The Captives | Page 9

ignorant about her, her thoughts and beliefs and desires, that he did not
know what her idea of her father had been. His idea of him had always
been that he was a dirty, miserly scoundrel, but that was not quite the
thing for a daughter to feel, and there was an innocence and simplicity
about Maggie that perplexed him.
"I can't truly say that I ever knew what your father's private feelings
were. He never cared for me enough to tell me. He may have been very
religious in his real thoughts. We never discussed such things."
Maggie turned round upon him.
"I know. You're pretending. You've said to yourself, 'I mustn't tell her
what I think about her father the very day after his death, that isn't a
pleasant thing to do.' We've all got to pretend that he was splendid. But
he wasn't--never. Who can know it better than I? Didn't he worry
mother until she died? Didn't he lead me an awful life always, and
aren't I delighted now that he's dead? It's everything to me. I've longed
for this day for years, and now we've got to pretend that we're sorry and
that it would be a good thing if he were alive. It wouldn't be a good
thing--it would be a bad thing for every one. He was a bad man and I
hated him."

Then, quite suddenly, she cried. Turning away from her uncle she
folded her face in her arms like a small child and sobbed. Standing,
looking at her bent shoulders, her square, ugly figure, her shabby old
hat with its dingy black ribbon, pushed a little to the side of her head,
Uncle Mathew thought that she was a most uncomprehensible girl. If
she felt like that about her father why should she cry; and if she cried
she must surely have some affection for his memory. All he could say
was:
"There, there, my dear--Well, well. It's all right." He felt foolish and
helpless.
She turned round at last, drying her eyes. "It's such a shame," she said,
still sobbing, "that that's what I shall feel about him. He's all I had and
that's what I feel. But if you knew--if you knew--all the things he did."
They walked on again, entering Rothin Wood. "He never tried to make
me religious," she went on. "He didn't care what I felt. I sat in the choir,
and I took a Sunday-school class, and I visited the villagers, but I,
myself--what happened to me--he didn't care. He never took any
trouble about the church, he just gabbled the prayers and preached the
same old sermons. People in the village said it was a scandal and that
he ought to be turned out but no one ever did anything. They'll clean
everything up now. There'll be a new clergyman. They'll mend the
holes in the kitchen floor and the ceiling of my bedroom. It will be all
new and fresh."
"And what will you do, Maggie?" said her uncle, trying to make his
voice indifferent as though he had no personal interest in her plans.
"I haven't thought yet," she said.
"I've an idea," he went on. "What do you say to your living with me? A
nice little place somewhere in London. I've felt for a long time that I
should settle down. Your father will have left you a little money--not
much, perhaps, but just enough for us to manage comfortably. And
there we'd be, as easy as anything. I can see us very happy together."

But he did not as yet know his niece. She shook her head.
"No," she said. "I'm going to live with Aunt Anne and Aunt Elizabeth.
We wouldn't be happy, Uncle, you and I. Our house would always be in
a mess and there are so many things that I must learn that only another
woman could teach me. I never had a chance with father."
He had entered upon this little walk with every intention of settling the
whole affair before their return. He had had no idea of any
opposition--her ignorance of the world would make her easy to adapt.
But now when he saw that she had already considered the matter and
was firmly resolved, his arguments deserted him.
"Just consider a moment," he said.
"I think it will be best for me to live with the aunts," she answered
firmly. "They have wished it before. Of course then it was impossible
but now it will do very well."
He had one more attempt.
"You won't be happy there, my dear, with all their religion and the rest
of it--and two old maids. You'll see no life at all."
"That depends upon myself," she answered, "and as to their religion at
least they