iscover it. He did not; he was in
many ways more simple than she. She laid to sleep his suspicions. She
could feel his relief that she was not romantic, that she wanted
nothing whatever from him. He was ill--therefore was often churlish. He
tried to hurt her again and again with cruel words and then waited to
see whether she were hurt. She never showed him. He treated her with
contempt, often not answering her questions, laughing at her little
stupidities, complaining of her forgetfulness and, sometimes, her
untidiness--telling her again and again to "go back to her parson."

She gave no sign. She fought her way. But it hurt; she could not have
believed that anything could hurt so much. She was being always drawn
to him, longing to put her arm around him, to dare to kiss him, risking
any repulse. He seemed so young, so helpless, so unhappy. Every part of
him called to her, his hair, his eyes, his voice, his body. But she
held herself in, she never gave way, she was resolute in her plan.

On their last evening in Lynton Street, for five minutes, he was
suddenly kind to her, almost the old Martin speaking with the old
voice. She held her breath, scarcely daring to let herself know how
happy she was.

"What do you think about God, Maggie?" he asked, turning on the sofa
and looking at her.

"Think about God?" she said, repeating his words.

"Yes ...Is there one?"

"I don't know. I haven't any intelligence about those things."

"Is there immortality?"

"I don't know."

"I hope not. Your parson thinks there is, doesn't he?"

"Of course he does."

"Did he have lots of services and did you hare to go to them?"

"Yes."

"Poor Maggie--always having to go to them. Well, it's queer. Funny if
there isn't anything after all when there's been such a fight about it
so long. Did they make you very religious at Skeaton or wherever the
place was?"

"No," said Maggie. "They thought me a terrible heathen. Grace was
terrified of me, I seemed so wicked to her. She thought I was
bewitching Paul's soul--"

"Perhaps you were."

"No. So little did I that he hasn't even come up to London to fetch me."

"Which did you like best--Skeaton or the Chapel?"

"I don't know. I was wrong in both of them. They were just opposite."
Maggie waited a little. Then she said: "Martin there must be something.
I can feel it as though it were behind a wall somewhere--I can hear it
and I can't see anything. Aunt Anne and--and--your father, and