The Captives [161]
she had never in all her life known. Of course she did not love him in the least. His approach did not make her pulses beat a moment faster, she did not long for him to come when he was not there--but he wanted her! That was the great thing. He wanted her!
"Of course if he asked you, you wouldn't really think of marrying him?" said Millicent.
"I don't know," said Maggie slowly.
"What! Marry him and live in Skeaton!" Millicent was frankly amazed. "Why, Skeaton's awful, and the people in it are awful, and Grace is awful. In the summer it's all nigger-minstrels and bathing-tents, and in the winter there isn't a soul--" Millicent shivered.
Maggie smiled. "Of course it seems dull to you, but my life's been very different. It hasn't been very exciting, and if I could really help him--" she broke off. "I do like him," she said. "He's the kindest man I've ever met. Of course he seems dull to you who have met all kinds of brilliant people. I hate brilliant people."
The car was in Bryanston Square. Just before it stopped Millie bent over and kissed Maggie.
"I think you're a darling," she said.
But Millie didn't think Maggie "a darling" for long--that is, she did not think about her at all for long; none of the family did.
So quiet was Maggie, so little in any one's way that, at the end of a fortnight, she made no difference to any one in the house. She was much better now, looking a different person, colour in her cheeks and light in her eyes. During her illness they had cut her hair and this made her look more than ever like a boy. She wore her plain dark dresses, black and dark blue; they never quite fitted and, with her queer odd face, her high forehead, rather awkward mouth, and grave questioning eyes she gave you the impression that she had been hurried into some disguise and was wearing it with discomfort but amusement. Some one who met her at the Trenchards at this time said of her: "What a funny girl! She's like a schoolboy dressed up to play a part in the school speeches." Of course she was not playing a part, no one could have been more entirely natural and honest, but she was odd, strange, out of her own world, and every one felt it.
It was, perhaps, this strangeness that attracted Paul Trenchard. He was, above everything, a kindly man-kindly, perhaps a little through laziness, but nevertheless moved always by distress or misfortune in others. Maggie was not distressed--she was quite cheerful and entirely unsentimental--nevertheless she had been very ill, was almost penniless, had had some private trouble, was au orphan, had no friends save two old aunts, and was amazingly ignorant of the world.
This last was, perhaps, the thing that struck him most of all. He, too, was ignorant of the world, but he didn't know that, and he was amazed at the things that Maggie brushed aside as unimportant. He found that he was beginning to think of her as "my little heathen." His attitude was the same as that of a good missionary discovering a naked but trusting native.
The thought of training this virgin mind was delightful to him.
He liked her quaintness, and one day suddenly, to his own surprise, when they were alone in the drawing-room, he kissed her, a most chaste kiss, gently on the forehead.
"Oh. my dear child--" he said in a kind of dismay.
She looked up at him with complete confidence. So gentle a kiss had it been that it had been no more than a pressure of the hand.
A few days later Katherine spoke to her. She came up to her bedroom just as Maggie was beginning to undress. Maggie stood in front of the glass, her evening frock off, brushing her short thick hair before the glass.
"Have you made any plans yet, dear?" asked Katherine.
Maggie shook her head.
"No." she said. "Not yet."
Katherine hesitated.
"I've got a confession to make," she said at last.
Maggie turned to look at her with her large childish eyes.
"Oh, I do hope you've done something wrong," she said, laughing," something really bad that I should have to 'overlook.'"
"What do you mean?" asked Katherine.
"Of course if he asked you, you wouldn't really think of marrying him?" said Millicent.
"I don't know," said Maggie slowly.
"What! Marry him and live in Skeaton!" Millicent was frankly amazed. "Why, Skeaton's awful, and the people in it are awful, and Grace is awful. In the summer it's all nigger-minstrels and bathing-tents, and in the winter there isn't a soul--" Millicent shivered.
Maggie smiled. "Of course it seems dull to you, but my life's been very different. It hasn't been very exciting, and if I could really help him--" she broke off. "I do like him," she said. "He's the kindest man I've ever met. Of course he seems dull to you who have met all kinds of brilliant people. I hate brilliant people."
The car was in Bryanston Square. Just before it stopped Millie bent over and kissed Maggie.
"I think you're a darling," she said.
But Millie didn't think Maggie "a darling" for long--that is, she did not think about her at all for long; none of the family did.
So quiet was Maggie, so little in any one's way that, at the end of a fortnight, she made no difference to any one in the house. She was much better now, looking a different person, colour in her cheeks and light in her eyes. During her illness they had cut her hair and this made her look more than ever like a boy. She wore her plain dark dresses, black and dark blue; they never quite fitted and, with her queer odd face, her high forehead, rather awkward mouth, and grave questioning eyes she gave you the impression that she had been hurried into some disguise and was wearing it with discomfort but amusement. Some one who met her at the Trenchards at this time said of her: "What a funny girl! She's like a schoolboy dressed up to play a part in the school speeches." Of course she was not playing a part, no one could have been more entirely natural and honest, but she was odd, strange, out of her own world, and every one felt it.
It was, perhaps, this strangeness that attracted Paul Trenchard. He was, above everything, a kindly man-kindly, perhaps a little through laziness, but nevertheless moved always by distress or misfortune in others. Maggie was not distressed--she was quite cheerful and entirely unsentimental--nevertheless she had been very ill, was almost penniless, had had some private trouble, was au orphan, had no friends save two old aunts, and was amazingly ignorant of the world.
This last was, perhaps, the thing that struck him most of all. He, too, was ignorant of the world, but he didn't know that, and he was amazed at the things that Maggie brushed aside as unimportant. He found that he was beginning to think of her as "my little heathen." His attitude was the same as that of a good missionary discovering a naked but trusting native.
The thought of training this virgin mind was delightful to him.
He liked her quaintness, and one day suddenly, to his own surprise, when they were alone in the drawing-room, he kissed her, a most chaste kiss, gently on the forehead.
"Oh. my dear child--" he said in a kind of dismay.
She looked up at him with complete confidence. So gentle a kiss had it been that it had been no more than a pressure of the hand.
A few days later Katherine spoke to her. She came up to her bedroom just as Maggie was beginning to undress. Maggie stood in front of the glass, her evening frock off, brushing her short thick hair before the glass.
"Have you made any plans yet, dear?" asked Katherine.
Maggie shook her head.
"No." she said. "Not yet."
Katherine hesitated.
"I've got a confession to make," she said at last.
Maggie turned to look at her with her large childish eyes.
"Oh, I do hope you've done something wrong," she said, laughing," something really bad that I should have to 'overlook.'"
"What do you mean?" asked Katherine.