"It _was_ rather a dangerous question for an intruder to ask," said Stephen, delighted with that glance, and getting determined to stay for another. "But you will have more than half an hour to yourself after I am gone," he added, taking out his watch. "I know Mr. Deane never comes in till half-past seven."
Another pause, during which Maggie looked steadily out of the window, till by a great effort she moved her head to look down at Minny"s back again, and said,--
"I wish Lucy had not been obliged to go out. We lose our music."
"We shall have a new voice to-morrow night," said Stephen. "Will you tell your cousin that our friend Philip Wakem is come back? I saw him as I went home."
Maggie gave a little start,--it seemed hardly more than a vibration that pa.s.sed from head to foot in an instant. But the new images summoned by Philip"s name dispersed half the oppressive spell she had been under. She rose from her chair with a sudden resolution, and laying Minny on his cushion, went to reach Lucy"s large work-basket from its corner. Stephen was vexed and disappointed; he thought perhaps Maggie didn"t like the name of Wakem to be mentioned to her in that abrupt way, for he now recalled what Lucy had told him of the family quarrel. It was of no use to stay any longer. Maggie was seating herself at the table with her work, and looking chill and proud; and he--he looked like a simpleton for having come. A gratuitous, entirely superfluous visit of that sort was sure to make a man disagreeable and ridiculous. Of course it was palpable to Maggie"s thinking that he had dined hastily in his own room for the sake of setting off again and finding her alone.
A boyish state of mind for an accomplished young gentleman of five-and-twenty, not without legal knowledge! But a reference to history, perhaps, may make it not incredible.
At this moment Maggie"s ball of knitting-wool rolled along the ground, and she started up to reach it. Stephen rose too, and picking up the ball, met her with a vexed, complaining look that gave his eyes quite a new expression to Maggie, whose own eyes met them as he presented the ball to her.
"Good-bye," said Stephen, in a tone that had the same beseeching discontent as his eyes. He dared not put out his hand; he thrust both hands into his tail-pockets as he spoke. Maggie thought she had perhaps been rude.
"Won"t you stay?" she said timidly, not looking away, for that would have seemed rude again.
"No, thank you," said Stephen, looking still into the half-unwilling, half-fascinated eyes, as a thirsty man looks toward the track of the distant brook. "The boat is waiting for me. You"ll tell your cousin?"
"Yes."
"That I brought the music, I mean?"
"Yes."
"And that Philip is come back?"
"Yes." (Maggie did not notice Philip"s name this time.)
"Won"t you come out a little way into the garden?" said Stephen, in a still gentler tone; but the next moment he was vexed that she did not say "No," for she moved away now toward the open window, and he was obliged to take his hat and walk by her side. But he thought of something to make him amends.
"Do take my arm," he said, in a low tone, as if it were a secret.
There is something strangely winning to most women in that offer of the firm arm; the help is not wanted physically at that moment, but the sense of help, the presence of strength that is outside them and yet theirs, meets a continual want of the imagination. Either on that ground or some other, Maggie took the arm. And they walked together round the gra.s.splot and under the drooping green of the laburnums, in the same dim, dreamy state as they had been in a quarter of an hour before; only that Stephen had had the look he longed for, without yet perceiving in himself the symptoms of returning reasonableness, and Maggie had darting thoughts across the dimness,--how came he to be there? Why had she come out? Not a word was spoken. If it had been, each would have been less intensely conscious of the other.
"Take care of this step," said Stephen at last.
"Oh, I will go in now," said Maggie, feeling that the step had come like a rescue. "Good-evening."
In an instant she had withdrawn her arm, and was running back to the house. She did not reflect that this sudden action would only add to the embarra.s.sing recollections of the last half-hour. She had no thought left for that. She only threw herself into the low arm-chair, and burst into tears.
"Oh, Philip, Philip, I wish we were together again--so quietly--in the Red Deeps."
Stephen looked after her a moment, then went on to the boat, and was soon landed at the wharf. He spent the evening in the billiard-room, smoking one cigar after another, and losing "lives" at pool. But he would not leave off. He was determined not to think,--not to admit any more distinct remembrance than was urged upon him by the perpetual presence of Maggie. He was looking at her, and she was on his arm.
But there came the necessity of walking home in the cool starlight, and with it the necessity of cursing his own folly, and bitterly determining that he would never trust himself alone with Maggie again.
It was all madness; he was in love, thoroughly attached to Lucy, and engaged,--engaged as strongly as an honorable man need be. He wished he had never seen this Maggie Tulliver, to be thrown into a fever by her in this way; she would make a sweet, strange, troublesome, adorable wife to some man or other, but he would never have chosen her himself. Did she feel as he did? He hoped she did--not. He ought not to have gone. He would master himself in future. He would make himself disagreeable to her, quarrel with her perhaps. Quarrel with her? Was it possible to quarrel with a creature who had such eyes,--defying and deprecating, contradicting and clinging, imperious and beseeching,-- full of delicious opposites? To see such a creature subdued by love for one would be a lot worth having--to another man.
There was a muttered exclamation which ended this inward soliloquy, as Stephen threw away the end of his last cigar, and thrusting his hands into his pockets, stalked along at a quieter pace through the shrubbery. It was not of a benedictory kind.
Chapter VII
Philip Re-enters
The next morning was very wet,--the sort of morning on which male neighbors who have no imperative occupation at home are likely to pay their fair friends an illimitable visit. The rain, which has been endurable enough for the walk or ride one way, is sure to become so heavy, and at the same time so certain to clear up by and by, that nothing but an open quarrel can abbreviate the visit; latent detestation will not do at all. And if people happen to be lovers, what can be so delightful, in England, as a rainy morning? English sunshine is dubious; bonnets are never quite secure; and if you sit down on the gra.s.s, it may lead to catarrhs. But the rain is to be depended on. You gallop through it in a mackintosh, and presently find yourself in the seat you like best,--a little above or a little below the one on which your G.o.ddess sits (it is the same thing to the metaphysical mind, and that is the reason why women are at once worshipped and looked down upon), with a satisfactory confidence that there will be no lady-callers.
