I'm just Maggie Cardinal.--All the same I believe one can do what one wants to.I don't believe people can make one do things.""Do you think any one could make me not love you if they tried? Ishall love you always, whatever happens.I know I shall never change.I'm not one to change.I'm obstinate.Father used to say 'obstinate as a pig.'"That made her think of the old days at St.Dreot's, just then, as they seemed, so remote.She began to tell him of those old days, of the Vicarage, of the holes in the floor and the ceiling, of her loneliness and the way the villagers used to talk, of her solitary walks and looking down on to Polchester from the hill-top, of her father's sudden death, of Uncle Mathew...
"He's a funny old codger," said Martin."What does he do?""I don't know," said Maggie."I really don't know how he lives I'm afraid it's something rather bad.""I've known men like that," said Martin, "plenty, but it's funny that one of them should be connected with you.It doesn't seem as though you could have anything to do with a man like that.""Oh, but I like him!" said Maggie."He's been very kind to me often.
When I was all alone after father died he was very good--" She stopped abruptly remembering how he'd come into her bedroom.
"Drink's been his trouble, and never having any money.He told me once if he had money he'd never do a thing he shouldn't." "Yes,"said Martin."That's what they always say when they haven't any money, and then when they have any it's worse than ever."He was thinking, perhaps, of himself.At any rate to stop remorseful thoughts he began to tell her about his own childhood.
"Mine was very different from yours, Maggie," he said."I wasn't lonely.You don't know what a fuss people made of me.I was conceited, too.I thought I was chosen, by God, out of all the world, that I was different from every one else, and better too.
When I was only about nine, at home one Sunday they asked me if I'd say a prayer, and I did, before them all, made it up and went on for quarter of an hour.Lord! I must have been an awful child.And outside the religious time I was as wicked as I could be.I used to go down into the kitchen and steal the food and I'd dress up as a ghost to frighten Amy and I'd break mother's china.I remember once, after we'd had a service in the drawing-room and two girls had gone into hysterics, I stole down into the kitchen in my nightdress to get some jam and I found one of the Elders making love to the cook.
They were both so fat and he had his coat and waistcoat off and he was kissing her neck.My word, they were frightened when they saw me standing there! After that I could do what I liked with the cook...We used to have prayer meetings in the drawing-room, and sometimes father would pray so hard that the glass chandelier would shake and rattle till I used to think it would come down.""And the funny thing was that one minute I'd be pinching Amy who was kneeling next to me and the next I'd be shaking with religion and seeing God standing right in front of me by the coal-scuttle.Such a mix-up!...it was then and so it is now.Amy always hated me.She was really religious and she thought I was a hypocrite.But I wasn't altogether.There was something real in it and there still is.""Didn't you go to school?" asked Maggie.
"No, that was the mistake.They never sent me.Father loved me too much and he wanted to keep me always with him.He tried to teach me himself but I never learnt anything.I always knew I could turn them round my little finger.I always knew he'd rather do anything than make me unhappy.Sometimes we had lovely times together, sitting in the dusk in the front of the fire.Do you know, Maggie, I've never changed in my love for father? I've changed in everything else, but in that never.Yet I've hurt him over and over and over again.I've done things..." Here he broke off.To-day was to be happy; they must build up their walls faster, faster, faster to keep the world out.He would think of nothing, nothing but the present.The wind blew and the heavy drops of rain fell, one and one and one, slowly between the gusts.Ho drew her close to him.
"Are you cold?"
"No, Martin dear."
"I suppose we should turn back."
"Yes, it's getting late."
"It will seem hours until to-morrow."
"And to me too."
They were at the end of the Green Park.There was no one there.They kissed and clung together and Maggie's hand was warm inside his coat.Then they turned back and entered the real world once more...
"Now we must have our matinee," Martin said.Maggie could not refuse and besides she herself wanted it so badly.Also the three weeks were drawing to a close, and although she did not know what was in store for them, she felt, in some mysterious way, that trouble was coming.
"Yes, we'll have our matinee," she said.
It was a terrific excitement for her, apart altogether from her love for Martin.She had, of course, never been to a theatre.She could not imagine in the least what it was like.It so happened, by a wonderful chance, that a note came from Katherine Mark asking her to tea.She showed this to the aunts and said that she would accept it.
She wrote to Katherine Mark and refused and told Martin that for that Wednesday afternoon she was quite free until at least seven o'clock.She wove these deceits with strong disgust.She hated the lies, and there were many, many times when she was on the edge of confessing everything to the aunts.But the thought of what would follow that confession held her back.She could not make things harder for Martin.
Nevertheless she wondered why when she felt, in herself, no shame al all at the things that she was doing, she should have to lie to cover those things up.But everything in connection with the Chapel seemed to lie.--The place was wrapped in intrigue and double-dealing.How long would it be before she and Martin were out of it all?
She was to meet him by one of the lions in Trafalgar Square.She bought a golden chrysanthemum which she stuck into the belt of her black dress and she wore her coral necklace.She was tired of black.
