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 shut the door and went back into the house.She called, "Jim!
Jim! Where are you?" At last he came, stumping up from some mysterious labour in the lower part of the house.
"What is't?" he said, startled by her white face and troubled eyes.
"The two of them," she said, "have gone out on to the moor in this mist.It isn't safe.""Whatever for?" he asked.
"How should I know? She went out first and now he's after her.
'Tisn't safe, Jim.You'd best follow them."He didn't argue with her, being an obedient husband disciplined by many years of matrimony.
"Well, I'll go," he said slowly."Best take William, though."He went off in search of his man.
But Bolitho need not trouble.Half an hour later Maggie returned, stood in the sitting-room looking about her, took off her jacket and hat, then, pursuing her own thoughts, slowly put them on.She was then about to leave the room when the door burst open and Martin tumbled in.He stood at the doorway staring at her, his mouth open.
"Why!" he stammered."I thought...I thought...you were out--" She looked at him crossly.
"You shouldn't have gone out--an afternoon like this.If I'd been here--""Well, you weren't.You shouldn't have gone out either for the matter of that.And I was at the circus--a damned poor one too.Your things are soaking," he added, suddenly looking up at her."You talk about me.You'd better go and change.""I'm going out again," she said.
"Out again?"
"Yes...There's a train at Clinton at seven.I'm catching that.""A train?" He stared at her, completely bewildered.
"Yes.That's what I went out to get my head clear about.Martin, you've beaten me.After all these years you have.After all my fine speeches, too."He began to drum on the window.He tried to speak casually.
"I haven't beaten you, Maggie."
"Yes, you have.I said you wouldn't be able to send me away.Well, you've managed to and in the only way you could--by your silence.
You haven't opened your mouth for a fortnight.You're better now, too, and Mrs.Bolitho will look after you.I was determined to hang on to you, but I find I can't.I'm going back to London to get some work."His hand dropped from the window.Then, with his head turned from her and his voice so low that she could scarcely hear the--"No, Maggie, don't go."
She smiled across at him."There's no need to be polite, Martin.
