There was a little pause between them when Maggie sat very quietly looking at her hands. Then, smiling, she glanced up and said:

  “But tell me about yourself, Uncle Mathew. You’ve told me nothing.”

  He fidgeted a little, shifting his thick legs, stroking his nose with his finger.

  “I don’t know that I’ve anything very good to tell you, my dear. Truth is, I haven’t been doing so very well lately.”

  “Oh, Uncle, I’m sorry!”

  “It’s nothing to make yourself miserable about, my dear. I always turn my corners. Damn rocky ones they are sometimes too. Everything’s turned itself wrong these last weeks, either too soon or too late. I don’t complain, all the same it makes things a bit inconvenient. Thank you for that five pounds you sent me, my dear, very helpful it was I can tell you.”

  “Do you want another five pounds?” she asked him. He struggled with himself. His hesitation was so obvious that it was quite touching. She put her hand on his knee.

  “Do have another five pounds, Uncle. It won’t be difficult for me at all. I’ve been spending nothing all these weeks when I’ve been ill. Please do.”

  He shook his head firmly.

  “No, my dear, I won’t. As I came along I said to myself, ‘Now, you’ll be asking Maggie for money, and when she says “Yes” you’re not to take it’ — and so I’m not going to. I may be a rotter — but I’m not a rotten rotter.”

  He clung to his decision with the utmost resolve as though it were his last plank of respectability.

  “I can’t believe,” he said to her with great solemnity, “that things can really go wrong. I know too much. It isn’t men like me who go under. No. No.”

  He saw then her white face and strange grey ghostly eyes as though her soul had gone somewhere on a visit and the house was untenanted. He felt again the gulp in his throat. He bent forward, resting his fat podgy hand on her knee.

  “Don’t you worry, Maggie dear. I’ve always noticed that things are never bad for long. You’ve still got your old uncle, and you’re young, and there are plenty of fish in the sea ... there are indeed. You cheer up! It will be all right soon.”

  She put her hands on his.

  “Oh I’m not — worrying.” But as she spoke a strange strangled little sob had crept unbidden into her throat, choking her.

  He thought, as he got up, “It’s that damned young feller I gave dinner to. I’d like to wring his neck.”

  But he said no more, bent closer and kissed her, said he was soon coming again, and went away.

  After he had gone the house sank into its grey quiet again. What was Maggie thinking? No one knew. What was Aunt Anne thinking? No one knew ... But there was something between these two, Maggie and Aunt Anne. Every one felt it and longed for the storm to burst. Bad enough things outside with Mr. Warlock dead, members leaving right and left, and the Chapel generally going to wrack and ruin, but inside!

  Old Martha, who had never liked Maggie, felt now a strange, uncomfortable pity for her. She didn’t want to feel pity, no, not she, pity for no one, and especially not for an ugly untidy girl like that, but there it was, she couldn’t help herself! Such a child that girl, and she’d been as nearly dead as nothing, and now she was suffering, suffering awful ... Any one could see ... All that Warlock boy. Martha had seen him come stumbling down the stairs that day and had heard Maggie’s cry and then the fall. Awful noise it made. Awful. She’d stood in the hall, looking up the stairs, her heart beating like a hammer. Yes, just like a hammer! Then she’d gone up. It wasn’t a nice sight, the poor girl all in a lump on the floor and Miss Anne just as she always looked before one of her attacks, as though she were made of grey glass from top to toe ...

  But Martha hadn’t pitied Maggie then. Oh, no. Might as well die as not. Who wanted her? No one. Not even her young man apparently.

  Better if she died. But slowly something happened to Martha. Not that she was sentimental. Not in the least. But thoughts would steal in — steal in just when you were at your work. The girl lying there so good and patient — all the pots and pans winking at you from the kitchen-wall. Must remember to order that ketchup — cold last night in bed — think another blanket ... yes, very good and patient. Can’t deny it. Always smiles just that same way. Smiles at every one except Miss Arne. Won’t smile at her. Wonder why not? Something between those two. What about dinner? A little onion fry — that’s the thing these damp days — Onion fry — Onion Fry. ONION FRY ... One last look back before the world is filled with the sense, smell, and taste of it. — Poor girl, so white and so patient — the young man will never come back — never ... never ... ONION FRY.

  No; no one knew what Maggie was thinking. No one found out until Maggie had her second visitor, Miss Avies.

  When Martha opened the door to Miss Avies she was astonished. Miss Avies hadn’t been near the house since old Warlock died. What was she wanting here now, with her stiff back and bossy manner.

