The Captives [166]
wildly exciting, Maggie dear, will you?" she said. "You'll find plenty to do and there are lots of nice people, I'm sure, and you'll come up and stay with us here."
"I think it sounds delightful," said Maggie. "If you'd lived for years in St. Dreot's, Katherine, you wouldn't talk about other places being dull. It isn't excitement I want. It's work."
"Don't you let Grace bully you," said Katherine.
"Bully me? Grace?" Maggie was very astonished. "Why, she's the kindest old thing. She wants me to do everything."
"So she says," said Katherine doubtfully. "But she's very jealous of Paul. How much she'll really like giving up her authority when it comes to the point I don't know. You stick up to her. Paul's weak."
"I don't think he is." said Maggie rather indignantly. "Grace always does what he says." "Yes, just now," said Katherine.
And Maggie had one funny little conversation with Henry Trenchard. That wild youth catching her alone one day said abruptly:
"What the devil have you done it for?"
"Done what?" asked Maggie, her heart beating a little faster. Strangely Henry reminded her of Martin. He alone of all the Trenchards had something that was of that other world.
"Engaged yourself to Paul," said Henry.
"Why shouldn't I?" asked Maggie.
"You don't love him--of course you couldn't. You're not his sort in the least. You're worth a million Pauls."
This was so odd for Henry, who was certainly not given to compliments, that Maggie burst out laughing.
"Yes, you may laugh," said Henry. "I know what I'm talking about. Have you ever seen Paul asleep after dinner?"
"No," said Maggie.
"I wish you had. That might have saved you. Have you ever seen Grace lose her temper?"
"No," said Maggie, this time a little uneasily.
"Look here," he came close to her, staring at her with those eyes of his that could be very charming when he liked. "Break it off. Say you think it's a mistake. You'll be miserable."
"Indeed I shan't," said Maggie, tossing her head. "Whatever happens I'm not going to be miserable. No one can make me that."
"So you think," Henry frowned. "I can't think what you want to be married for at all. These days women can have such a good time, especially a woman with character like you. If I were a woman I'd never marry."
"You don't understand," said Maggie. "You haven't been lonely all your life as I have, and you're not afraid of making yourself cheap and--and--looking for some one who doesn't want--you. It's so easy for you to talk. And Paul wants me--really he does--"
"Yes, he does," said Henry slowly. "He's in love with you all right. I'm as sorry for Paul as I am for you."
Maggie laughed. "It's very kind of you to be sorry," she said, "but you needn't trouble. I believe we can look after ourselves."
For a quarter of an hour after this conversation she was a little uneasy. He was a clever boy, Henry; he did watch people. But then he was very young, It was all guesswork with him.
She became now strangely quiescent; her energy, her individuality, her strength of will seemed, for the time, entirely to have gone. She surrendered herself to Grace and Paul and Katherine and they did what they would with her.
Only once was she disturbed. Two nights before the wedding she dreamt of Martin. It did not appear as a dream at all. It seemed to her that she had been asleep and that she suddenly woke. She was gazing, from her bed, into her own room, but at the farther end of it instead of the wall with the rosy trees and the gold mirror was another room. This room was strange and cheerless with bare boards, a large four-poster bed with faded blue hangings, two old black prints with eighteenth-century figures and a big standing mirror. In front of the bed, staring into the mirror, was Martin, He was dressed shabbily in a blue reefer coat. He looked older than when she had seen him last, was stouter and ill, with white puffy cheeks and dark shadows under his eyes. She saw him very clearly under the light of two candles that wavered a little in the draught.
He was staring
"I think it sounds delightful," said Maggie. "If you'd lived for years in St. Dreot's, Katherine, you wouldn't talk about other places being dull. It isn't excitement I want. It's work."
"Don't you let Grace bully you," said Katherine.
"Bully me? Grace?" Maggie was very astonished. "Why, she's the kindest old thing. She wants me to do everything."
"So she says," said Katherine doubtfully. "But she's very jealous of Paul. How much she'll really like giving up her authority when it comes to the point I don't know. You stick up to her. Paul's weak."
"I don't think he is." said Maggie rather indignantly. "Grace always does what he says." "Yes, just now," said Katherine.
And Maggie had one funny little conversation with Henry Trenchard. That wild youth catching her alone one day said abruptly:
"What the devil have you done it for?"
"Done what?" asked Maggie, her heart beating a little faster. Strangely Henry reminded her of Martin. He alone of all the Trenchards had something that was of that other world.
"Engaged yourself to Paul," said Henry.
"Why shouldn't I?" asked Maggie.
"You don't love him--of course you couldn't. You're not his sort in the least. You're worth a million Pauls."
This was so odd for Henry, who was certainly not given to compliments, that Maggie burst out laughing.
"Yes, you may laugh," said Henry. "I know what I'm talking about. Have you ever seen Paul asleep after dinner?"
"No," said Maggie.
"I wish you had. That might have saved you. Have you ever seen Grace lose her temper?"
"No," said Maggie, this time a little uneasily.
"Look here," he came close to her, staring at her with those eyes of his that could be very charming when he liked. "Break it off. Say you think it's a mistake. You'll be miserable."
"Indeed I shan't," said Maggie, tossing her head. "Whatever happens I'm not going to be miserable. No one can make me that."
"So you think," Henry frowned. "I can't think what you want to be married for at all. These days women can have such a good time, especially a woman with character like you. If I were a woman I'd never marry."
"You don't understand," said Maggie. "You haven't been lonely all your life as I have, and you're not afraid of making yourself cheap and--and--looking for some one who doesn't want--you. It's so easy for you to talk. And Paul wants me--really he does--"
"Yes, he does," said Henry slowly. "He's in love with you all right. I'm as sorry for Paul as I am for you."
Maggie laughed. "It's very kind of you to be sorry," she said, "but you needn't trouble. I believe we can look after ourselves."
For a quarter of an hour after this conversation she was a little uneasy. He was a clever boy, Henry; he did watch people. But then he was very young, It was all guesswork with him.
She became now strangely quiescent; her energy, her individuality, her strength of will seemed, for the time, entirely to have gone. She surrendered herself to Grace and Paul and Katherine and they did what they would with her.
Only once was she disturbed. Two nights before the wedding she dreamt of Martin. It did not appear as a dream at all. It seemed to her that she had been asleep and that she suddenly woke. She was gazing, from her bed, into her own room, but at the farther end of it instead of the wall with the rosy trees and the gold mirror was another room. This room was strange and cheerless with bare boards, a large four-poster bed with faded blue hangings, two old black prints with eighteenth-century figures and a big standing mirror. In front of the bed, staring into the mirror, was Martin, He was dressed shabbily in a blue reefer coat. He looked older than when she had seen him last, was stouter and ill, with white puffy cheeks and dark shadows under his eyes. She saw him very clearly under the light of two candles that wavered a little in the draught.
He was staring