Emily was prim and conceited, and Clara did not exist.Alice was ready to do everything that Maggie wanted, and it was very apparent at once that she had not liked "Miss Grace.""Ah, that'll be much better than the way Miss Grace 'ad it, Mum.In their jackets, Mum, very well.Certainly.That would be better.""I think you'd better just give us what seems easiest for dinner, Cook," said Maggie, thereby handing herself over, delivered and bound.
"Very well, Mum--I'm sure I'll do my best," said Alice.
Early on that first afternoon she was taken to see the Church.For a desperate moment her spirits failed her as she stood at the end of the Lane and looked.This was a Church of the newest red brick, and every seat was of the most shining wood.The East End window was flaming purple, with a crimson Christ ascending and yellow and blue disciples amazed together on the ground.Paul stood flushed with pride and pleasure, his hand through Maggie's arm.
"That's a Partright window," he said with that inflection that Maggie was already beginning to think of as "his public voice.""I'm afraid, Paul dear," said Maggie, "I'm very ignorant.""Don't know Partright? Oh, he's the great man of the last thirty years--did the great East window of St.Martin's, Pontefract.We had a job to get him I can tell you.Just look at that purple.""On the right you'll see the Memorial Tablet to our brave lads who fell in the South African War--Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori--very appropriate.Brave fellows, brave fellows! Just behind you, Maggie, is the Mickleham Font, one of the finest specimens of modern stone-work in the county--given to us by Sir Joseph Mickleham--Mickleham Hall, you know, only two miles from here.He used to attend morning service here frequently.Died five years ago.Fine piece of work!"Maggie looked at it.It was enormous, a huge battlement of a font in dead white stone with wreaths of carved ivy creeping about it.
"It makes one feel rather shivery," said Maggie.
"Now you must see our lectern," said Paul eagerly.
And so it continued.There was apparently a great deal to be said about the Lectern, and then about the Choir-Screen, and then about the Reredos, and then about the Pulpit, and then about the Vestry, and then about the Collecting-Box for the Poor, and then about the Hassocks, and finally about the Graveyard...To all this Maggie listened and hoped that she made the proper answers, but the truth of the matter was that she was cold and dismayed.The Chapel had been ugly enough, but behind its ugliness there had been life; now with the Church as with the house there was no life visible.Paul, putting his hand on her shoulder, said:
"Here, darling, will be the centre of our lives.This is our temple.
Round this building all our happiness will revolve.""Yes, dear," said Maggie.She was taken then for a little walk.They went down Ivy Road and into Skeaton High Street.Here were the shops.Mr.Bloods, the bookseller's, Tunstall the butcher, Toogood the grocer, Father the draper, Minster the picture-dealer, Harcourt the haberdasher, and so on.Maggie rather liked the High Street; it reminded her of the High Street in Polchester, although there was no hill.Out of the High Street and on to the Esplanade.You should never see an Esplanade out of the season, Katherine had once said to Maggie.That dictum seemed certainly true this time.There could be no doubt that this Esplanade was not looking its best under the blustering March wind.Here a deserted bandstand, there a railway station, here a dead haunt for pierrots, there a closed and barred cinema house, here a row of stranded bathing-machines, there a shuttered tea-house--and not a living soul in sight.In front of them was a long long stretch of sand, behind them to right and left the huddled tenements of the town, in front of them, beyond the sand, the grey sea--and again not a living soul in sight.The railway line wound its way at their side, losing itself in the hills and woods of the horizon.
"There are not many people about, are there?" said Maggie.Nor could she wonder.The East wind cut along the desolate stretches of silence, and yet how strange a wind! It seemed to have no effect at all upon the sea, which rolled in sluggishly with snake-like motion, throwing up on the dim colourless beach a thin fringe of foam, baring its teeth at the world in impotent discontent.
"Oh! there's a boy!" cried Maggie, amazed at her own relief."How often do the trains come in?" she asked.
"Well, we don't have many trains in the off-season," said Paul.
"They put on several extra ones in the summer.""Oh, what's the sand doing?" Maggie cried.
She had seen sand often enough in her own Glebeshire, but never sand like this.Under the influence of the wind it was blowing and curving into little spirals of dust; a sudden cloud, with a kind of personal animosity rose and flung itself across the rails at Maggie and Paul.They were choking and blinded--and in the distance clouds of sand rose and fell, with gusts and impulses that seemed personal and alive.
"What funny sand!" said Maggie again."When it blows in Glebeshire it blows and there's a perfect storm.There's a storm or there isn't.Here--" She broke off.She could see that Paul hadn't the least idea of what she was speaking.
"The sand is always blowing about here," he said."Now what about tea?"They walked back through the High Street and not a soul was to be seen.
"Does nobody live here?" asked Maggie.
"The population," said Paul quite gravely, "is eight thousand, four hundred and fifty-four.""Oh, I see," said Maggie.
They had tea in the dusty study again.
"I'm going to change this house," said Maggie.
"Change it?" asked Paul."What's my little girl going to do?""She's going to destroy ever so many things," said Maggie.
"You'd better wait," said Paul, moving a little away, "until Grace comes back, dear.You can consult with her."Maggie said nothing.
Next day Mrs.Constantine, Miss Purves, and Mrs.Maxse came to tea.
