The Captives [249]
father, and Paul, and Mr. Magnus were all trying . . . It feels like a fight, but I don't know who's fighting who."
Her allusion to his father had been unfortunate.
"It's all damned rot if you ask me," he said, turned his face to the wall and wouldn't say another word.
Next morning they started. Mrs. Brandon's bill was as large as she could make it and still not very large. Dr. Abrams, to Maggie's immense surprise, would not take a penny.
"I'm not wantin' money just now," he said. "I'm robbing a rich old man who lives near here. I'm a sort of highway man, you know, rob the rich and spend it how I like. Now don't you press me to make up a bill or I shall change my mind and give you. one and it will be so large that you won't be able to go down to Glebeshire. How would you like that? Oh, don't think I'm doing it from fine motives. You're both a couple of babies, that's what you are, and it would be a shame to rob you. How you're ever going to get through the world don't know. The Babes in the Wood weren't in it. He thinks he's wicked, doesn't he?"
"Yes, he does," said Maggie.
"Wicked! Why, he doesn't know what wickedness is. A couple of children. Look after his heart or he'll be popping off one fine morning."
Maggie turned pale. "Oh no," she said, her voice trembling.
"He's going to get well."
Abrams sniffed. "If he doesn't drink and leads a healthy life he may. But leopards don't change their spots. He's worrying over something. What is it?"
"His father's death," said Maggie. "He loved his father more than any one and he's got it into his head that he gave him a shock and killed him."
"Well, you get it out of his head," said Abrams. "He won't be better until you do."
Next morning they were at Paddington, Martin very feeble but indifferent to everything. They had a third-class compartment to themselves until they got to Exeter, and all that while Martin never spoke a word. During this time Maggie did a lot of quiet thinking. She was worried, of course, about many things but especially finances. She knew very little about money. She gathered from Martin that he had not only spent ail that his and had left him, but had gone considerably beyond it, that he was badly in debt and saw no way of paying. This did not seem to worry him but it worried Maggie. Debts seemed to her awful things, and she could not imagine how any one lived under the burden of them. Supposing Martin were ill for a long time, how would they two live? Her little stock of money would not last very long. She must get work, but she knew more about the world after her years at Skeaton. She knew how ignorant she was, how uneducated and how unsophiscated. She did not doubt her ability to fight her way, but there might be weary months first, and meanwhile what of Martin?
She looked at him, asleep now in a corner of the carriage, his soft hat pulled down over his eyes, his head sunk, his hands heavy and idle on his lap. A fear caught at her heart as she watched him; he looked, indeed, terribly ill, exhausted with struggle, and now, with all the bitterness and despair drowned in sleep, very gentle and helpless. She bent over and folded the rug more closely round his knees. Had he woken then and seen her gaze! Her hand'' routed for an instant on his, then she withdrew back into her own corner.
That coming back into Glebeshire could not but be wonderful to her. She had been away for so long and it was her home.
The tranquillity and peace of the spring evening clothed her like a garment, the brown valleys, the soft green of the fields, the mild blue of the sky touched her until she could with difficulty keep back her tears.
"Oh, make it right!" she whispered; "make it right! Give him to me again--I do love him so!"
It was dusk when they arrived at Clinton St. Mary's.
The little station stood open to all the winds of heaven blowing in from the wide expanses of St. Mary's Moor. Maggie remembered, as though it were yesterday, her arrival at that station with Aunt Anne. Yes, she had grown since then.
A trap was waiting
Her allusion to his father had been unfortunate.
"It's all damned rot if you ask me," he said, turned his face to the wall and wouldn't say another word.
Next morning they started. Mrs. Brandon's bill was as large as she could make it and still not very large. Dr. Abrams, to Maggie's immense surprise, would not take a penny.
"I'm not wantin' money just now," he said. "I'm robbing a rich old man who lives near here. I'm a sort of highway man, you know, rob the rich and spend it how I like. Now don't you press me to make up a bill or I shall change my mind and give you. one and it will be so large that you won't be able to go down to Glebeshire. How would you like that? Oh, don't think I'm doing it from fine motives. You're both a couple of babies, that's what you are, and it would be a shame to rob you. How you're ever going to get through the world don't know. The Babes in the Wood weren't in it. He thinks he's wicked, doesn't he?"
"Yes, he does," said Maggie.
"Wicked! Why, he doesn't know what wickedness is. A couple of children. Look after his heart or he'll be popping off one fine morning."
Maggie turned pale. "Oh no," she said, her voice trembling.
"He's going to get well."
Abrams sniffed. "If he doesn't drink and leads a healthy life he may. But leopards don't change their spots. He's worrying over something. What is it?"
"His father's death," said Maggie. "He loved his father more than any one and he's got it into his head that he gave him a shock and killed him."
"Well, you get it out of his head," said Abrams. "He won't be better until you do."
Next morning they were at Paddington, Martin very feeble but indifferent to everything. They had a third-class compartment to themselves until they got to Exeter, and all that while Martin never spoke a word. During this time Maggie did a lot of quiet thinking. She was worried, of course, about many things but especially finances. She knew very little about money. She gathered from Martin that he had not only spent ail that his and had left him, but had gone considerably beyond it, that he was badly in debt and saw no way of paying. This did not seem to worry him but it worried Maggie. Debts seemed to her awful things, and she could not imagine how any one lived under the burden of them. Supposing Martin were ill for a long time, how would they two live? Her little stock of money would not last very long. She must get work, but she knew more about the world after her years at Skeaton. She knew how ignorant she was, how uneducated and how unsophiscated. She did not doubt her ability to fight her way, but there might be weary months first, and meanwhile what of Martin?
She looked at him, asleep now in a corner of the carriage, his soft hat pulled down over his eyes, his head sunk, his hands heavy and idle on his lap. A fear caught at her heart as she watched him; he looked, indeed, terribly ill, exhausted with struggle, and now, with all the bitterness and despair drowned in sleep, very gentle and helpless. She bent over and folded the rug more closely round his knees. Had he woken then and seen her gaze! Her hand'' routed for an instant on his, then she withdrew back into her own corner.
That coming back into Glebeshire could not but be wonderful to her. She had been away for so long and it was her home.
The tranquillity and peace of the spring evening clothed her like a garment, the brown valleys, the soft green of the fields, the mild blue of the sky touched her until she could with difficulty keep back her tears.
"Oh, make it right!" she whispered; "make it right! Give him to me again--I do love him so!"
It was dusk when they arrived at Clinton St. Mary's.
The little station stood open to all the winds of heaven blowing in from the wide expanses of St. Mary's Moor. Maggie remembered, as though it were yesterday, her arrival at that station with Aunt Anne. Yes, she had grown since then.
A trap was waiting