The Captives [132]
to the shabby broken arm-chair and made him sit down. Himself sat in his old place on the arm of the chair, his hand against his father's neck.
"Father, come away--just for a week--with me. We'll go right off into the country to Glebeshire or somewhere, quite alone. We won't see a soul. We'll just walk and eat and sleep. And then you'll come back to your work here another man."
"No, Martin. I can't yet. Not just now."
"Why not, father?"
"I have work, work that can't be left."
"But if you go on like this you'll be so that you can't go on any longer. You'll break down. You know what the doctor said about your heart. You aren't taking any care at all."
"Perhaps . . . perhaps . . . but for a week or two I must just go on, preparing . . . many things . . . Martin."
He suddenly looked up at his son, putting his hand on his knee.
"Yes, father."
"You're being good now, aren't you?"
"Good, father?"
"Yes . . . Not doing anything you or I'd be ashamed of. I know in the past . . . but that's been forgotten, that's over. Only now, just now, it's terribly important for us both that you should be good . . . like you used to be . . . when you were a boy."
"Father, what have people been saying to you about me?"
"Nothing--nothing. Only I think about you so much. I pray about you all the time. Soon, as you say, we'll go away together . . . only now, just now, I want you with me here, strong by my side. I want your help."
Martin took his father's hand, felt how dry and hot and feverish it was.
"I'll be with you," he said. "I promise that. Don't you listen to what any one says. I won't leave you." He would like to have gone on and asked other questions, but the old man seemed so worn out and exhausted that he was afraid of distressing him, so he just sat there, his hands on his shoulders, and suddenly the white head nodded, the beard sank over the breast and huddled up in the chair as though life itself had left him; the old man slept.
During the next four days Martin and Maggie corresponded through the fair hands of Jane. He wrote only short letters, and over them he struggled. He seemed to see Maggie through a tangled mist of persons and motives and intentions. He could not get at the real Maggie at all, he could not even get at his real feelings about her. He knew that these letters were not enough for her, he could feel behind her own a longing for something from him more definite, something that would bring her closer to him. He was haunted by his picture of her sitting in that dismal house, a prisoner, waiting for him, and at last, at the end of the four days, he felt that he must, in some way or other see her. Then she herself proposed a way.
"To-morrow night (Friday)," she wrote, "the aunts are going to a meeting. They won't return until after eight o'clock. During most of that time Martha will be in the kitchen cooking, and Jane (who is staying late that night) has promised to give me a signal. I could run out for quarter of an hour and meet you somewhere close by and risk getting back. Jane will be ready to let me in. Of course, it may fail, but things can't be worse than they are . . . I absolutely forbid you to come if you think that this can make anything worse for you at home. But I MUST see you, Martin . . . I feel to-night as though I couldn't stand it any longer (although I've only had five days of it!), but I think that if I met you, really you, for only five minutes, I could bear it then for weeks. Let me know if you agree to this, and if so where we could meet about 7.30."
The mere thought of seeing her was wonderful. He would not have believed a month ago that it could have come to mean so much to him.
He wrote back:
"Yes. At the corner of Dundas Street, by the Pillar Box, 7.30."
He knew that she had been to that dark little street with her aunts to see Miss Pyncheon.
The night, when it came, was misty, and when he reached the place she was at once in his arms. She had been there more than five minutes, she had thought that he was not coming. Martha had nearly
"Father, come away--just for a week--with me. We'll go right off into the country to Glebeshire or somewhere, quite alone. We won't see a soul. We'll just walk and eat and sleep. And then you'll come back to your work here another man."
"No, Martin. I can't yet. Not just now."
"Why not, father?"
"I have work, work that can't be left."
"But if you go on like this you'll be so that you can't go on any longer. You'll break down. You know what the doctor said about your heart. You aren't taking any care at all."
"Perhaps . . . perhaps . . . but for a week or two I must just go on, preparing . . . many things . . . Martin."
He suddenly looked up at his son, putting his hand on his knee.
"Yes, father."
"You're being good now, aren't you?"
"Good, father?"
"Yes . . . Not doing anything you or I'd be ashamed of. I know in the past . . . but that's been forgotten, that's over. Only now, just now, it's terribly important for us both that you should be good . . . like you used to be . . . when you were a boy."
"Father, what have people been saying to you about me?"
"Nothing--nothing. Only I think about you so much. I pray about you all the time. Soon, as you say, we'll go away together . . . only now, just now, I want you with me here, strong by my side. I want your help."
Martin took his father's hand, felt how dry and hot and feverish it was.
"I'll be with you," he said. "I promise that. Don't you listen to what any one says. I won't leave you." He would like to have gone on and asked other questions, but the old man seemed so worn out and exhausted that he was afraid of distressing him, so he just sat there, his hands on his shoulders, and suddenly the white head nodded, the beard sank over the breast and huddled up in the chair as though life itself had left him; the old man slept.
During the next four days Martin and Maggie corresponded through the fair hands of Jane. He wrote only short letters, and over them he struggled. He seemed to see Maggie through a tangled mist of persons and motives and intentions. He could not get at the real Maggie at all, he could not even get at his real feelings about her. He knew that these letters were not enough for her, he could feel behind her own a longing for something from him more definite, something that would bring her closer to him. He was haunted by his picture of her sitting in that dismal house, a prisoner, waiting for him, and at last, at the end of the four days, he felt that he must, in some way or other see her. Then she herself proposed a way.
"To-morrow night (Friday)," she wrote, "the aunts are going to a meeting. They won't return until after eight o'clock. During most of that time Martha will be in the kitchen cooking, and Jane (who is staying late that night) has promised to give me a signal. I could run out for quarter of an hour and meet you somewhere close by and risk getting back. Jane will be ready to let me in. Of course, it may fail, but things can't be worse than they are . . . I absolutely forbid you to come if you think that this can make anything worse for you at home. But I MUST see you, Martin . . . I feel to-night as though I couldn't stand it any longer (although I've only had five days of it!), but I think that if I met you, really you, for only five minutes, I could bear it then for weeks. Let me know if you agree to this, and if so where we could meet about 7.30."
The mere thought of seeing her was wonderful. He would not have believed a month ago that it could have come to mean so much to him.
He wrote back:
"Yes. At the corner of Dundas Street, by the Pillar Box, 7.30."
He knew that she had been to that dark little street with her aunts to see Miss Pyncheon.
The night, when it came, was misty, and when he reached the place she was at once in his arms. She had been there more than five minutes, she had thought that he was not coming. Martha had nearly