  “I don’t know whether you can see—”


  “Oh nonsense, it’s Maggie Cardinal I want to see. She’s now in the drawing-room sitting on a chair with a shawl on by the fire. Don’t tell me!”

  Martha quivered with anger. “The doctor’s orders is—”

  “I’m going to be doctor to-day,” she said, and strode inside. She went upstairs and found Aunt Elizabeth sitting with Maggie.

  “How do you do, Miss Cardinal?” They shook hands, Miss Avies standing over Aunt Elizabeth like the boa constrictor raised above the mouse.

  “That’s all right ... No, I don’t want to see your sister. And to be quite honest, I don’t want to see you either. It’s your niece I want to see. And alone—”

  “Certainly — it’s only the doctor said—”

  “Not to excite her. I know. But I’m not going to excite her. I’m going to give her some medicine. You come back in half an hour from now. Will you? That’s right. Thank you so much.”

  Aunt Elizabeth, unhappy, uncomfortable, filled with misgivings, as in these days she always was, left the room.

  “Well, there ... that’s right,” said Miss Avies, settling herself in the opposite side of the fire from Maggie and looking at her with not unfriendly eyes. “How are you?”

  “Oh much better, thank you,” said Maggie. “Ever so much better.”

  “No, you’re not,” said Miss Avies. “And you’re only lying when you say you are. You’ll never get better unless you do what I tell you—”

  “What’s that?” asked Maggie.

  “Face things. Face everything. Have it all out. Don’t leave a bit of it alone, and then just keep what’s useful.”

  “I don’t quite know what you mean,” said Maggie — but the faint colour had faded from her cheeks and her hands had run together for protection.

  Miss Avies’s voice softened— “I’m probably going away very soon,” she said, “going away and not coming back. All my work’s over here. But I wanted to see you before I went. You remember another talk we had here?”

  “Very well,” said Maggie.

  “You remember what I told you?”

  “You told me not to stay here,” said Maggie.

  “Yes, I did,” said Miss Avies, “and I meant it. The matter with you is that you’ve been kept here all this time without any proper work to do and that’s been very bad for you and made you sit with your hands folded in front of you, your head filling with silly fancies.”

  Maggie couldn’t help smiling at this description of herself.

  “Oh, you smile,” said Miss Avies vigorously, “but it’s perfectly true.”

  “Well, it’s all right now.” said Maggie, “because I am going away — as soon as ever I’m well enough.” “What to do?” asked Miss Avies.

  “I don’t quite know yet,” said Maggie.

  “Well, I know,” said Miss Avies. “You’re going away to brood over that young man.”

  Maggie said nothing.

  “Oh I know ... It seems cruel of me to speak of it just when you’ve had such a bad time, but it’s kindness really. If I don’t force you to think it all out and face it properly you’ll be burying it in some precious spot and always digging it up to look at it. You face it, my girl. You say to yourself — well, he wasn’t such a wonderful young man after all. I can lead my life all right without him — of course I can. I’m not going to be dependent on him and sigh and groan and waste away because I can’t see him. I know what it is. I’ve been through it myself.”

  Then there was a pause; then Maggie suddenly looked up and smiled.

  “But you’re quite wrong, Miss Avies. I’ve no intention of not facing Martin, and I’ve no intention either of having my life ruined because he’s not here. At first, when I was very ill, I was unhappy, and then I saw how silly I was.”

  “Why?” said Miss Avies with great pleasure. “You’ve got over it already! I must say I’m delighted because I never thought much of Martin Warlock if you want to know, my dear. I always thought him a weak young man, and he wouldn’t have done you any good. I’m delighted — indeed I am.”

  “That’s not true either,” said Maggie quietly. “If by getting over it you mean that I don’t love Martin you’re quite wrong. I loved him the first moment I saw him and I shall love him in just the same way until I die. I don’t think it matters what he does or where he is so far as loving him goes. But that doesn’t mean I’m sitting and pining. I’m not.”

  Miss Avies looked at her with displeasure.

  “It’s the same thing then,” she said. “You may fancy you’re going to lead an ordinary life again, but all the time you’ll just be waiting for him to come back.”

  “No,” said Maggie, “I shall not. I’ve had plenty of time for thinking these last weeks, and I’ve made up my mind to his never coming back — never at all. And even if he did come back he mightn’t want me. So I’m not going to waste time about it. I shall find work and make myself useful somewhere, but I shall always love Martin just as I do now.”

  “You’re very young,” said Miss Avies, touched in spite of herself. “Later on you’ll find some one much better than young Warlock.”

  “Perhaps I shall,” said Maggie. “But what’s the use of that if he isn’t Martin? I’ve heard people say that before — some one’s ‘better’ or ‘stronger’ or ‘wiser.’ — But what has that got to do with it? I love Martin because he’s Martin. He’s got a weak character you say. That’s why he wants me, and I want to be wanted more than anything on earth.”

  “Why, child,” said Miss Avies, astonished. “How you’ve grown these last weeks!”

  “Do you want to know how I love Martin,” said Maggie, “so that there shall be no mistake about it? Well, I can’t tell you. I couldn’t tell any one. I don’t know how I love him, but I know that I shall never change or alter all my life — even though he never comes back again. I’ve given over being silly,” she went on. “There were days and days at first when I just wanted to die. But now I’m going to make my own life and have a good time — and never stop loving Martin for one single second.”

  “Supposing,” said Miss Avies, “some one wanted to marry you? Would you?”

  “It would depend,” said Maggie; “if I liked him and he really wanted me and I could help him I might. Only, of course, I’d tell him about Martin first.”

  She went on after a little pause: “You see, Miss Avies, I haven’t been very happy with my aunts, and I always thought it was their fault that I wasn’t. But during these weeks when I’ve been lying in bed I saw that it was my own fault for being so gloomy about everything. Now that I’ve got Martin—”

  “Got him!” interrupted Miss Avies; “why, you’ve only just lost him!”

  “No, I haven’t,” answered Maggie. “He didn’t go away because he hated me or was tired of me, he went away because he didn’t want to do me any harm, and I think he cared for me more just at that minute than he’d ever done before. So I’ve nothing to spoil my memory of him. I daresay we wouldn’t have got on well, together, I don’t think I would ever have fascinated him enough to keep him with me for very long — but now I know that he loved me at the very moment he went away and wasn’t thinking how ugly I was or what a nasty temper I had or how irritating I could be.”

  “But, my dear child,” said Miss Avies, astonished. “How can you say you loved one another if you were always quarrelling and expecting to part?” “We weren’t always quarrelling,” said Maggie. “We weren’t together enough, but if we had been it wouldn’t have meant that we didn’t love one another. I don’t think we’d ever been very happy, but being happy together doesn’t seem to me the only sign of love. Love seems to me to be moments of great joy rising from every kind of trouble and bother. I don’t call tranquillity happiness.”

  “Well, you have thought things out,” said Miss Avies, “and all of us considering you so stupid—”

  “I’m not going to squash myself into a corner any more,” said Maggie. “Why should I? I find I’m as good as any one
else. I made Martin love me — even though it was only for a moment. So I’m going to be shy no longer.”

  “And here was I thinking you heart-broken,” said Miss Avies.

  “I’m going out into the world,” said Maggie half to herself. “I’m going to have adventures. I’ve been in this house long enough. I’m going to see what men and women are really like — I know this isn’t real here. And I want to discover about religion too. Since Martin went away I’ve felt that there was something in it. I can’t think what and the aunts can’t think either; none of you know here, but some one must have found out something. I’m going to settle what it all means.”

  “You’ve got your work cut out,” said Miss Avies. “I’ll come and see you again one day soon.”

  “Yes, do,” said Maggie.

  When Miss Avies had gone Maggie realised that she had been talking with bravado — in fact she hid her head in the cushion of the chair and cried for at least five minutes. Then she sat up and wiped her eyes because she heard Aunt Anne coming. When Aunt Anne came towards her now she was affected with a strange feeling of sickness. She told herself that that was part of her illness. She did not hate Aunt Anne. For some weeks, when she had risen slowly from the nightmare that the first period of her illness had been, she hated Aunt Anne, hated her fiercely, absorbingly, desperately. Then suddenly the hatred had left her, and had she only known it she was from that moment never to hate any one again. A quite new love for Martin was suddenly born in her, a love that was, as yet, like the first faint stirring of the child in the mother’s womb. This new love was quite different from the old; that had been acquisitive, possessive, urgent, restless, and often terribly painful; this was tranquil, sure, utterly certain, and passive. The immediate fruit of it was that she regarded all human creatures with a lively interest, an interest too absorbing to allow of hatred or even active dislike. Her love for Martin was now like a strong current in her soul washing away all sense of irritation and anger. She regarded people from a new angle. What were they all about? What were they thinking? Had they too had some experience as marvellous as her meeting with and parting from Martin? Probably; and they too were shy of speaking of it. Her love for Martin slowly grew, a love now independent of earthly contact and earthly desire, a treasure that would be hers so long as life lasted, that no one could take from her.