If what? He didn't know. He was always threatened with regretting things all his life. The blow was always going to fall. And that pleasant very British phrase came back to him, "He would put his foot down"--however--he was very angry--very angry.
He burst out: "Oh, but that's absurd, father. Impossible--utterly. Thurston in the family? Why, you must see yourself how monstrous it would be. Amy's got some silly, sentimental whim and she's got to be told that it won't do. If you ask me, I don't think Amy's improved much since I was away. But that's not the question. The idea of Thurston's disgusting. You can't seriously consider it for a minute . . ."
"Why is Thurston disgusting, my boy?"
Martin hated to be called "my boy"--it made him feel so young and dependent.
"You've only got to look at him!" Martin jumped up, disregarding his father's hand, and began to stamp about the room. "He's a cad--he's not your friend, father. He isn't, really. He'd like to out you from the whole thing if he could. He thinks you're old-fashioned and behind the times, and all he thinks about is bringing in subscriptions and collecting new converts. He's like one of those men who beat drums outside tents in a fair . . . He's a sickening man! He doesn't believe in his religion or anything else. I should think he's crooked about money, and immoral probably too. You're much too innocent, father. You're so good and trustful yourself that you don't know how these fellows are doing you in. There's a regular plot against you and they'd be most awfully pleased if you were to retire. They're not genuine like you. They simply use the Chapel for self-advertisement and making money. Of course there are some genuine ones like the Miss Cardinals, but Thurston's an absolute swindler . . ."
He stopped short at that. He had said more than he had intended and he was frightened suddenly. He swung round on his heel and looked at his father.
"Come here, Martin." He came across the room. "Closer. Now, tell me. We're good friends, aren't we?"
"Of course, father."
He put his hand on his son's shoulder. "Do you know that I love you more than anything in the whole world? More, I'm sometimes terribly afraid, than God Himself. I can't help myself. I love you, Martin, so that it's like hunger or thirst . . . It's the only earthly passion that I've ever had. And I'll tell you another thing. It's the one terror of my earthly life that you'll leave me. Now that I've got you back I'm afraid every time you go out of the house that you'll run away, round the corner, and never come back again. I love you and I'm not going to let you go again.--Not until--until--the Time has come . . . What does it matter to you and me what Thurston and Amy do? God will come and He will find us both together--you and I--and He will take us up and keep us together and we shall never be separated any more . . . I love your strength, Martin, your happiness, your youth--all the things I've never had. And you're not going to leave me, not though Amy married a hundred Thurstons . . ."
Mr. Warlock's grip on his son's shoulder was iron.
Martin bent down and sat on the arm of his dusty leather chair to bring himself on to the same level. He put his arm round his father and drew him close to him. Maggie, Life, Money, Adventure-- everything seemed to draw away from him and he saw himself, a little boy, pattering on bare feet down the aisle towards the font--just as though a spell had been cast over him.
They sat close together in silence. Then slowly the thought of Thurston came back again. Martin drew away a little.
"All the same, father," he said, "Thurston mustn't marry Amy."
"They're only engaged. There's no question of marriage yet."
"Then they are engaged?" Martin drew right away, standing up again.
"Oh, yes, they're engaged."
"Then I'm not going to stand it. I tell you I won't stay here if Thurston marries Amy."
Mr. Warlock sighed. "Well then, let's leave it, my boy. I daresay they'll never marry."
"No. I won't have it. It's too serious to leave."
His father's voice was sharper suddenly.
"Well, we won't talk about it just now, Martin, if you don't mind."
"But I must. You can't leave a thing like that. Thurston will simply own the place . . ."
"I tell you, Martin, to leave it alone." They were both angry now.
"And I tell you, father, that if you let Thurston marry Amy I leave the house and never come back again."
"Isn't that rather selfish of you? You've been away all these years. You've left us to ourselves. You come back suddenly without seeing how we live or caring and then you dictate to us what we're to do. How can you expect us to listen?"
