Indeed, during those three weeks Maggie saw nothing of Martin's weaknesses, his suspicions and dreads, his temper and self-abasement.The nobility that Martin had in him was true nobility, his very weaknesses came from his sharp consciousness of what purity and self-sacrifice and asceticism really were, and that they were indeed the only things for man to live by.During those weeks he saw so truly the sweetness and fidelity and simplicity of Maggie that his conscience was killed, his scruples were numbed.He did not want during those weeks any sensual excitement, any depravity, any license.A quiet and noble asceticism seemed to him perfectly possible.He burst out once to Maggie with: "I can't conceive, Maggie, why I ever thought life complicated.You've straightened everything out for me, made all the troubles at home seem nothing, shown me what nonsense it was wanting the rotten things I was always after."But Maggie had no eloquence in reply--she could not make up fine sentences; it embarrassed her dreadfully to tell him even that she loved him, and when he was sentimental it was her habit to turn it off with a joke if she could.She wanted terribly to ask him sometimes what he had meant when he said that he didn't love her as he had loved other women.She had never the courage to ask him this.
She wondered sometimes why it had hurt her when he had said he loved her as though she were a man friend, without any question of sex.
"Surely that's enough for me," she would ask herself, "it means that it's much more lasting and safe." And yet it was not enough.
Nevertheless, during these weeks she found his brotherly care of her adorable, he found her shyness divine.
"Every other woman I have ever been in love with," he told her once, "I have always kept asking them would they ever change, and would they love me always, and all that kind of nonsense.A man always begins like that, and then the time comes when he wishes to God they would change, and they won't.But you're not like that, Maggie, Iknow you'll never change, and I know that I shall never want you to." "No, I shall never change," said Maggie.
At the very beginning of the three weeks a little incident occurred that was trivial enough at the time, but appeared afterwards as something significant and full of meaning.This incident was a little talk with poor Mr.Magnus.Maggie always thought of him as "poor Mr.Magnus." He seemed so feckless and unsettled, and then he wrote novels that nobody wanted to buy.He always talked like a book, and that was perhaps one reason why Maggie had avoided him during these last months.Another reason had been that she really could not be sure how far he was in the general conspiracy to drive her into the Chapel.He would not do that of his own will she was sure, but being in love with Aunt Anne he might think it his sacred duty, and Maggie was terrified of "sacred duties." Therefore when, three days after that great evening in the park, he caught her alone in the drawing-room, her first impulse was to run away; then she looked at him and found that her love for the world in general embraced him too "if only he won't talk like a book," she thought to herself.
He looked more wandering than ever with his high white collar, his large spectacles, and his thin, dusty hair; the fire of some hidden, vital spirit burnt beneath those glasses, and his face was so kindly that she felt ashamed of herself for having avoided him so often.
"Both the aunts are at Miss Avies'." she said.
"Oh," he said, looking at her rather blankly.
"Perhaps I'll come another time," and he turned towards the door.
"No," she cried."You won't--I haven't seen you for months.""That's not my fault," he answered."I thought we were to have been friends, and you've run away every time you saw the corner of my dusty coat poking round the door.""Yes," she said, "I have--I've been frightened of every one lately.""And you're not now?" he asked, looking at her with that sudden bright sharpness that was so peculiarly his.
"No, I'm not," she answered."I'm frightened of nobody."He said nothing to that, but stared fixedly in front of him.
"I'm in a bad mood," he said."I've been trying for weeks to get on with a novel.Just a fortnight ago a young man and a young woman took shelter from the rain in the doorway of a deserted house--they're still there now, and they haven't said a word to one another all that time.""Why not?" asked Maggie.
"They simply won't speak," he answered her.
"Well then, I should start another story," said Maggie brightly.
"Ah," he said, shaking his head."What's the use of starting one if you know you're never going to finish it, what's the use of finishing it if you know no one is ever going to read it?" Maggie shook her head.
"You've changed.When I saw you last you told me that you didn't mind whether any one ever read them or not, and that you just wrote them because you loved doing them.""Every author," said Mr.Magnus gloomily," says that to himself when he can't sell his books, but it's all vainglory, I'm afraid.""I can't help being glad," Maggie answered."There are such interesting things you might do.I can't imagine why any one writes books now when there are so many already in existence that nobody's read."He wasn't listening to her.He looked up suddenly and said quite wildly:
