The Captives Part 82

"You'd much better not," he repeated.

"Is that a bargain?"

"Yes, if you like," he answered, looking at her with puzzled eyes. It was the first long conversation that they had had. After it, he was no nicer than before. He never kissed her, he never touched her, he seldom talked to her; when she talked, he seemed to be little interested. For hours he lay there, looking in front of him, saying nothing. When the little doctor came they wrangled and fought together but seemed to like one another.

Through it all Maggie could see that he was riddled with deep shame and self-contempt and haunted, always, by the thought of his father. She longed to speak to him about his father's death, but as yet she did not dare. If once she could persuade him that that had not been his fault, she could, she thought, really help him. That was the secret canker at his heart and she could not touch it.

Strangely, as the days pa.s.sed, the years that had been added to him since their last meeting seemed to fall away. He became to her more and more the boy that he had been when she had known him before. In a thousand ways he showed it, his extraordinary youth and inexperience in spite of all that he had been and done. She felt older now than he and she loved him the more for that. Most of all she longed to get him away from this place where he was. Then one day little Abrams said to her:

"He'll never get well here."

"That's what I think," she said.

"Can't you carry him off somewhere? The country's the place for him--somewhere in the South."

Her heart leapt.

"Oh, Glebes.h.i.+re!" she cried.

"Well, that's not a bad place," he said. "That would pick him up."

At once she thought, night and day, of St. Dreot's. A very hunger possessed her to get back there. And why not? For one thing, it would be so much cheaper. Her money would not last for ever, and Mrs. Brandon robbed her whenever possible. She determined that she would manage it.

At last, greatly fearing it, she mentioned it to him, and to her surprise he did not scorn it.

"I don't care," he said, looking at her with that curious puzzled expression that she often saw now in his eyes, "I'm sick of this room.

That's a bargain, Maggie, you can put me where you like until I'm well.

Then I'm off."

She had a strange superst.i.tion that Borhedden was fated to see her triumph. She had wandered round the world and now was returning again to her own home. She remembered a Mrs. Bolitho who had had the farm in her day. She wrote to her, and two days later received a letter saying that there was room for them at Borhedden if they wished.

She was now all feverish impatience. Dr. Abrams said that Martin could be moved if they were very careful. All plans were made. Mrs. Brandon and the ugly little doctor both seemed quite sorry that they were going, and Emily even sniffed and wiped her eye with the corner of her ap.r.o.n. The world seemed now to be turning a different face to Maggie.

Human beings liked her and were no longer suspicious to her as they had been before.

She felt herself how greatly she had changed. It was as though, until she had found Martin again, everything had been tied up in her, constrained. She had been some one lost and desolate. Nevertheless, how difficult these days were! Through all this time she spoke to him no affectionate word nor touched him with an affectionate gesture. She was simply a good-humoured companion, laughing at him, a.s.suming, through it all, an off-hand indifference that meant for her so difficult a pretence that she thought he must discover it. He did not; he was in many ways more simple than she. She laid to sleep his suspicions. She could feel his relief that she was not romantic, that she wanted nothing whatever from him. He was ill--therefore was often churlish. He tried to hurt her again and again with cruel words and then waited to see whether she were hurt. She never showed him. He treated her with contempt, often not answering her questions, laughing at her little stupidities, complaining of her forgetfulness and, sometimes, her untidiness--telling her again and again to "go back to her parson."

She gave no sign. She fought her way. But it hurt; she could not have believed that anything could hurt so much. She was being always drawn to him, longing to put her arm around him, to dare to kiss him, risking any repulse. He seemed so young, so helpless, so unhappy. Every part of him called to her, his hair, his eyes, his voice, his body. But she held herself in, she never gave way, she was resolute in her plan.

On their last evening in Lynton Street, for five minutes, he was suddenly kind to her, almost the old Martin speaking with the old voice. She held her breath, scarcely daring to let herself know how happy she was.

"What do you think about G.o.d, Maggie?" he asked, turning on the sofa and looking at her.

"Think about G.o.d?" she said, repeating his words.

"Yes ...Is there one?"

"I don't know. I haven't any intelligence about those things."

"Is there immortality?"

"I don't know."

"I hope not. Your parson thinks there is, doesn't he?"

"Of course he does."

"Did he have lots of services and did you hare to go to them?"

"Yes."

"Poor Maggie--always having to go to them. Well, it's queer. Funny if there isn't anything after all when there's been such a fight about it so long. Did they make you very religious at Skeaton or wherever the place was?"

"No," said Maggie. "They thought me a terrible heathen. Grace was terrified of me, I seemed so wicked to her. She thought I was bewitching Paul's soul--"

"Perhaps you were."

"No. So little did I that he hasn't even come up to London to fetch me."

"Which did you like best--Skeaton or the Chapel?"

"I don't know. I was wrong in both of them. They were just opposite."

Maggie waited a little. Then she said: "Martin there must be something.

I can feel it as though it were behind a wall somewhere--I can hear it and I can't see anything. Aunt Anne and--and--your father, and Paul, and Mr. Magnus were all trying ... It feels like a fight, but I don't know who's fighting who."

Her allusion to his father had been unfortunate.

"It's all d.a.m.ned rot if you ask me," he said, turned his face to the wall and wouldn't say another word.

Next morning they started. Mrs. Brandon's bill was as large as she could make it and still not very large. Dr. Abrams, to Maggie's immense surprise, would not take a penny.

"I'm not wantin' money just now," he said. "I'm robbing a rich old man who lives near here. I'm a sort of highway man, you know, rob the rich and spend it how I like. Now don't you press me to make up a bill or I shall change my mind and give you one and it will be so large that you won't be able to go down to Glebes.h.i.+re. How would you like that? Oh, don't think I'm doing it from fine motives. You're both a couple of babies, that's what you are, and it would be a shame to rob you. How you're ever going to get through the world don't know. The Babes in the Wood weren't in it. He thinks he's wicked, doesn't he?"

"Yes, he does," said Maggie.

"Wicked! Why, he doesn't know what wickedness is. A couple of children.

Look after his heart or he'll be popping off one fine morning."

Maggie turned pale. "Oh no," she said, her voice trembling.

"He's going to get well."

Abrams sniffed. "If he doesn't drink and leads a healthy life he may.

But leopards don't change their spots. He's worrying over something.

What is it?"

"His father's death," said Maggie. "He loved his father more than any one and he's got it into his head that he gave him a shock and killed him."

"Well, you get it out of his head," said Abrams. "He won't be better until you do."

Next morning they were at Paddington, Martin very feeble but indifferent to everything. They had a third-cla.s.s compartment to themselves until they got to Exeter, and all that while Martin never spoke a word. During this time Maggie did a lot of quiet thinking. She was worried, of course, about many things but especially finances. She knew very little about money. She gathered from Martin that he had not only spent ail that his and had left him, but had gone considerably beyond it, that he was badly in debt and saw no way of paying. This did not seem to worry him but it worried Maggie. Debts seemed to her awful things, and she could not imagine how any one lived under the burden of them. Supposing Martin were ill for a long time, how would they two live? Her little stock of money would not last very long. She must get work, but she knew more about the world after her years at Skeaton. She knew how ignorant she was, how uneducated and how unsophisticated. She did not doubt her ability to fight her way, but there might be weary months first, and meanwhile what of Martin?