"And how can you expect me to stay?" Martin broke into a torrent of words: "I'm miserable here and you know that I am. Mother and Amy hate me and you're always wrapped up in your religion. What kind of a place is it for a fellow? I came back meaning that you and I should be the best pals father and son have ever been, but you wouldn't come out with me--you only wanted to drag me in. You tell me always to wait for something. To wait for what? I don't know. And nobody here does seem to know. And I can't wait for ever. I've got to lead my own life and if you won't come with me I must go off by myself--"
He was following his own ideas now--not looking at his father at all. "I've discovered since I've been home that I'm not the sort of fellow to settle down. I suppose I shall go on wandering about all my days. I'm not proud of myself, you know, father. I don't seem to be much good to any one, but the trouble is I don't want to be much better. I feel as though it wouldn't be much good if I did try. I can't give up my own life--for nobody--not even for you--and however rotten my own life is I'd rather lead it than some one else's."
He stopped and then went on quietly, as though he were arguing something out with himself: "The strange thing is that I do feel this place has got a kind of a hold on me. When you remind me of what I was like as a kid I go right back and feel helpless as though you could do anything with me you like. All the same I don't believe in this business, father--all this Second Coming and the rest of it. We're in the Twentieth Century now, you know, and everybody knows that that kind of thing is simply impossible. Only an old maid or two . . . Why, I don't believe you believe in it really, father. That's why you're so keen on making me believe. But I don't; it's no use. You can't make me. I don't believe there's any God at all. If there were a God he'd let a fellow have more free will . . ."
He was interrupted by an extraordinary cry. He turned to see his father standing, one hand pressed back on the chair, his face white, his eyes black and empty, like sightless eyes.
"Martin! That's blasphemy! . . . Take care! Take care! . . . Oh, my son, my son! . . ."
Then he suddenly collapsed backwards, crouching on to the chair as though he were trying to flee from some danger. Martin sprang towards him. He caught him round the body, holding him to him-- something was leaping like a furious animal inside his father's breast.
"What is it?" he cried, desperately frightened.
"It's my heart," Warlock answered in a voice very soft and distant. "Bad . . . Excitement . . . Ring that bell . . . Amy . . ."
A moment later Amy entered. She came quickly into the room, she said nothing--only gave Martin one look.
She gave her father something from a little bottle, kneeling in front of him.
At last she turned to her brother. "You'd better go," she said. "You can do nothing here."
Miserable, repentant, feeling as though he had no place in the world and yet eager too to defend himself, he left the room.
CHAPTER VII
THE OUTSIDE WORLD
Maggie had a week.
She did not need it. From the first half-hour after Martin's leaving her her mind was made up. This question of marriage did not, on further reflection, very greatly disturb her. She had known, in her time, a number of married people and they had been invariably unhappy and quarrelsome. The point seemed to be that you should be, in some way, near the person whom you loved, and she had only loved one person in all her life, and intended never to love another. Even this question of love was not nearly so tangled for her as it would be for any more civilised person. She knew very little about marriage and only in the most sordid fashion about sexual relations which were definitely connected in her mind with drunken peasants and her father's cook. They had nothing at all to do with Martin.
The opinion of the world was an unknown factor in her vision, she only knew of the opinion of her aunts and Miss Warlock and with these she was already in rebellion.
She would have been in great trouble had she supposed that this woman still loved Martin and needed him, but that, from what Martin had said, was obviously not so. No, it was all quite clear. They would escape together, out of this tangle of unnatural mysteries and warnings, and live happily for ever after in the country.
As to Martin's self-portrait, that did not greatly distress her. She had never supposed that he or any one else was "good." She had never known a "good" person. Nor did it occur to her, in her pristine state of savagery, that you loved any one the less for their drawbacks. She would rather be with Martin at his worst than with any one else at their best--that was all.
