It was not, in fact, until that evening of her arrival in Skeaton that she was seriously alarmed.To say that that first ten minutes in Paul's study alarmed her is to put it mildly indeed.As she looked at the place where her mother's portrait had been, as she stared at the trembling Mitch cowering against Maggie's dress, she experienced the most terrifying, shattering upheaval since the day when as a little girl of six she had been faced as she had fancied, with the dripping ghost of her great-uncle William.Not at once, however, was the battle to begin.Maggie gave way about everything.
She gave way at first because she was so confident of getting what she wanted later on.She never conceived that she was not to have final power in her own house; Paul had as yet denied her nothing.
She moved the pictures and the pots and the crochet work down from the attic and replaced them where they had been-or, nearly replaced them.She found it already rather amusing to puzzle Grace by changing their positions from day to day so that Grace was bewildered and perplexed.
Grace said nothing--only solidly and with panting noises (she suffered from shortness of breath) plodded up and down the house, reassuring herself that all her treasures were safe.
Maggie, in fact, enjoyed herself during the weeks immediately following Grace's return.Paul seemed tranquil and happy; there were no signs of fresh outbreaks of the strange passion that had so lately frightened her.Maggie herself found her duties in connection with the Church and the house easier than she had expected.Every one seemed very friendly.Grace chattered on with her aimless histories of unimportant events and patted Maggie's hand and smiled a great deal.Surely all was very well.Perhaps this was the life for which Maggie was intended.
And that other life began to be dim and faint-even Martin was a little hidden and mysterious.Strangely she was glad of that; the only way that this could be carried through was by keeping the other out of it.Would the two worlds mingle? Would the faces and voices of those spirits be seen and heard again? Would they leave Maggie now or plan to steal her back? The whole future of her life depended on the answer to that...
During those weeks she investigated Skeaton very thoroughly.She found that her Skeaton, the Skeaton of Fashion and the Church, was a very small affair consisting of two rows of villas, some detached houses that trickled into the country, and a little clump of villas on a hill over the sea beyond the town.There were not more than fifty souls all told in this regiment of Fashion, and the leaders of the fifty were Mrs.Constantine, Mrs.Maxse, Miss Purves, a Mrs.
Tempest (a large black tragic creature), and Miss Grace Trenchard-and they had for their male supporters Colonel Maxse, Mr.William Tempest, a Mr.Purdie (rich and idle), and the Reverend Paul.Maggie discovered that the manners, habits, and even voices and gestures of this sacred Fifty were all the same.The only question upon which they divided was one of residence.The richer and finer division spent several weeks of the winter abroad in places like Nice and Cannes, and the poorer contingent took their holiday from Skeaton in the summer in Glebeshire or the Lake District.The Constantines and the Maxses were very fine indeed because they went both to Cannes in the winter and Scotland in the summer.It was wonderful, considering how often Mrs.Constantine was away from Skeaton, how solemn and awe-inspiring an impression she made and retained in the Skeaton world.Maggie discovered that unless you had a large house with independent grounds outside the town it was impossible to remain in Skeaton during the summer months.Oh! the trippers!...Oh! the trippers! Yes, they were terrible-swallowed up the sands, eggshells, niggers, pierrots, bathing-machines, vulgarity, moonlight embracing, noise, sand, and dust.If you were any one at all you did not stay in Skeaton during the summer months-unless, as I have said, you were so grand that you could disregard it altogether.
It happened that these weeks were wet and windy and Maggie was blown about from one end of the town to the other.There could be no denying that it was grim and ugly under these conditions.It might be that when the spring came there would be flowers in the gardens and the trees would break out into fresh green and the sands would gleam with mother-of-pearl and the sea would glitter with sunshine.
All that perhaps would come.Meanwhile there was not a house that was not hideous, the wind tore screaming down the long beaches carrying with it a flurry of tempestuous rain, whilst the sea itself moved in sluggish oily coils, dirt-grey to the grey horizon.Worst of all perhaps were the deserted buildings at other times dedicated to gaiety, ghosts of places they were with torn paper flapping against their sides and the wind tearing at their tin-plated roofs.
Then there was the desolate little station, having, it seemed, no connection with any kind of traffic-and behind all this the woods howled and creaked and whistled, derisive, provocative, the only creatures alive in all that world.
Between the Fashion and the Place the Church stood as a bridge.
Centuries ago, when Skeaton had been the merest hamlet clustered behind the beach, the Church had been there-not the present building, looking, poor thing, as though it were in a perpetual state of scarlet fever, but a shabby humble little chapel close to the sea sheltered by the sandy hill.