Paul was very kind to her during their stay at Little Harben, but they recovered none of that old friendship that had been theirs before they married.Too many things were now between them.By the end of that month Maggie longed to return to Skeaton.It was not only that she felt crushed and choked by the strangling green that hemmed in the old house--the weeds and the trees, and the plants seemed to draw in the night closer and closer about the windows and doors--but also solitude with Paul was revealing to her, in a ruthless, cruel manner, his weaknesses.They were none of them, perhaps, very terrible, but she did not wish to see them.She would like to shut her eyes to them all.If she lost that friendly kindness that she felt for him then indeed she had lost everything.
She felt as though he were wilfully trying to tug it away from her.
Why was it that she had never shrunk from the faults of Martin and Uncle Mathew--faults so plain and obvious--and now shrunk from Paul's? Paul's were such little ones--a desire for praise and appreciation, a readiness to be cheated into believing that all was well when he knew that things were very wrong, an eagerness to be liked even by quite worthless people, sloth and laziness, living lies that were of no importance save as sign-posts to the cowardice of his soul.Yes, cowardice! That was the worst of all.Was it his religion that had made him cowardly? Why was Maggie so terribly certain that if the necessity for physical defence of her or some helpless creature arose Paul would evade it and talk about "turning the other cheek"? He was so large a man and so soft--a terrific egoist finally, in the centre of his soul, an egoist barricaded by superstitions and fears and lies, but not a ruthless egoist, because that demanded energy.
And yet, with all this, he had so many good points.He was a child, a baby, like so many clergymen.Even her father could have been defended by that plea...
He was not radically bad, he was radically good, but he had never known discipline or real sorrow or hardship.Wrapped in cotton wool all his life, spoilt, indulged, treated by the world as men treat women.His effeminacy was the result of his training because he had always been sheltered.Now his contact with Maggie was presenting him for the first time with Reality.Would he face and grapple with it, or would he slip away, evade it, and creep back into his padded castle?
The return to Skeaton and the winter that followed it did not answer that question.Maggie, Grace, and Paul were figures, guarded and defended, outwardly friendly.Grace behaved during those months very well, but Maggie knew that this was a fresh sign of hostility.The "Chut-Chut," "My dear child," and the rest that had been so irritating had been after all signs of intimacy.They were now withdrawn.Maggie made herself during that winter and the spring that followed as busy as possible.She ruthlessly forbade all thoughts of Martin, of the aunts, of London; she scarcely saw Caroline, and the church was her fortress.She seemed to be flung from service to service, to be singing in the choir (she had no voice), asking children their catechism, listening to Paul's high, rather strained, voice reading the lessons, talking politely to Mrs.
Maxse or one of the numerous girls, knitting and sewing (always so badly), and above all struggling to remember the things that she was for ever forgetting.Throughout this period she was pervaded by the damp, oily smell of the heated church, always too hot, always too close, always too breathless.
She had many headaches; she liked them because they held back her temptation to think of forbidden things.
Gradually, although she did not know it, the impression gained ground that she was "queer." She had not been to the Toms' often, but she was spoken of as their friend.She had seen Caroline, who was now considered by the church a most scandalous figure, scarcely at all, but it was known that she was an old friend.Above all, it was understood that the rector and his wife were not happy.
"Oh, she's odd--looks more like a boy than a woman.She never says anything, seems to have no ideas.I don't believe she's religious really either."She knew nothing of this.She did not notice that she was not asked often to other houses.People were kind (the Skeaton people were neither malicious nor cruel) but left her more and more alone.She said to herself again and again: "I must make this a success--Imust"--but the words were becoming mechanical.It was like tramping a treadmill: she got no further, only became more and more exhausted.That spring and summer people noticed her white face and strange eyes."Oh, she's a queer girl," they said.
The summer was very hot with a little wind that blew the sand everywhere.Strange how that sand succeeded in penetrating into the very depth of the town.The sand lay upon the pavement of the High Street so that your feet gritted as you walked.The woods and houses lay for nearly two months beneath a blazing sun.There was scarcely any rain.The little garden behind the Rectory was parched and brown; the laurel bushes were grey with dust.They saw very few people that summer; many of their friends had escaped.
Maggie, thinking of the green depths of Harben a year ago, longed for its coolness; nevertheless she was happy to think that she would never have to see Harben again.
