The Captives [189]
to give the message and Grace arrived at the Church during the reading of the second lesson.
"Oh Grace, I'm so sorry!" said Maggie.
"It doesn't matter," said Grace; "but how you could forget, Maggie, is so strange! Do try not to forget things. I know it worries Paul. For myself I don't care, although I do value punctuality and memory- I do indeed. What I mean is that it isn't for my own happiness that I mind--"
"I don't want to forget," said Maggie. "One would think to hear you, Grace, that you imagine I like forgetting."
"Really, Maggie," said Grace, "I don't think that's quite the way to speak to me."
And again and again throughout the long winter this little episode figured.
"You'll remember to be punctual, won't you, Maggie? Not like the time when you forgot to tell me."
"You'll forgive me reminding you, Maggie, but I didn't want it to be like the time you forgot to give me--"
"Oh, you'd better not trust to Maggie, Paul. Only the other day when you gave her the message about Evensong--"
Grace meant no harm by this. Her mind moved slowly and was entangled by a vast quantity of useless lumber. She was really shocked by carelessness and inaccuracy because she was radically careless and inaccurate herself but didn't know it.
"If there's one thing I value it's order." she would say, but in struggling to remember superficial things she forgot all essentials. Her brain moved just half as slowly as everything else.
That winter was warm and muggy, with continuous showers of warm rain that seamed to change into mud in the air as it fell.
The Church was filled with the clammy mist of its central heating. Maggie, as she sat through service after service, watched one headache race after another. The air was full of headache; she asked once that a window might be kept open. "That would mean Death in Skeaton. You don't understand the Skeaton air," said Grace.
"That's because I don't get enough of it," said Maggie. She found herself looking back to the Chapel services with wistful regret. What had there been there that was not here? Here everything was ordered, arranged, in decent sequence, in regular symmetry and progression. And yet no one seemed to Maggie to listen to what they were saying, and no one thought of the meaning of the words that they used.
And if they did, of what use would it be? The affair was all settled; heaven was arrayed, parcelled out, its very streets and courts mapped and described. It was the destination of every one in the building as surely as though they were travelling to London by the morning express. They were sated with knowledge of their destiny--no curiosity, no wonder, no agitation, no fear. Even the words of the most beautiful prayers had ceased to have any meaning because the matter had been settled so long ago and there was nothing more to be said. How that Chapel had throbbed with expectation, with amaze, with curiosity, with struggle! Foolish much of it perhaps, stifling it had seemed then in its superstition. Maggie had been afraid then, so afraid that she could not sleep at nights. How she longed now for that fear to return to her!
At this point she would discover that she was beckoning back to her the figures of that other world. They must not come . . . the two worlds must not join or she was lost . . . she turned her back from her memories and her desires.
During this winter there were the two affairs of Mr. Toms and Caroline.
Maggie carried out her resolve of calling on Mr. Toms. She did it one dark afternoon a few days before Christmas, moved, it must be confessed, partly by a sense of exasperation with Grace. Grace had been that day quite especially tiresome. She had a cold, and a new evening dress had cost twice as much as it ought to have done. Mitch had broken into eczema, and Mrs. Constantine had overruled her at a committee meeting. With a flood of disconnected talk she had overwhelmed Maggie until the girl felt as though her head had been thrust into a bag of flour. Through it all there had been an undercurrent of complaint as though
"Oh Grace, I'm so sorry!" said Maggie.
"It doesn't matter," said Grace; "but how you could forget, Maggie, is so strange! Do try not to forget things. I know it worries Paul. For myself I don't care, although I do value punctuality and memory- I do indeed. What I mean is that it isn't for my own happiness that I mind--"
"I don't want to forget," said Maggie. "One would think to hear you, Grace, that you imagine I like forgetting."
"Really, Maggie," said Grace, "I don't think that's quite the way to speak to me."
And again and again throughout the long winter this little episode figured.
"You'll remember to be punctual, won't you, Maggie? Not like the time when you forgot to tell me."
"You'll forgive me reminding you, Maggie, but I didn't want it to be like the time you forgot to give me--"
"Oh, you'd better not trust to Maggie, Paul. Only the other day when you gave her the message about Evensong--"
Grace meant no harm by this. Her mind moved slowly and was entangled by a vast quantity of useless lumber. She was really shocked by carelessness and inaccuracy because she was radically careless and inaccurate herself but didn't know it.
"If there's one thing I value it's order." she would say, but in struggling to remember superficial things she forgot all essentials. Her brain moved just half as slowly as everything else.
That winter was warm and muggy, with continuous showers of warm rain that seamed to change into mud in the air as it fell.
The Church was filled with the clammy mist of its central heating. Maggie, as she sat through service after service, watched one headache race after another. The air was full of headache; she asked once that a window might be kept open. "That would mean Death in Skeaton. You don't understand the Skeaton air," said Grace.
"That's because I don't get enough of it," said Maggie. She found herself looking back to the Chapel services with wistful regret. What had there been there that was not here? Here everything was ordered, arranged, in decent sequence, in regular symmetry and progression. And yet no one seemed to Maggie to listen to what they were saying, and no one thought of the meaning of the words that they used.
And if they did, of what use would it be? The affair was all settled; heaven was arrayed, parcelled out, its very streets and courts mapped and described. It was the destination of every one in the building as surely as though they were travelling to London by the morning express. They were sated with knowledge of their destiny--no curiosity, no wonder, no agitation, no fear. Even the words of the most beautiful prayers had ceased to have any meaning because the matter had been settled so long ago and there was nothing more to be said. How that Chapel had throbbed with expectation, with amaze, with curiosity, with struggle! Foolish much of it perhaps, stifling it had seemed then in its superstition. Maggie had been afraid then, so afraid that she could not sleep at nights. How she longed now for that fear to return to her!
At this point she would discover that she was beckoning back to her the figures of that other world. They must not come . . . the two worlds must not join or she was lost . . . she turned her back from her memories and her desires.
During this winter there were the two affairs of Mr. Toms and Caroline.
Maggie carried out her resolve of calling on Mr. Toms. She did it one dark afternoon a few days before Christmas, moved, it must be confessed, partly by a sense of exasperation with Grace. Grace had been that day quite especially tiresome. She had a cold, and a new evening dress had cost twice as much as it ought to have done. Mitch had broken into eczema, and Mrs. Constantine had overruled her at a committee meeting. With a flood of disconnected talk she had overwhelmed Maggie until the girl felt as though her head had been thrust into a bag of flour. Through it all there had been an undercurrent of complaint as though