Standing there, she registered her vow that through all her life she would care for no one.No one should touch her.
Had there been an observer he might have found some food for his irony in the contemplation of that small, insignificant figure so ignorant of life and so defiant of it.He would have found perhaps something pathetic also.Maggie thought neither of irony nor of pathos, but turned homewards with her mouth set, her eyes grave, her heart controlled.
As she walked back the sun broke through the mist, and, turning, she could see Borhedden like a house on fire, its windows blazing against the sky.
It was natural that her aunt should wish to return to London as soon as possible.For one thing, Ellen the cook had packed her clothes and retired to some place in the village, there to await the departure of the defeated family.Then the house was not only unpleasant by reason of its atmosphere and associations, but there were also the definite discomforts of roofs through which the rain dripped and floors that swayed beneath one's tread.Moreover, Aunt Elizabeth did not care to be left alone in the London house.
Uncle Mathew left on the day after the funeral.He had one little last conversation with Maggie.
"I hope you'll be happy in London," he said.
"I hope so," said Maggie.
"I know you'll do what you can to help your aunts." Then he went on more nervously."Think of me sometimes.I shan't be able to come and see you very often, you know--too busy.But I shall like to know that you're thinking about me."Maggie's new-found resolution taken so defiantly upon the moor was suddenly severely tested.She felt as though her uncle were leaving her to a world of enemies.She drove down her sense of desolation, and he saw nothing but her quiet composure.
"Of course I'll think of you," she answered."And you must come often.""They don't like me," he said, nodding his head towards where Aunt Anne might be supposed to be waiting."It's not my fault altogether--but they have severe ideas.It's religion, of course."She suddenly seemed to see in his eyes some terror or despair, as though he knew that he was going to drop "this time"--farther than ever before.
She caught his arm."Uncle Mathew, what are you going to do? Where will you live? Take my three hundred pounds if it will help you.Idon't want it just now.Keep it for me."
He had a moment of resolute, clear-sighted honesty."No, my dear, if I had it it would go in a week.I can't keep money; I never could.
I'm really better without any.I'm all right.You'll never get rid of me--don't you fear.We've got more in common than you think, although you're a good girl and I've gone to pieces a bit.All the same there's plenty worse than me.Your aunt, for all her religion, is damned difficult for a plain man to get along with.Most people would find me better company, after all.One last word, Maggie."He bent down and whispered to her."Don't you go getting caught by that sweep who runs their chapel up in London.He's a humbug if ever there was one--you mark my words.I know a thing or two.He's done your aunts a lot of harm, and he'll have his dirty fingers on you if you let him."So he departed, his last kiss mingled with the usual aroma of whisky and tobacco, his last attitude, as he turned away, that strange confusion of assumed dignity and natural genial stupidity that was so especially his.
Maggie turned, with all her new defiant resolution, to face the world alone with her Aunt Anne.Throughout the next day she was busied with collecting her few possessions, with her farewells to the one or two people in the village who had been kind to her, and with little sudden, almost surreptitious visits to corners of the house, the garden, the wood where she had at one time or another been happy.
As the evening fell and a sudden storm of rain leapt up from beneath the hill and danced about the house, she had a wild longing to stay--to stay at any cost and in any discomfort.London had no longer interest, but only terror and dismay.She ran out into the dark and rain-drenched garden, felt her way to an old and battered seat that had seen in older days dolls' tea-parties and the ravages of bad-temper, stared from it across the kitchen-garden to the lights of the village, that seemed to rock and shiver in the wind and rain.
She stared passionately at the lights, her heart beating as though it would suffocate her.At last, her clothes soaked with the storm, her hair dripping, she returned to the house.Her aunt was in the hall.
"My dear Maggie, where have you been?" in a voice that was kind but aghast.
"In the garden," said Maggie, hating her aunt.