Half-an-hour was enough time to settle the whole affair. She then waited patiently until the end of the week. She did not quite know how she would arrange a meeting, but that would, she expected, arrange itself.
Two events occurred that filled her mind and made the week pass quickly. One was that she received an answer to her adventurous letter, the other was a remarkable conversation with Miss Caroline Smith. The answer to her letter was lying on her plate when she came down to breakfast, and Aunt Elizabeth was watching it with an excited stare.
It read as follows:
14 BRYANSTON SQUARE.
Dear Miss CARDINAL,
Of course I remember you perfectly. I wondered whether you would write to me one day. I am married now and live most of the year in London. Would you come and see me at Bryanston Square? I am nearly always at home at tea-time. If you are free would you perhaps come next Friday?
It will be so nice to see you again.
Yours sincerely,
KATHERINE MARK. "You've got a letter, dear. Your aunt isn't quite so well this morning, I'm afraid. Scrambled eggs."
"Yes," she looked her aunt in the face without any confusion. How strangely her decision about Martin had altered her relationship now to every one! What did it matter whether any one were angry? "I ought to have told you, Aunt Elizabeth. I wrote about a fortnight ago to a lady who came once to see us at home. She was a Miss Trenchard then. She said that if ever I wanted any help I was to write to her. So I have written--to ask her whether she can find me any work to do, and she has asked me to go and see her."
"Work," said Aunt Elizabeth. "But you won't go away while your aunt's so ill."
Wouldn't she? Maggie didn't know so much about that.
"I want to be independent," said Maggie, trying to fix Aunt Elizabeth's eyes. "It isn't fair that I should be a burden to you."
"You're no burden, dear." Aunt Elizabeth looked uneasily round the room. "Your aunt depends on you."
"Depends on me for what?"
"For everything."
"Then she oughtn't to, Aunt Elizabeth, I've said it again and again. I'm not fit for any one to depend on. I'm forgetful and careless and untidy. You know I am. And I'm different from every one here. I'm very grateful to Aunt Anne, but I'm not good enough for her to depend on."
Aunt Elizabeth blinked nervously.
"She's got very little. You mustn't take away all she has."
"I'm not all she has," answered Maggie, knowing that she was becoming excited and cross. "I don't belong to any one except myself." "And Martin" her soul whispered. Then she added, suddenly moved by remorse as she looked at Aunt Elizabeth's meek and trembling face, "You're so good to me, both of you, and I'm so bad. I'll give you anything but my freedom."
"You talk so strangely, dear," said Aunt Elizabeth. "But there are so many things I don't understand."
Maggie took the letter up to her bedroom and there read it a number of times. It all seemed wonderful to her, the stamped blue address, the rich white square notepaper, and above all the beautiful handwriting. She thought of her own childish scrawl and blushed, she even sat down, there and then, at her dressing-table and, with a pencil, began to imitate some of the letters.
On Friday! To-day was Tuesday. Bryanston Square. Wherever was Bryanston Square, and how would she find it? She determined to ask Caroline Smith.
She had not long to wait for her opportunity. On Wednesday evening about half-past five Miss Smith poked her head into the Cardinal drawing-room to discover Maggie sitting with her hands on her lap looking down on to the street.
"Are your aunts anywhere?" asked Caroline.
"No," said Maggie. "Aunt Anne's in bed and Aunt Elizabeth's at Miss Pyncheon's."
"That's right," said Caroline, "because I haven't seen you, darling, for ages."
"The day before yesterday," said Maggie.
"You're a literal pet," said Caroline kissing her. "I always exaggerate, of course, and it's so sweet of you to tell me about it." She rushed off to the fire and spread out her blue skirt and dangled her feet.
"Isn't it cold and dark? You funny dear, not to have the blinds down and to sit staring into the beastly street like that . . . I believe you're in love."
Maggie came to herself with a start, got up and slowly went over to the fire.
