At last he had finished.He bent forward, leaning on his hands, looking her steadily in the face for the first time.
"It was clever of you to do this," he said; "damn clever.I was hungry, I don't mind confessing...but that's the last of it.Do you hear? I can look after myself.I know.You're feeling sorry for me.Think I'm in a dirty room with no one to look after me.Think I'm ill.I bet Amy told you I was ill.'Oh, poor fellow,' you thought, 'I must go and look after him.' Well, I'm not a poor fellow and I don't want looking after.I can manage for myself very nicely.
And I don't want any women hanging round.I'm sick of women, and that's flat.""I'm not pretending it's not all my own fault.It is.ALL my own fault, but I don't want any one coming round and saying so.AND Idon't want any pity.You've had a nice romantic idea in your head, saving the sinner and all the rest of it.Well, you can get back to your parson.He's the sort for that kind of stuff.""Indeed I haven't," said Maggie."I don't care whether you're a sinner or not.You're being too serious about it all, Martin.We were old friends.When I heard you were in London I came to see you.
That's all.I may as well stay here as anywhere else.Aunt Anne's dead and--and--Uncle Mathew too.There's nowhere else for me to go.
I don't pity you.Why should I? You think too much about yourself, Martin.It wasn't to be clever that I got these things.I was hungry, and I didn't want to eat in an A.B.C.shop.""Oh, I don't know," he said, turning away from the table.
He stood up, fumbling in his pocket.He produced a pipe and some tobacco out of a paper packet.As he filled it she saw that his hand was trembling.
He turned finally upon her.
"Whatever your plan was it's failed," he said."I'm going to bed straight away now.And to-morrow morning early I'm off.Thank you for the meal and--good-night and good-bye."He gave her one straight look.She looked up at him, calmly.He dropped his eyes; then, clumsily he walked off, opened his bedroom door, closed it behind him, and was gone.
She sat there, staring in front of her, thinking.What was she to do now? At least she might clear up.She had nowhere to wash the things.She would put them ready for the morning.She tidied the table, put the plates and cups together, then, overcome by a sudden exhaustion, she sat down on the sofa.
She realised then the fight that the day had been.Yes, a fight!...and she was still only at the beginning of it.If he really went away in the morning what could she do? She could not follow him all round London.But she would not despair yet.No, she was far from despair.But she was tired, tired to death.
She sat on there in a kind of dream.There were no sounds in the house.The fire began to drop very low.There were no more coals.
The room began to be very chilly.She laid her head back on the sofa; she was half asleep.She was dreaming--Paul was there and Grace--the Skeaton sands--the Revival procession with the lanterns--the swish of the sea...
Suddenly she was wide awake.The lamp had burnt down to a low rim of light.Martin was coughing in the other room.Coughing! She had never heard such a cough, something inhuman and strange.She stood up, her hands clutched.She waited.Then, as it continued, growing fiercer and fiercer, so that in spite of the closed door it seemed to be in the very room with her, she could bear it no longer.
She opened the door and went in.The room was lit by a candle placed on a chair beside the bed.Martin was sitting up, his hands clenched, his face convulsed.The cough went on--choking, convulsing, as though some terrible enemy had hands at his windpipe.
He grasped the bedclothes, his eyes, frightened and dilated, staring in front of him.
She went to him.He did not look at her, but whispered in a voice that seemed to come from miles away:
"Bottle...over there...glass."
She saw on the wash-hand stand a bottle with a medicine glass behind it.She read the directions, poured out the drops, took it over and gave it to him.He swallowed it down.She put out her arm to steady him and felt his whole body tremble beneath her hand.Gradually he was quieter.Utterly exhausted he slipped back, his head on the pillow.
She drew her chair close to the bed.He was too exhausted to speak and did not look at her at all.After a while she put her hand on his forehead and stroked it.He did not draw away from her.Slowly his head turned towards her.He lay there in the crook of her arm, she bending forward over him.
Her heart beat.She tried not to be conscious of his closeness to her, but her hand trembled as it touched his cheek.
Still he did not move away.After, as it seemed to her, a long time he was asleep.She listened to his breathing, and only then, when she knew that he could not hear, she whispered:
"Oh, Martin, I love you so! Dear Martin, I love you so much!"She blew out the candle and, her arm beneath his head, sat there, watching.
