The Helpmate Part 72

She shook her head in persistent, obstinate negation.

"See here, Maggie, we must end it. We can't go on like this any more. We must give it up."

"I can't," she moaned. "Don't ask me to do that, Wallie dear. Don't ask me."

"I must, Maggie. _I_ must give it up. I told you, dear, before we took this place, that it must end, sooner or later, that it couldn't last very long. Don't you remember?"

"Yes--I remember."

"And you promised me, didn't you, that when the time came, you wouldn't--"

"I know. I said I wouldn't make a fuss."

"Well, dear, we've got to end it now. I only came to talk it over with you. There'll have to be arrangements."

"I know. I've got to clear out of this."

She said it sadly, without pa.s.sion and without resentment.

"No," he said, "not if you'd rather stay. Do you like the farm, Maggie?"

"I love it."

"Do you? I was afraid you didn't. I thought you hated the country."

"I love it. I love it."

"Oh, well then, you shan't leave it. I'll keep on the farm for you. And, see here, don't worry about things. I'll look after you, all your life, dear."

"Look after me?" Her face brightened, "Like you used to?"

"Provide for you."

"Oh!" she cried. "_That_! I don't want to be provided for. I won't have it. I'd rather be let alone and die."

"Maggie, I know it's hard on you. Don't make it harder. Don't make it hard for me."

"You?" she sobbed.

"Yes, me. It's all wrong. I'm all wrong. I can't do the right thing, whatever I do. It's wrong to stay with you. It's wrong, it's brutally wrong to leave you. But that's what I've got to do."

"You said--you only said--just now--you'd got to end it."

"That's it. I've got to end it."

She stood up flaming.

"End it then. End it this minute. Give up the farm. Send me away. I'll go anywhere you tell me. Only don't say you won't come and see me."

"See you? Don't you understand, Maggie, that seeing you is what I've got to give up? The other things don't matter."

"Ah," she cried, "it's you who don't understand. I mean--I mean--see me like you used to. That's all I want, Wallie. Only just to see you. That wouldn't be awful, would it? There wouldn't be any sin in that?"

Sin? It was the first time she had ever said the word. The first time, he imagined, she had formed the thought.

"Poor little girl," he said. "No, no, dear, it wouldn't do. It sounds simple, but it isn't."

"But," she said, bewildered, "I love you."

He smiled. "That's why, Maggie, that's why. You've been very sweet and very good to me. And that's why I mustn't see you. That's how you make it hard for me."

Maggie sat down and put her elbows on the table and hid her face in her hands.

"Will you give me some tea?" he said abruptly.

She rose.

"It's all stewed. I'll make fresh."

"No. That'll do. I can't wait."

She gave him his tea. Before he tasted it he got up and poured out a cup for her. She drank a little at his bidding, then pushed the cup from her, choking. She sat, not looking at him, but looking away, through the window, across the garden and the fields.

"I must go now," he said. "Don't come with me."

She started to her feet.

"Ah, let me come."

"Better not. Much better not."

"I must," she said.

They set out along the field-track. Steve, carrying his master's luggage, went in front, at a little distance. He didn't want to see them, still less to hear them speak.

But they did not speak.

At the creek's bank Steve was ready with the boat.

Majendie took Maggie's hand and pressed it. She flung herself on him, and he had to loose her hold by main force. She swayed, clutching at him to steady herself. He heard Steve groan. He put his hand on her shoulder, and kept it there a moment, till she stood firm. Her eyes, fixed on his, struck tears from them, tears that cut their way like knives under his eyelids.

Her body ceased swaying. He felt it grow rigid under his hand.

Then he went from her and stepped into the boat. She stood still, looking after him, pressing one hand against her breast, as if to keep down its heaving.

Steve pushed off from the bank, and rowed towards the creek's mouth. And as he rowed, he turned his head over his right shoulder, away from the sh.o.r.e where Maggie stood with her hand upon her breast.

Majendie did not look back. Neither he nor Steve saw that, as they neared the mouth of the creek, Maggie had turned, and was going rapidly across the field, towards the far side of the spit of land where the yacht lay moored out of the current. As they had to round the point, her way by land was shorter than theirs by water.