"Tell me another thing," she said."These weeks I've been here have I bored you ?""I've been too ill to tell...How do I know? Well, no, you haven't.You're such a queer kid.You're different from any other human--utterly different.No, you haven't bored me--but don't think from that I like having you here.I don't--you remind me of the old life.I don't want to think of it more than I must.You'll admit I've been trying to scare you stiff in all I've told you, and Ihaven't scared you.It's true, most of it, but it isn't so damned sensational as I've tried to make it...But, all the same, what's the use of your staying? I don't love you, and I'm never likely to.
I've told you long ago you're not the sort of woman to attract me physically.You never did.You're more like a boy.Why should you ruin your own life when there's nothing to gain by it? You will ruin it, you know, staying on here with me.Every one thinks we're living together.Have you heard from your parson?""Yes," said Maggie.
"What does he say?"
"He says I've got to go back at once."
"Well, there you are."
"But don't you see, Martin, I shouldn't go back to him even if Ileft you.I've quite decided that.He'll never be happy with me unless I love him, which I can't do, and there's his sister who hates me.And he's just rooted in Skeaton.I can't live there after Uncle Mathew!""Tell me about that."
"No," she said, shrinking back."I'll never tell any one.Not even you.""Now, look here," he went on, after a pause."You must see how hopeless it is, Maggie.You've got nothing to get out of it.As soon as I'm well enough I shall go off and leave you.You can't follow me, hunting me everywhere.You must see that.""Yes, but what you don't, Martin, see," she answered him, "is that I've got some right to think of my own happiness.It's quite true what you say, that if you get well and decide you don't want to see me I won't follow you.Of course I won't.Perhaps one day you will want me all the same.But I'm happy only with you, and so long as Idon't bore you I'm going to stay.I've always been.wrong with every one else, stupid and doing everything I shouldn't.But with you it isn't so.I'm not stupid, and however you behave I'm happy.I can't help it.It's just so.""But how can you be happy?" he said, "I'm not the sort for any one to be happy with.When I've been drinking I'm impossible.I'm sulky and lazy, and I don't want to be any better either.You may think you're happy these first few weeks, but you won't be later on.""Let's try," said Maggie, laughing."Here's a bargain, Martin.You say I don't bore you.I'll stay with you until you're quite well.
Then if you don't want me I'll go and not bother you until you ask for me.Is that a bargain?""You'd much better not," he said.
"Oh, don't think I'm staying," she answered, "because I think you so splendid that I can't leave you.I don't think you splendid at all.
And it's not because I think myself splendid either.I'm being quite selfish about it.I'm staying simply because I'm happier so.""You'd much better not," he repeated.
"Is that a bargain?"
"Yes, if you like," he answered, looking at her with puzzled eyes.
It was the first long conversation that they had had.After it, he was no nicer than before.He never kissed her, he never touched her, he seldom talked to her; when she talked, he seemed to be little interested.For hours he lay there, looking in front of him, saying nothing.When the little doctor came they wrangled and fought together but seemed to like one another.
Through it all Maggie could see that he was riddled with deep shame and self-contempt and haunted, always, by the thought of his father.
She longed to speak to him about his father's death, but as yet she did not dare.If once she could persuade him that that had not been his fault, she could, she thought, really help him.That was the secret canker at his heart and she could not touch it.
Strangely, as the days passed, the years that had been added to him since their last meeting seemed to fall away.He became to her more and more the boy that he had been when she had known him before.In a thousand ways he showed it, his extraordinary youth and inexperience in spite of all that he had been and done.She felt older now than he and she loved him the more for that.Most of all she longed to get him away from this place where he was.Then one day little Abrams said to her:
"He'll never get well here."
"That's what I think," she said.
"Can't you carry him off somewhere? The country's the place for him--somewhere in the South."
Her heart leapt.
"Oh, Glebeshire!" she cried.
"Well, that's not a bad place," he said."That would pick him up."At once she thought, night and day, of St.Dreot's.A very hunger possessed her to get back there.And why not? For one thing, it would be so much cheaper.Her money would not last for ever, and Mrs.Brandon robbed her whenever possible.She determined that she would manage it.At last, greatly fearing it, she mentioned it to him, and to her surprise he did not scorn it.
"I don't care," he said, looking at her with that curious puzzled expression that she often saw now in his eyes, "I'm sick of this room.That's a bargain, Maggie, you can put me where you like until I'm well.Then I'm off."She had a strange superstition that Borhedden was fated to see her triumph.She had wandered round the world and now was returning again to her own home.She remembered a Mrs.Bolitho who had had the farm in her day.She wrote to her, and two days later received a letter saying that there was room for them at Borhedden if they wished.
She was now all feverish impatience.Dr.Abrams said that Martin could be moved if they were very careful.All plans were made.Mrs.
Brandon and the ugly little doctor both seemed quite sorry that they were going, and Emily even sniffed and wiped her eye with the corner of her apron.The world seemed now to be turning a different face to Maggie.Human beings liked her and were no longer suspicious to her as they had been before.