He looked dismally about him, at the thick, dull laurel bushes and the heavy, grey sky. "I don"t like this place, Maggie," he said, "and all those women. It"s religion again, and it"s worse than that Chapel. You don"t seem to be able to get away from religion. You"re not happy, my dear."
"Yes, I am," she answered firmly.
"No, you"re not. And I"m not. But it will be all right in the end, I"ve no doubt. You"ll never desert me, Maggie."
"I"ll never desert you," Maggie answered.
He bent down and kissed her, his breath whisky-laden. She kissed him eagerly, tenderly. For a moment she felt that she would go with him, just as she was, and leave them all.
"Uncle," she said, "you understand how it is, don"t you? We"d have asked you to stay if we"d known."
"Oh, that"s all right." He looked at her mysteriously. "That new sister-in-law of yours was shocked with me. They wouldn"t have me in the house. I saw that. And I only had one gla.s.s at the station. I"m not much of a man in society now. That"s the trouble ... But next time I"ll come down and just send you a line and you"ll come to see me in my own little place--won"t you? I"m in the devil of a mess, Maggie, that"s the truth, and I don"t know how to get out of it. I"ve been a bit of a fool, I have."
She saw the look of terror in his eye again.
"Would some money--" she suggested.
"Oh, I"m afraid it"s past five pounds now, my dear." He sighed heavily.
"Well, I must be getting along. You"ll catch your death of cold standing out here. We ought to have been together all this time, you know. It would have been better for both of us."
He kissed her again and left her. She slowly returned into the house.
Curiously, he had made her happier by his visit. Her pluck returned.
She needed it. Grace was now stirred by the most active of all her pa.s.sions--fear.
Nevertheless Grace and Paul behaved very well. Maggie understood the shock that visit must have given them. She watched Grace imagining the excited stories that would flow from the lips of Miss Purves and Mrs.
Maxse. She was determined, however, that Grace and Paul should not suffer in silence--and Uncle Mathew must be vindicated.
At supper that night she plunged:
"Uncle Mathew"s been very ill," she began, "for a long time now. He wasn"t himself this afternoon, I"m afraid. He was very upset at some news that he"d just had. And then meeting so many strangers at once--"
Maggie saw that Grace avoided her eyes.
"I don"t think we"ll discuss it, Maggie, if you don"t mind. Mr.
Cardinal was strange in his behaviour, certainly. It was a pity that Miss Purves came. But it"s better not to discuss it."
"I don"t agree," said Maggie. "If you think that I"m ashamed of Uncle Mathew you"re quite wrong. He"s very unhappy and lonely--" She felt her voice tremble. "He hasn"t got any one to look after him--"
Grace"s hand was trembling as she nervously crumbled her bread. Still without looking at Maggie she said:
"By the way, you did the church flowers this morning didn"t you, eh?"
Maggie turned white and, as always on these occasions, her heart thumped, leaping, as it seemed, into the very palms of her hands.
"But it was to-morrow--" she began.
"You remember that I told you three days ago that it was to be this morning instead of the usual Thursday because of the Morgans" wedding."
"Oh, Grace, I"m so sorry! I had remembered, I had indeed, and then Lucy suddenly having that chill--."
Paul struck in. "Really, Maggie, that"s too bad. No flowers to-morrow?
Those others were quite dead yesterday. I noticed at evensong ...
Really, really. And the Morgans" wedding!"
Maggie sat there, trembling.
"I"m very sorry," she said, almost whispering. Why did fate play against her? Why, when she might have fought the Uncle Mathew battle victoriously, had Grace suddenly been given this weapon with which to strike?
"I"ll go and do them now," she said. "I can take those flowers out of the drawing-room."
"It"s done," Grace slowly savouring her triumph. "I did them myself this afternoon."
"Then you should have told me that!" Maggie burst out. "It"s not fair making me miserable just for your own fun. You don"t know how you hurt, Grace. You"re cruel, you"re cruel!"
She had a horrible fear lest she should burst into tears. To save that terrible disaster she jumped up and ran out of the room, hearing behind her Paul"s admonitory "Maggie, Maggie!"
It is to be expected that Mrs. Maxse and Miss Purves made the most of their story. The Rector"s wife and a drunken uncle! No, it was too good to be true ... but it was true, nevertheless. Christmas pa.s.sed and the horrible damp January days arrived. Skeaton was a dripping covering of emptiness--hollow, shallow, deserted. Every tree, Maggie thought, dripped twice as much as any other tree in Europe. It remained for Caroline Purdie to complete the situation. One morning at breakfast the story burst upon Maggie"s ears. Grace was too deeply moved and excited to remember her hostility. She poured out the tale.
It appeared that for many many months Caroline had not been the wife she should have been. No; there had been a young man, a Mr. Bennett from London. The whole town had had its suspicions, had raised its pointing finger, had peeped and peered and whimpered. The only person who had noticed nothing was Mr. Purdie himself. He must, of course, have seen that his house was filled with noisy young men and noisier young women; he must have realised that his bills were high, that champagne was drunk and cards were played, and that his wife"s attire was fantastically gorgeous. At any rate, if he noticed these things he said nothing. He was a dull, silent, slow-thinking man, people said.
Then one day he went up to London or rather, in the manner of the best modern problem play, he pretended to go, returned abruptly, and discovered Caroline in the arms of Mr. Bennett.
He flung Mr. Bennett out of the bedroom window, breaking his leg and his nose, and that was why every one knew the story. What he said to Caroline was uncertain. He did not, however, pack her off, as Miss Purves said he should have done, but rather kept her in the big ugly house, just as he had done before, only now without the young men, the young women, the champagne and the flowers.
"I must go and see her," said Maggie when she heard this story.
Grace turned the strange pale yellow that was her colour when she was disturbed.
"Maggie," she said, "I warn you that if you go to see this abandoned woman you will be insulting Paul and myself before the whole town."
"She is my friend," said Maggie.
"She is a wicked woman," said Grace, breathing very heavily, "and you"re a wicked woman if you go to see her. You have already made Paul miserable."
"That is untrue," Maggie said fiercely. "It is I that have been miserable. Not that it hasn"t been my own fault. I should never have married Paul."
"No, you should not," said Grace, breathing as though she had been running very hard. "And for that I was partly to blame. But fancy what you"ve done since you"ve been with us! Just fancy! It"s terrible ...
never a greater mistake ... never, never."
Maggie tossed her head. "Well, if it was a mistake," she said, "the end of pretending has come at last. I"ve been trying for nearly two years now to go your way and Paul"s. I can"t do it. I can"t alter myself.
I"ve tried, and I can"t. It"s no use. Grace, we"d never get on. I see it"s been hopeless from the first. But you shan"t make Paul hate me.
You"ve been trying your hardest, but you shan"t succeed. I know that I"m stupid and careless, but it"s no use my pretending to be good and quiet and obedient. I"m not good. I"m not quiet. I"m not obedient. I"m going to be myself now. I"m going to have the friends I want and do the things I want."
Grace moved back as though she thought that Maggie were going to strike her.
"You"re wicked," she said. "What about those letters in your drawer?
You"ve never loved Paul."
"So you"ve been opening my drawers?" said Maggie. "You"re worse than I, Grace. I never opened any one"s drawers nor read letters I shouldn"t.
But it doesn"t matter. There"s nothing I want to hide. Paul knows all about it. I"m not ashamed."