The Captives [118]
and neatest there.
"Just see whether it fits, darling," he said. At the word "darling" the prophet cast another despairing look about the shop, as though he knew well the length of time that lovers could take over these things if they once put their hearts into it. Maggie was ashamed of her stubby finger as she put her hand forward--but the ring fitted exactly.
"That's right," said Martin, "Now we'll have this put into a case."
"How wonderful he is," thought Maggie. Not as other women might have thought, "I wonder how many times he's done this before." Maggie thought then that it would be more proper to retire a little so that she should not know the price--and she stood in the doorway of the shop, looking upon the wind and weather in Bond Street and the magnificent motor car that belonged to the lady with the pearls and a magnificent chauffeur, who was so superior that it was probable that the lady with the pearls belonged to him--and she saw none of these things, but was conscious of herself and Martin wrapt together in a mist of happiness that no outside force could penetrate.
As they walked away from the shop she said: "Of course I won't be able to wear it."
He put the little square box, wrapped in tissue paper, into her hand, and answered: "You can wear it on a ribbon under your dress."
"Oh yes," she whispered, pressing his hand for a moment.
They did not climb on to a 'bus that morning, but walked ahead blindly, blissfully, they did not know whither. They were now in wild days at the end of November and the weather was tempestuous, the wind blowing with a screaming fury and black clouds scudding across the sky like portents. Little heavy drops of rain fell with a sudden urgency as though they were emphasising some secret; figures were swept through the streets and the roar of the wind was so vehement that the traffic seemed to make no sound. And yet nothing happened--no great storm of rain, no devastating flood. It was a day of warning.
They noticed nothing of the weather. It might have been a world of burning sunshine for all they saw of it.
"You know," said Martin, "I've never liked giving any one anything so much as I liked giving you that ring."
"I wish I could give you something too," she said.
"Well, you can," he said. "Some little thing that I'll carry about with me always . . . Oh, Maggie!" he went on. "Isn't it strange how easy it is to be good when no one worries you. These last ten days with you I couldn't have done anything wrong if I tried. It isn't fair to say we can help ourselves. We can't. Something just comes along and seizes you and makes you do wrong."
"Oh, I don't know," said Maggie. "Don't let's talk about those things. It's like Mr. Magnus, who says we're treasure hunters or pools of water, or old men in asylums. I don't understand all that. I'm just Maggie Cardinal.--All the same I believe one can do what one wants to. I don't believe people can make one do things."
"Do you think any one could make me not love you if they tried? I shall love you always, whatever happens. I know I shall never change. I'm not one to change. I'm obstinate. Father used to say 'obstinate as a pig.'"
That made her think of the old days at St. Dreot's, just then, as they seemed, so remote. She began to tell him of those old days, of the Vicarage, of the holes in the floor and the ceiling, of her loneliness and the way the villagers used to talk, of her solitary walks and looking down on to Polchester from the hill-top, of her father's sudden death, of Uncle Mathew . . .
"He's a funny old codger," said Martin. "What does he do?"
"I don't know," said Maggie. "I really don't know how he lives I'm afraid it's something rather bad."
"I've known men like that," said Martin, "plenty, but it's funny that one of them should be connected with you. It doesn't seem as though you could have anything to do with a man like that."
"Oh, but I like him!" said Maggie. "He's been very kind to me often. When I was all alone after father died he was very good--" She stopped abruptly
"Just see whether it fits, darling," he said. At the word "darling" the prophet cast another despairing look about the shop, as though he knew well the length of time that lovers could take over these things if they once put their hearts into it. Maggie was ashamed of her stubby finger as she put her hand forward--but the ring fitted exactly.
"That's right," said Martin, "Now we'll have this put into a case."
"How wonderful he is," thought Maggie. Not as other women might have thought, "I wonder how many times he's done this before." Maggie thought then that it would be more proper to retire a little so that she should not know the price--and she stood in the doorway of the shop, looking upon the wind and weather in Bond Street and the magnificent motor car that belonged to the lady with the pearls and a magnificent chauffeur, who was so superior that it was probable that the lady with the pearls belonged to him--and she saw none of these things, but was conscious of herself and Martin wrapt together in a mist of happiness that no outside force could penetrate.
As they walked away from the shop she said: "Of course I won't be able to wear it."
He put the little square box, wrapped in tissue paper, into her hand, and answered: "You can wear it on a ribbon under your dress."
"Oh yes," she whispered, pressing his hand for a moment.
They did not climb on to a 'bus that morning, but walked ahead blindly, blissfully, they did not know whither. They were now in wild days at the end of November and the weather was tempestuous, the wind blowing with a screaming fury and black clouds scudding across the sky like portents. Little heavy drops of rain fell with a sudden urgency as though they were emphasising some secret; figures were swept through the streets and the roar of the wind was so vehement that the traffic seemed to make no sound. And yet nothing happened--no great storm of rain, no devastating flood. It was a day of warning.
They noticed nothing of the weather. It might have been a world of burning sunshine for all they saw of it.
"You know," said Martin, "I've never liked giving any one anything so much as I liked giving you that ring."
"I wish I could give you something too," she said.
"Well, you can," he said. "Some little thing that I'll carry about with me always . . . Oh, Maggie!" he went on. "Isn't it strange how easy it is to be good when no one worries you. These last ten days with you I couldn't have done anything wrong if I tried. It isn't fair to say we can help ourselves. We can't. Something just comes along and seizes you and makes you do wrong."
"Oh, I don't know," said Maggie. "Don't let's talk about those things. It's like Mr. Magnus, who says we're treasure hunters or pools of water, or old men in asylums. I don't understand all that. I'm just Maggie Cardinal.--All the same I believe one can do what one wants to. I don't believe people can make one do things."
"Do you think any one could make me not love you if they tried? I shall love you always, whatever happens. I know I shall never change. I'm not one to change. I'm obstinate. Father used to say 'obstinate as a pig.'"
That made her think of the old days at St. Dreot's, just then, as they seemed, so remote. She began to tell him of those old days, of the Vicarage, of the holes in the floor and the ceiling, of her loneliness and the way the villagers used to talk, of her solitary walks and looking down on to Polchester from the hill-top, of her father's sudden death, of Uncle Mathew . . .
"He's a funny old codger," said Martin. "What does he do?"
"I don't know," said Maggie. "I really don't know how he lives I'm afraid it's something rather bad."
"I've known men like that," said Martin, "plenty, but it's funny that one of them should be connected with you. It doesn't seem as though you could have anything to do with a man like that."
"Oh, but I like him!" said Maggie. "He's been very kind to me often. When I was all alone after father died he was very good--" She stopped abruptly