The Captives [105]
now passionately that she had not given that note to Caroline.
Suddenly Miss Avies said, "What do you do with yourself all day?"
Maggie laughed. "Try and make myself less careless, Miss Avies."
Miss Avies replied, "You'll never make yourself less careless. We are as we are."
"But don't you think," said Maggie, "that one can cure one's faults?"
"One gets rid of one only to make room for another . . . But that doesn't matter. The point is that one should have an ambition. What's your ambition, child?"
Maggie didn't answer. Her ambition was Martin, but she couldn't tell Miss Avies so.
At last, after a long pause, as Miss Avies still seemed to be waiting, she answered:
"I suppose that I want to earn my living--to be independent."
"Well, leave this place then," said Miss Avies. "There's no independence here." Then added, as though to herself. "They think they're looking for the face of God . . . It's only for themselves and their vanity they're looking."
Maggie said, to break another of the long pauses that seemed to be always forming between them:
"I think every one ought to earn their own living, don't you?"
Miss Avies shook her head. "You're very young--terribly young. I've got no advice to give you except to lead a healthy life somewhere away from these surroundings. We're an unnatural lot here and you're a healthy young creature . . . Have you got a lover?"
Maggie smiled. "I've got a friend," she said. Miss Avies sighed. "That's more than I've got," she said.
"Not that I've time for one," she added. She got up. "I won't wait for your aunt," she said, "I've left a note downstairs . . . You clear out as soon as you can, that's my advice to you."
She said good-bye, looking into Maggie's clear eyes. She was suddenly less inhuman, the touch of her hand was warmer.
"Don't you cheat yourself into believing in the Deity," she said, and was gone.
When Friday arrived Maggie had not seen Caroline again, and she could not tell whether the note had been safely delivered or no. She was not sure what she had better do. Caroline might hare done anything with the note, torn it up, burnt it, lost it, forgotten it altogether. Well, that was a risk that Maggie must take. If he did not appear she would wait a little while and then come away. They must soon meet in any case. They had all their lives before them.
Aunt Anne was up again--very, very pale now and so thin that the light seemed to shine through her making her more of a stained window saint than ever.
Maggie told her about the visit, Aunt Anne looked at her curiously. She seemed so weak and frail that Maggie suddenly felt warm maternal love. Rather shyly she put her hand upon her aunt's: "I won't go away until you're better--"
Aunt Anne nodded her head.
"I know you won't, dear," she said. "Don't be out late to-day. We shall be anxious about you."
Maggie had made a promise and was terrified when she thought of it. Suppose her aunt did not get better for years and years?
People often had long lingering illnesses with no apparent change in their condition. To Maggie a promise was an utterly final thing. She could not dream that one ever broke one's word. She trembled now when she thought of what she had done. She had been entrapped after all and by her own free will.
In her little room as she was putting on her hat she suddenly prayed to a God, of whom she knew nothing, that her aunt might get better soon.
She started out on her great adventure with a strange self-assurance as though loving Martin had given her the wisdom of all the ages.
Turning down the street towards the Strand she found almost at once a taxi-cab drawn up, as though it had been waiting there especially for her like an eloping coach in a romantic tale. A fat red-faced fellow with a purple nose, a cloth cap and a familiar vague eye, as though he always saw further than he intended, waited patiently for her to speak.
Boldly, as though she had done such things all her life, she said, "Fourteen Bryanston Square." Then she slipped in and was
Suddenly Miss Avies said, "What do you do with yourself all day?"
Maggie laughed. "Try and make myself less careless, Miss Avies."
Miss Avies replied, "You'll never make yourself less careless. We are as we are."
"But don't you think," said Maggie, "that one can cure one's faults?"
"One gets rid of one only to make room for another . . . But that doesn't matter. The point is that one should have an ambition. What's your ambition, child?"
Maggie didn't answer. Her ambition was Martin, but she couldn't tell Miss Avies so.
At last, after a long pause, as Miss Avies still seemed to be waiting, she answered:
"I suppose that I want to earn my living--to be independent."
"Well, leave this place then," said Miss Avies. "There's no independence here." Then added, as though to herself. "They think they're looking for the face of God . . . It's only for themselves and their vanity they're looking."
Maggie said, to break another of the long pauses that seemed to be always forming between them:
"I think every one ought to earn their own living, don't you?"
Miss Avies shook her head. "You're very young--terribly young. I've got no advice to give you except to lead a healthy life somewhere away from these surroundings. We're an unnatural lot here and you're a healthy young creature . . . Have you got a lover?"
Maggie smiled. "I've got a friend," she said. Miss Avies sighed. "That's more than I've got," she said.
"Not that I've time for one," she added. She got up. "I won't wait for your aunt," she said, "I've left a note downstairs . . . You clear out as soon as you can, that's my advice to you."
She said good-bye, looking into Maggie's clear eyes. She was suddenly less inhuman, the touch of her hand was warmer.
"Don't you cheat yourself into believing in the Deity," she said, and was gone.
When Friday arrived Maggie had not seen Caroline again, and she could not tell whether the note had been safely delivered or no. She was not sure what she had better do. Caroline might hare done anything with the note, torn it up, burnt it, lost it, forgotten it altogether. Well, that was a risk that Maggie must take. If he did not appear she would wait a little while and then come away. They must soon meet in any case. They had all their lives before them.
Aunt Anne was up again--very, very pale now and so thin that the light seemed to shine through her making her more of a stained window saint than ever.
Maggie told her about the visit, Aunt Anne looked at her curiously. She seemed so weak and frail that Maggie suddenly felt warm maternal love. Rather shyly she put her hand upon her aunt's: "I won't go away until you're better--"
Aunt Anne nodded her head.
"I know you won't, dear," she said. "Don't be out late to-day. We shall be anxious about you."
Maggie had made a promise and was terrified when she thought of it. Suppose her aunt did not get better for years and years?
People often had long lingering illnesses with no apparent change in their condition. To Maggie a promise was an utterly final thing. She could not dream that one ever broke one's word. She trembled now when she thought of what she had done. She had been entrapped after all and by her own free will.
In her little room as she was putting on her hat she suddenly prayed to a God, of whom she knew nothing, that her aunt might get better soon.
She started out on her great adventure with a strange self-assurance as though loving Martin had given her the wisdom of all the ages.
Turning down the street towards the Strand she found almost at once a taxi-cab drawn up, as though it had been waiting there especially for her like an eloping coach in a romantic tale. A fat red-faced fellow with a purple nose, a cloth cap and a familiar vague eye, as though he always saw further than he intended, waited patiently for her to speak.
Boldly, as though she had done such things all her life, she said, "Fourteen Bryanston Square." Then she slipped in and was