Mrs.Bolitho had a tender heart and Maggie shared in her superstitious pity.Looking back to her youth she had always thought Maggie a "wisht little thing." "Poor worm," what chance had she ever had with that great scandalous chap of a father? She saw her still in her shabby clothes trying to keep that dilapidated house together.No, what chance had she ever had? She was still a "wisht little thing."Nor did it need very shrewd eyes to see how desperately devoted Maggie was to Martin.The sight of that touched the hearts of every human being in the farm.Not that Maggie was foolish; she did not hang about Martin all the time, she never, so far as Mrs.Bolitho could see, kissed him or fondled him, or was with him when he did not want her.She was not sentimental to him, not sighing nor groaning, nor pestering him to answer romantic questions.On the contrary, she was always cheerful, practical, and full of common sense, although she was sometimes forgetful, and was not so neat and tidy as Mrs.Bolitho would have wished.She always spoke as though Martin's recovery were quite certain, and Dr.Stephens told Mrs.
Bolitho that he did not dare to speak the truth to her."The chances against his recovery," Stephens said, "are about one in a hundred.
He's been racketing about too long.Too much drink.But he's got something on his mind.That's really what's the matter with him."Mrs.Bolitho was as naturally inquisitive as are most of her sex, and this knowledge that Martin was a doomed creature with a guilty conscience vastly excited her curiosity.What had the man done? What had been his relations with Maggie? Above all, did he really care for Maggie, or no? That was finally the question that was most eagerly discussed in the depths of the Bolitho bedchamber.James Bolitho maintained that he didn't care "that" for her; you could see plain enough, he asserted, when a man cared for a maid--there were signs, sure and certain, just as there were with cows and horses.
"You may know about cows and horses," said Mrs.Bolitho; "you're wrong about humans." The way that she put it was that Martin cared for Maggie but "couldn't get it out." "He doesn't want her to know it," she said.
"Why shouldn't he?" asked James.
"Now you're asking," said Mrs.Bolitho.
"Nice kind of courtin' that be," said James; "good thing you was a bit different, missus.Lovin' a lass and not speaking--shouldn't like!"Mrs.Bolitho's heart grew very tender towards Maggie.Married or not, the child was in a "fiery passion of love." Nor was it a selfish passion, neither--wanted very little for herself, but only for him to get well.There was true romance here.Maggie, however, gave away no secrets.She had many talks with Mr.Bolitho: about the village, about the new parson, about Mrs.Bolitho's son, Jacob, now in London engineering, and the apple of her eye,--about many things but never about herself, the past history nor her feeling for Martin.
The girl never "let on" that she was suffering, and yet "suffering she must be." You could see that she was just holding herself "tight" like a wire.The strange intensity of her determination was beautiful but also dangerous."If anything was to happen--" said Mrs.Bolitho.She saw Martin, too, many times, looking at Maggie in the strangest way, as though he were travelling towards some decision.He certainly was a good young man in his behaviour, doing now exactly what he was told, never angry, never complaining, and that, Mrs.Bolitho thought, was strange, because you could see in his eye that he had a will and a temper of his own, did he like to exercise them.After all, he himself was the merest boy, scarcely older than Jacob.She could, herself, see that he must have been a fine enough lad when he had his health--the breadth of his shoulders, the thick sturdiness of his shape, the strength of his thighs and arms.Her husband had seen the boy stripped, and had told her that he must have been a "lovely man." Drink and evil women--ay, they'd brought him down as they'd brought many another--and she thought of her Jacob in London with a catch at her heart.She stopped in her cooking and prayed there and then, upon her kitchen floor, that he might be kept safe from all harm.
Nearly every one in the village, of course, remembered Maggie, and they could not see that she was "any changed." "Cut 'er 'air short--London fashion" they supposed.They had liked her as a child and they liked her now.She was more cheerful and friendly, they thought, then she used to be.
Nevertheless all the village awaited, with deep interest, for what they felt would be a very moving climax.The young man was "fey."God had set His mark upon him, and nothing that any human being could do would save him.In old days they would have tried to come near him and touch him to snatch some virtue from the contact.They did not do that, but they felt when they had spoken to him that they had received some merit or advantage.The new parson came to call upon Martin and Maggie, but he got very little from his visit.
"Poor fellow," he said to his wife on his return."His days are numbered, I fear."To every one it was as though Martin and Maggie were enclosed in some world of their own.No one could come near them, no one could tell of what they were really thinking, of their hopes or fears, past or future.
