The Captives [163]
to the illegitimate babies!
"Of course, I don't love him," said Maggie, staring in front of her.
"But you like him," said Katherine. "It isn't as though Paul were a very young man. He wouldn't expect anything very romantic. He isn't really a romantic man himself."
"And I shall always love Martin," pursued Maggie.
Katherine's own romance had fulfilled itself so thoroughly that it had almost ceased to be romantic. The Trenchard blood in her made her a little impatient of unfulfilled romances.
"Don't you think, Maggie, dear," she said gently, "that it would be better to forget him?"
"No, I don't," said Maggie, moving away from Katherine. "And I should have to tell Paul about him. I'd tell Paul the exact truth, that if I married him it was because I liked him and I thought we'd be good friends. I see quite clearly that I can't sit for ever waiting for Martin to come back, and the sooner I settle to something the better. If Paul wants a friend I can be one, but I should never love him--even though Martin wasn't there. And as to the managing, I'm dreadfully careless and forgetful."
"You'd soon learn," said Katherine.
"Do you think I should?" asked Maggie. "I don't know, I'm sure. As to Grace, I think we'd get on all right. There's a greater difficulty than that though."
"What?" asked Katherine as Maggie hesitated.
"Religion," said Maggie. "Paul's a clergyman and I don't believe in his religion at all. Two months ago I'd have said I hated all religion--and so would you if you'd had a time like me. But since Martin's gone I'm not so sure. There's some-thing I want to find out . . . But Paul's found out everything. He's quite sure and certain. I'd have to tell him I don't believe in any of his faith."
"Tell him. of course," said Katherine. "I think he knows that already. He's going to convert you. He looks forward to it. If he hadn't been so lazy he'd have been a missionary."
"Tell me about Skeaton," said Maggie.
"I've only been there once," said Katherine. "Frankly, I didn't like it very much, but then I'm so used to the Glebeshire sea that it all seemed rather tame. There was a good deal of sand blowing about the day I was there, but Paul's house is nice with a garden and a croquet-lawn, and--and--Oh! very nice, and nice people next door I believe."
"I'm glad it's not like Glebeshire," said Maggie. "That's a point in its favour. I want to be somewhere where everything is quiet and orderly, and every one knows their own mind and all the bells ring at the right time and no one's strange or queer, and--most of all-- where no one's afraid of anything. All my life I've been with people who were afraid and I've been afraid myself. Now Paul and Grace are not afraid of anything."
"No, they're not," said Katherine, laughing.
Suddenly Maggie broke out:
"Katherine! Tell me truly. Does Paul want me, does he need me? Does he indeed?"
The storm of appeal in Maggie's voice made Katherine suddenly shy; there was a hint at loneliness and desolation there that was something beyond her reach. She wanted to help. She was suddenly frightened at her urging of Paul's suit. Something seemed to say to her: "Leave this alone. Don't take the responsibility of this. You don't understand . . ."
But another voice said: "Poor child . . . all alone, penniless, without a friend. What a chance for her! Paul such a kind man."
So she kissed Maggie, and said: "He wants you dreadfully, Maggie dear."
Maggie's cheeks flushed.
"That's nice," she said in her most ordinary voice. "Because no one ever has before, you know."
Paul's proposal came the very next day. It came after luncheon in a corner of the drawing-room.
Maggie knew quite well that it was coming. She was lying in a long chair near the fire, a shawl over her knees. It was a blustering day at the end of February. The windows rattled, and the wind rushing down the chimney blew the flame into little flags and pennants of colour.
Paul came and stood by the fire, warming his hands, his legs spread out. Maggie looked at him with a long comprehensive
"Of course, I don't love him," said Maggie, staring in front of her.
"But you like him," said Katherine. "It isn't as though Paul were a very young man. He wouldn't expect anything very romantic. He isn't really a romantic man himself."
"And I shall always love Martin," pursued Maggie.
Katherine's own romance had fulfilled itself so thoroughly that it had almost ceased to be romantic. The Trenchard blood in her made her a little impatient of unfulfilled romances.
"Don't you think, Maggie, dear," she said gently, "that it would be better to forget him?"
"No, I don't," said Maggie, moving away from Katherine. "And I should have to tell Paul about him. I'd tell Paul the exact truth, that if I married him it was because I liked him and I thought we'd be good friends. I see quite clearly that I can't sit for ever waiting for Martin to come back, and the sooner I settle to something the better. If Paul wants a friend I can be one, but I should never love him--even though Martin wasn't there. And as to the managing, I'm dreadfully careless and forgetful."
"You'd soon learn," said Katherine.
"Do you think I should?" asked Maggie. "I don't know, I'm sure. As to Grace, I think we'd get on all right. There's a greater difficulty than that though."
"What?" asked Katherine as Maggie hesitated.
"Religion," said Maggie. "Paul's a clergyman and I don't believe in his religion at all. Two months ago I'd have said I hated all religion--and so would you if you'd had a time like me. But since Martin's gone I'm not so sure. There's some-thing I want to find out . . . But Paul's found out everything. He's quite sure and certain. I'd have to tell him I don't believe in any of his faith."
"Tell him. of course," said Katherine. "I think he knows that already. He's going to convert you. He looks forward to it. If he hadn't been so lazy he'd have been a missionary."
"Tell me about Skeaton," said Maggie.
"I've only been there once," said Katherine. "Frankly, I didn't like it very much, but then I'm so used to the Glebeshire sea that it all seemed rather tame. There was a good deal of sand blowing about the day I was there, but Paul's house is nice with a garden and a croquet-lawn, and--and--Oh! very nice, and nice people next door I believe."
"I'm glad it's not like Glebeshire," said Maggie. "That's a point in its favour. I want to be somewhere where everything is quiet and orderly, and every one knows their own mind and all the bells ring at the right time and no one's strange or queer, and--most of all-- where no one's afraid of anything. All my life I've been with people who were afraid and I've been afraid myself. Now Paul and Grace are not afraid of anything."
"No, they're not," said Katherine, laughing.
Suddenly Maggie broke out:
"Katherine! Tell me truly. Does Paul want me, does he need me? Does he indeed?"
The storm of appeal in Maggie's voice made Katherine suddenly shy; there was a hint at loneliness and desolation there that was something beyond her reach. She wanted to help. She was suddenly frightened at her urging of Paul's suit. Something seemed to say to her: "Leave this alone. Don't take the responsibility of this. You don't understand . . ."
But another voice said: "Poor child . . . all alone, penniless, without a friend. What a chance for her! Paul such a kind man."
So she kissed Maggie, and said: "He wants you dreadfully, Maggie dear."
Maggie's cheeks flushed.
"That's nice," she said in her most ordinary voice. "Because no one ever has before, you know."
Paul's proposal came the very next day. It came after luncheon in a corner of the drawing-room.
Maggie knew quite well that it was coming. She was lying in a long chair near the fire, a shawl over her knees. It was a blustering day at the end of February. The windows rattled, and the wind rushing down the chimney blew the flame into little flags and pennants of colour.
Paul came and stood by the fire, warming his hands, his legs spread out. Maggie looked at him with a long comprehensive