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Updated: June 1, 2025
"Only," as Mrs. Bolitho said to her husband, "one thing's certain, she do love 'im with all her heart and soul poor lamb." When Martin and Maggie had been at the farm about a fort-night, there came to St. Dreot's a travelling circus. This was a very small affair, but it came every year, and provided considerable excitement for the village population.
She had been terribly nervous before the ladies' arrival that old nervousness that had made her tremble before Aunt Anne at St. Dreot's, before the Warlocks, before old Martha. But with it came as always her sense of independence and individuality. "They can't eat me," she thought. It was obvious at once that they did not want to do anything of the kind. They were full of kindness and curiosity.
"I think it sounds delightful," said Maggie. "If you'd lived for years in St. Dreot's, Katherine, you wouldn't talk about other places being dull. It isn't excitement I want. It's work." "Don't you let Grace bully you," said Katherine. "Bully me? Grace?" Maggie was very astonished. "Why, she's the kindest old thing. She wants me to do everything." "So she says," said Katherine doubtfully.
She was sad at the thought of that, remembering moments that first visit to St. Dreot's, the departure in the cab, the night when she had sat at her aunt's bedside that had given glimpses of the kind human creature Aunt Anne might have been had she never heard of the Inside Saints. Maggie, during these last days, did everything that her aunts told her. She was as good and docile as she could be.
From the very heart of the charlatanism she cried out, appealing to a God who might exist or no, she could not tell, but who seemed now to be leading her by the hand. She saw Aunt Anne at St. Dreot's whispering "The Lord is my Shepherd. He shall lead me ..." In a dream she shared in the rest of the ceremony. In a dream she passed with the others out of the building.
I know I shall never change. I'm not one to change. I'm obstinate. Father used to say 'obstinate as a pig." That made her think of the old days at St. Dreot's, just then, as they seemed, so remote.
Could it be possible that all those women whom she had seen gathered together in Miss Avies's room really expected God to come when the clock struck twelve on the last night of the year? It was like some old story of ghosts and witches that her nurse used to tell her when she was a little girl at St. Dreot's. And yet, in that dark dreary room, almost anything seemed possible.
He opened it, just like a boy, chuckling, his eyes shining, his fingers tearing the paper in his eagerness. Her present was a round locket of thin plain gold and inside was the funniest little black faded photograph of Maggie, her head only, a wild untidy head of hair, a fat round schoolgirl face a village snapshot of Maggie taken in St. Dreot's when she was about fifteen.
Mitchell hasn't got anything, and his prices are just about double Brownjohn's ..." "Brownjohn!" Grace stared, her bread and jam suspended. "Brownjohn! But, Maggie dear, he's a dissenter." "Oh. Maggie!" said Paul. "You should have told me!" "Why!" said Maggie, bewildered. "Father never minded about dissenters. Our butcher in St. Dreot's was an atheist and "
Aunt Anne was doing what Maggie had never seen her do before, even in the worst bouts of her pain she was crying ... cold solitary lonely tears that crept slowly, reluctantly down her thin cheeks. "I meant to do well. In everything I have done ill ... Everything has failed in my hands " Once again, as long before at St. Dreot's, Maggie could do nothing.
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