The Captives [17]
many little things came to her mind as she sat there, moments when the cook had breathlessly and in a sudden heat betrayed some unexpected agitation, moments when her father had shown confusion, moments when she had fancied whispers, laughter behind walls, scurrying feet. She entwined desperately her hands together as pictures developed behind her eyes.
Ah! but she was ashamed, most bitterly ashamed!
The rest of the interview came to her only dimly. She knew that Uncle Mathew was still upon his feet protesting, that her aunt's face was cold and wore a look of distressed surprise as though some one had suddenly been rude to her.
From very, very far away came Mr. Brassy's voice: "I was aware that this could not be agreeable, Miss Cardinal. But I am afraid that, under the circumstances, there is nothing to be done. As to undue influence I think that I should warn you, Mr. Cardinal, that there could be very little hope . . . and of course the expense . . . if I may advise you . . ."
The voice sank away again, the room faded, the air was still and painted; like figures on a stage acting before an audience of one Maggie saw those grotesque persons . . .
She did not speak one word during the whole affair.
After a time she saw that Mr. Brassy was not in the room. Her aunt was speaking to her:
"Maggie, dear--I'm so very sorry--so very sorry. But you know that you will come to us and find a home there. You mustn't think about the money--"
With a sudden impulse she arose, almost brushing her aunt aside.
"Ah! that's not it--that's not it!" she cried. Then, recovering herself a little, she went on--"It's all right, Aunt Anne. I'm all right. I'm going out for a little. If I'm not back for lunch, don't wait. Something cold, anything, tell Ellen--"
At the sudden mention of that name she stopped, coloured a little, turned away and left the room. In the hall she nearly ran against the cook. The woman was standing there, motionless, breathing deeply, her eyes fixed upon the dining-room. When she saw Maggie, she moved as though she would speak, then something in the girl's face checked her. She drew back into the shadow.
Maggie left the house.
The brother and sister, remaining in the room, walked towards one another as though driven by some common need of sympathy and protection against an outside power. Mathew Cardinal felt a genuine indignation that had but seldom figured in his life before. He had hated his brother, always, and never so greatly as at the moments of the man's reluctant charity towards him. But now, in the first clean uplift of his indignation, there was no self-congratulation at the justification of his prophecies.
"I knew him for what he was. But that he could do this! He meant it to hurt, too--that was like him all over. He had us in his mind. I wish I'd never taken a penny from him. I'd rather have starved. Yes, I would--far rather. I've been bad enough, but never a thing like that--"
His sister said quietly:
"He's dead, Mathew. We can do nothing. Maggie, poor child . . ."
He approached for an instant more nearly than he had ever done. He took her hand. There were tears in his eyes.
"It's good of you, Anne--to take her."
She withdrew her hand--very gently.
"I wish we'd taken her before. She must have had a terrible time here. I'd never realised . . ."
He stood away from her near the window, feeling suddenly ashamed of his impetuosity.
"She's a strange girl," Anne Cardinal went on. "She didn't seem to feel this,--or anything. She hasn't, I think, much heart. I'm afraid she may find it a little difficult with us--"
Mathew was uncomfortable now. His mood had changed; he was sullen. His sister always made him feel like a disgraced dog. He shuffled on his feet.
"She's a good girl," he muttered at last, and then with a confused look about him, as though he were searching for something, he stumbled out of the room.
Meanwhile Maggie went on her way. She chose instinctively her path, through the kitchen garden at the back of the village, down the hill by the
Ah! but she was ashamed, most bitterly ashamed!
The rest of the interview came to her only dimly. She knew that Uncle Mathew was still upon his feet protesting, that her aunt's face was cold and wore a look of distressed surprise as though some one had suddenly been rude to her.
From very, very far away came Mr. Brassy's voice: "I was aware that this could not be agreeable, Miss Cardinal. But I am afraid that, under the circumstances, there is nothing to be done. As to undue influence I think that I should warn you, Mr. Cardinal, that there could be very little hope . . . and of course the expense . . . if I may advise you . . ."
The voice sank away again, the room faded, the air was still and painted; like figures on a stage acting before an audience of one Maggie saw those grotesque persons . . .
She did not speak one word during the whole affair.
After a time she saw that Mr. Brassy was not in the room. Her aunt was speaking to her:
"Maggie, dear--I'm so very sorry--so very sorry. But you know that you will come to us and find a home there. You mustn't think about the money--"
With a sudden impulse she arose, almost brushing her aunt aside.
"Ah! that's not it--that's not it!" she cried. Then, recovering herself a little, she went on--"It's all right, Aunt Anne. I'm all right. I'm going out for a little. If I'm not back for lunch, don't wait. Something cold, anything, tell Ellen--"
At the sudden mention of that name she stopped, coloured a little, turned away and left the room. In the hall she nearly ran against the cook. The woman was standing there, motionless, breathing deeply, her eyes fixed upon the dining-room. When she saw Maggie, she moved as though she would speak, then something in the girl's face checked her. She drew back into the shadow.
Maggie left the house.
The brother and sister, remaining in the room, walked towards one another as though driven by some common need of sympathy and protection against an outside power. Mathew Cardinal felt a genuine indignation that had but seldom figured in his life before. He had hated his brother, always, and never so greatly as at the moments of the man's reluctant charity towards him. But now, in the first clean uplift of his indignation, there was no self-congratulation at the justification of his prophecies.
"I knew him for what he was. But that he could do this! He meant it to hurt, too--that was like him all over. He had us in his mind. I wish I'd never taken a penny from him. I'd rather have starved. Yes, I would--far rather. I've been bad enough, but never a thing like that--"
His sister said quietly:
"He's dead, Mathew. We can do nothing. Maggie, poor child . . ."
He approached for an instant more nearly than he had ever done. He took her hand. There were tears in his eyes.
"It's good of you, Anne--to take her."
She withdrew her hand--very gently.
"I wish we'd taken her before. She must have had a terrible time here. I'd never realised . . ."
He stood away from her near the window, feeling suddenly ashamed of his impetuosity.
"She's a strange girl," Anne Cardinal went on. "She didn't seem to feel this,--or anything. She hasn't, I think, much heart. I'm afraid she may find it a little difficult with us--"
Mathew was uncomfortable now. His mood had changed; he was sullen. His sister always made him feel like a disgraced dog. He shuffled on his feet.
"She's a good girl," he muttered at last, and then with a confused look about him, as though he were searching for something, he stumbled out of the room.
Meanwhile Maggie went on her way. She chose instinctively her path, through the kitchen garden at the back of the village, down the hill by the