The Captives [254]
face, dim though the light was, and a certain haunting desire in it tugged at Mrs. Bolitho's tender heart. "Poor worm," she thought to herself, "she's longing for him to say something to her and he won't." They were talking. Then there was a pause and Martin turned away. Maggie's eyes passionately besought him. What did she want him to do--to say? Mrs. Bolitho could see that the girl's hands were clenched, as though she had reached, at last, the very limits of her endurance. He did not see. His back was half turned to her. He did not speak, but stood there drumming with his hands on the glass.
"Oh, I could shake him," thought Mrs. Bolitho's impatience. For a time Maggie waited, never stirring, her eyes fixed, her body taut.
Then she seemed suddenly to break, as though the moment of endurance was past. She turned sharply round, looking directly out of her window into Mrs. Bolitho's room--but she didn't see Mrs. Bolitho.
That good woman saw her smile, a strange little smile of defiance, pathos, loneliness, cheeriness defeated. She vanished from her window although he stood there. A moment later, in a coat and hat, she came out of the front door, stood for a moment on the outskirts of the mist looking about her, then vanished on to the moor.
"She oughtn't to be out in this," thought the farmer's wife. "It's dangerous."
She waited a little, then came and knocked on the door of the other sitting-room. She met Martin in the doorway.
"Oh, Mrs. Bolitho," he said, "I thought I'd go to the circus for half an hour."
"Very well, sir," she said.
He too disappeared. She sat in her kitchen all the afternoon busily mending the undergarments of her beloved James. But her thought were not with her husband. She could not get the picture of those two young things standing at the window facing the mist-drunk moor out of her head. The sense that had come to the farm with Martin's entry into it of something eerie and foreboding increased now with every tick of the heavy kitchen clock. She seemed to listen now for sounds and portents. The death-tick on the wall--was that foolish? Some men said so, but she knew better. Had she not heard it on the very night of her grandfather's death? She sat there and recounted to herself every ghost-story that, in the course of a long life, had come her way. The headless horseman, the coach with the dead travellers, the three pirates and their swaying gibbets, the ghost of St. Dreot's churchyard, the Wailing Woman of Clinton, and many, many others, all passed before her, making pale her cheek and sending her heart in violent beats up and down the scale.
The kitchen grew darker and darker. She let the underclothes lie upon her lap. Soon she must light the lamp, but meanwhile, before the oven she let her fancies overwhelm her, luxuriating in her terror.
Suddenly the kitchen-door was flung open. She started up with a cry. Martin stood there and in a voice, so new to her that she seemed never to have heard it before, he shouted, "Where's Maggie?"
She stood up in great agitation. He came towards her and she saw that his face was violent with agitation, with a kind of rage.
"Where's Maggie?" he repeated.
She saw that he was shaking all over and it was as though he did not know who she was.
"Maggie?" she repeated.
"My wife! My wife!" he cried, and he shouted it again as though he were proclaiming some fact to the whole world.
"She went out," said Mrs. Bolitho, "about three hours back I should think."
"Went out!" he stormed at her. "And in this?"
Then, before she could say another word, he was gone. It was in very truth like an apparition.
She sat there for some time staring in front of her, still shaken by the violence of his interruption. She went then to the kitchen-door and listened--not a sound in the house. She went farther, out through the passage to the hall-door. She opened it and looked out. A sea of driving mist, billowing and driving as though by some internal breeze, met her.
"Poor things," she said to herself. "They shouldn't be out in this." She
"Oh, I could shake him," thought Mrs. Bolitho's impatience. For a time Maggie waited, never stirring, her eyes fixed, her body taut.
Then she seemed suddenly to break, as though the moment of endurance was past. She turned sharply round, looking directly out of her window into Mrs. Bolitho's room--but she didn't see Mrs. Bolitho.
That good woman saw her smile, a strange little smile of defiance, pathos, loneliness, cheeriness defeated. She vanished from her window although he stood there. A moment later, in a coat and hat, she came out of the front door, stood for a moment on the outskirts of the mist looking about her, then vanished on to the moor.
"She oughtn't to be out in this," thought the farmer's wife. "It's dangerous."
She waited a little, then came and knocked on the door of the other sitting-room. She met Martin in the doorway.
"Oh, Mrs. Bolitho," he said, "I thought I'd go to the circus for half an hour."
"Very well, sir," she said.
He too disappeared. She sat in her kitchen all the afternoon busily mending the undergarments of her beloved James. But her thought were not with her husband. She could not get the picture of those two young things standing at the window facing the mist-drunk moor out of her head. The sense that had come to the farm with Martin's entry into it of something eerie and foreboding increased now with every tick of the heavy kitchen clock. She seemed to listen now for sounds and portents. The death-tick on the wall--was that foolish? Some men said so, but she knew better. Had she not heard it on the very night of her grandfather's death? She sat there and recounted to herself every ghost-story that, in the course of a long life, had come her way. The headless horseman, the coach with the dead travellers, the three pirates and their swaying gibbets, the ghost of St. Dreot's churchyard, the Wailing Woman of Clinton, and many, many others, all passed before her, making pale her cheek and sending her heart in violent beats up and down the scale.
The kitchen grew darker and darker. She let the underclothes lie upon her lap. Soon she must light the lamp, but meanwhile, before the oven she let her fancies overwhelm her, luxuriating in her terror.
Suddenly the kitchen-door was flung open. She started up with a cry. Martin stood there and in a voice, so new to her that she seemed never to have heard it before, he shouted, "Where's Maggie?"
She stood up in great agitation. He came towards her and she saw that his face was violent with agitation, with a kind of rage.
"Where's Maggie?" he repeated.
She saw that he was shaking all over and it was as though he did not know who she was.
"Maggie?" she repeated.
"My wife! My wife!" he cried, and he shouted it again as though he were proclaiming some fact to the whole world.
"She went out," said Mrs. Bolitho, "about three hours back I should think."
"Went out!" he stormed at her. "And in this?"
Then, before she could say another word, he was gone. It was in very truth like an apparition.
She sat there for some time staring in front of her, still shaken by the violence of his interruption. She went then to the kitchen-door and listened--not a sound in the house. She went farther, out through the passage to the hall-door. She opened it and looked out. A sea of driving mist, billowing and driving as though by some internal breeze, met her.
"Poor things," she said to herself. "They shouldn't be out in this." She