CHAPTER II
Margaret Fishes; Mary Prays.
I.
Mary's first month at Herons' Holt was uneventful: need not be recorded. We are following the passage of the love 'twixt her and George; and within the radius of Mr. Marrapit's eye love durst not creep. She saw little of her George. They were most carefully circumspect in their attitude one to another, and conscience made their circumspection trebly stiff. There are politenesses to be observed between the inmates of a house, but my Mary and my George, in terror lest even these should be misconstrued, studiously neglected them.
The aloofness troubled Margaret. This girl wrapped her sentiment about Mary; delighting in one who, so pretty, so young, so gentle-voiced, must face life in an alien home. The girls came naturally together, and it was not long before Margaret bubbled out her vocation.
The talk was upon books. Margaret turned away her head; said in the voice of one hurrying over a commonplace: “I write, you know.”
She tingled for the “Do you?” from her companion, but it did not come, and this was very disappointing.
She stole a glance at Mary, sitting with a far-away expression in her eyes (the ridiculous girl had heard an engine whistle; knew it to be the train that was taking her George to London). Margaret stole a glance at Mary; repeated louder: “I write, you know.”
It fetched the delicious response. Mary started: “Do you?”
Margaret said hurriedly: “Oh, nothing worth speaking of.”
Mary said: “Oh!”; gave her thoughts again to the train.
It was wretched of her. “Poems,” said Margaret, and stressed the word “Poems.”
Mary came flying back from the train. “Oh, how interesting that is!”
At once Margaret drew away. “Oh, it is nothing,” she said, “nothing.” She put her eyes upon the far clouds; breathed “Nothing” in a long sigh.
From this it was not a far step to reading, with terrible reluctance, her poems to Mary; nor from this again was it other than an obvious step to telling of Bill. Her pretty verses were so clearly written at some heart which throbbed responsive, that Mary must needs put the question. It came after a full hour's reading—the poet sitting upon her bed in a litter of manuscripts, Mary in a low chair before her.
In a tremulous voice the poet concluded the refrain of an exquisite verse:
“Beat for beat, your heart, my darling,
Beats with mine.
Skylarks carol, quick responsive,
Love divine.”
The poet gave a little gulp; laid down her paper.
Mary also gulped. From both their pretty persons emotion welled in a great flood that filled the room.
“I'm sure that is written to somebody,” Mary breathed.
Margaret nodded. This girl was too ravished with the grip of the thing to be capable of words.
Mary implored: “Oh, do tell me!”
Then Margaret told the story of Bill—with intimate details and in the beautiful phrases of the poet mind she told it, and the flooding emotion piled upwards to the very roof.
Love has rightly been pictured as a naked babe. Men together will examine a baby—if they must—with a bashful diffidence that pulls down the clothes each time the infant kicks; women dote upon each inch of its chubby person. And so with love. Men will discuss their love—if they must—with the most prudish decorum; women undress it.
It becomes essential, therefore, that what Margaret said to Mary must not be discovered.
When she had ceased she put out a hand for the price of her confidence: “And have you—are you—I know practically nothing about you, Mary, dear. Do tell me, are you in love?”
Bang went the gates of Mary's emotion. Here was awful danger. She laughed. “Oh, I've no time to fall in love, have I?”
Margaret sighed her sympathy; then gazed at Mary.
Mary read the gaze aright. These were women, and they read one another by knowledge of sex. Mary knew Margaret's gaze to be that of an archer sighting at his mark, estimating the chances of a hit. She saw the arrow that was to come speeding at her breast; gathered her emotions so that she should not flinch at the wound.
Margaret twanged the bow-string. “No time to fall in love?” she murmured. She fitted the shaft; let fly. “Do you like George, dear?”
Mary stooped to her shoe-laces. Despite her preparations the arrow had pierced, and she hid her face to hide the blood.
“George?” said she, head to floor.
“Yes, George. Do you like George?”
My Mary sat up, brazen. “George? Oh, you mean your cousin? I daresay he's very nice. Practically I've never even spoken to him since I've been here.”
“I know. Of course he's very busy just now. Do you think you would like him if you did know him?”
It was murderous work. Mary was beginning to quiver beneath the arrows; was in terror lest she should betray the secret. A desperate kick was necessary. She wildly searched for a foothold; found it; kicked:
“I'm sure I shouldn't like him.”
The poet softly protested: “Oh why, Mary?”
“He's clean-shaven.”
“And you don't like a—”
“I can't stand a—”
“But if he had a—”
“Oh, if he had a—Margaret, I hear Mr. Marrapit calling. I must fly.” She fled.
Upon a sad little sigh the poet moved to her table; drew heliotrope paper towards her; wrote:
“Why are your hearts asunder, ye so fair?”
A thought came to her then, and she put her pen in her mouth; pursued the idea. That evening she walked to the gate and met George upon his return. After a few paces, “George,” she asked, “do you like Mary?”
George was never taken aback. “Mary? Mary who?”
“Miss Humfray.”
“Oh, is her name Mary?”
“Of course it is.” Margaret slipped her arm through George's; gazed up at him. “Do you like her, George?”
“Like whom?”
“Why, Mary—Miss Humfray.”
“Oh, I think she's a little better than Mrs. Major—in some ways. If that's what you mean.”
Margaret sighed. Such mulish indifference was a dreadful thing to this girl. But she had set her heart on this romance.
“George, dear, I wish you would do something for me.”
“Anything.”
“How nice you are! Will you grow a moustache?”
She anxiously awaited the answer. George took his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes. He did not speak.
She asked him: “What is the matter?”
He said brokenly: “You know not what you ask. I cannot grow a moustache. It is my secret sorrow, my little cross. There is only one way. It is by pushing up the hairs from inside with the handle of a tooth-brush and tying a knot to prevent them slipping back. You have to do it every morning, and I somehow can never remember it.”
Margaret slipped her arm free; without a word walked to the house.
She was hurt. This girl had the artistic temperament, and the artistic temperament feels things most dreadfully. It even feels being kept waiting for its meals.