"Stephen will come earlier this morning, I know," said Lucy; "he always does when it"s rainy."
Maggie made no answer. She was angry with Stephen; she began to think she should dislike him; and if it had not been for the rain, she would have gone to her aunt Glegg"s this morning, and so have avoided him altogether. As it was, she must find some reason for remaining out of the room with her mother.
But Stephen did not come earlier, and there was another visitor--a nearer neighbor--who preceded him. When Philip entered the room, he was going merely to bow to Maggie, feeling that their acquaintance was a secret which he was bound not to betray; but when she advanced toward him and put out her hand, he guessed at once that Lucy had been taken into her confidence. It was a moment of some agitation to both, though Philip had spent many hours in preparing for it; but like all persons who have pa.s.sed through life with little expectation of sympathy, he seldom lost his self-control, and shrank with the most sensitive pride from any noticeable betrayal of emotion. A little extra paleness, a little tension of the nostril when he spoke, and the voice pitched in rather a higher key, that to strangers would seem expressive of cold indifference, were all the signs Philip usually gave of an inward drama that was not without its fierceness. But Maggie, who had little more power of concealing the impressions made upon her than if she had been constructed of musical strings, felt her eyes getting larger with tears as they took each other"s hands in silence. They were not painful tears; they had rather something of the same origin as the tears women and children shed when they have found some protection to cling to and look back on the threatened danger.
For Philip, who a little while ago was a.s.sociated continually in Maggie"s mind with the sense that Tom might reproach her with some justice, had now, in this short s.p.a.ce, become a sort of outward conscience to her, that she might fly to for rescue and strength. Her tranquil, tender affection for Philip, with its root deep down in her childhood, and its memories of long quiet talk confirming by distinct successive impressions the first instinctive bias,--the fact that in him the appeal was more strongly to her pity and womanly devotedness than to her vanity or other egoistic excitability of her nature,--seemed now to make a sort of sacred place, a sanctuary where she could find refuge from an alluring influence which the best part of herself must resist; which must bring horrible tumult within, wretchedness without. This new sense of her relation to Philip nullified the anxious scruples she would otherwise have felt, lest she should overstep the limit of intercourse with him that Tom would sanction; and she put out her hand to him, and felt the tears in her eyes without any consciousness of an inward check. The scene was just what Lucy expected, and her kind heart delighted in bringing Philip and Maggie together again; though, even with all _her_ regard for Philip, she could not resist the impression that her cousin Tom had some excuse for feeling shocked at the physical incongruity between the two,--a prosaic person like cousin Tom, who didn"t like poetry and fairy tales. But she began to speak as soon as possible, to set them at ease.
"This was very good and virtuous of you," she said, in her pretty treble, like the low conversational notes of little birds, "to come so soon after your arrival. And as it is, I think I will pardon you for running away in an inopportune manner, and giving your friends no notice. Come and sit down here," she went on, placing the chair that would suit him best, "and you shall find yourself treated mercifully."
"You will never govern well, Miss Deane," said Philip, as he seated himself, "because no one will ever believe in your severity. People will always encourage themselves in misdemeanors by the certainty that you will be indulgent."
Lucy gave some playful contradiction, but Philip did not hear what it was, for he had naturally turned toward Maggie, and she was looking at him with that open, affectionate scrutiny which we give to a friend from whom we have been long separated. What a moment their parting had been! And Philip felt as if he were only in the morrow of it. He felt this so keenly,--with such intense, detailed remembrance, with such pa.s.sionate revival of all that had been said and looked in their last conversation,--that with that jealousy and distrust which in diffident natures is almost inevitably linked with a strong feeling, he thought he read in Maggie"s glance and manner the evidence of a change. The very fact that he feared and half expected it would be sure to make this thought rush in, in the absence of positive proof to the contrary.
"I am having a great holiday, am I not?" said Maggie. "Lucy is like a fairy G.o.dmother; she has turned me from a drudge into a princess in no time. I do nothing but indulge myself all day long, and she always finds out what I want before I know it myself."
"I am sure she is the happier for having you, then," said Philip. "You must be better than a whole menagerie of pets to her. And you look well. You are benefiting by the change."
Artificial conversation of this sort went on a little while, till Lucy, determined to put an end to it, exclaimed, with a good imitation of annoyance, that she had forgotten something, and was quickly out of the room.
In a moment Maggie and Philip leaned forward, and the hands were clasped again, with a look of sad contentment, like that of friends who meet in the memory of recent sorrow.
"I told my brother I wished to see you, Philip; I asked him to release me from my promise, and he consented."
Maggie, in her impulsiveness, wanted Philip to know at once the position they must hold toward each other; but she checked herself.
The things that had happened since he had spoken of his love for her were so painful that she shrank from being the first to allude to them.
It seemed almost like an injury toward Philip even to mention her brother,--her brother, who had insulted him. But he was thinking too entirely of her to be sensitive on any other point at that moment.
"Then we can at least be friends, Maggie? There is nothing to hinder that now?"
"Will not your father object?" said Maggie, withdrawing her hand.
"I should not give you up on any ground but your own wish, Maggie,"
said Philip, coloring. "There are points on which I should always resist my father, as I used to tell you. _That_ is one."
"Then there is nothing to hinder our being friends, Philip,--seeing each other and talking to each other while I am here; I shall soon go away again. I mean to go very soon, to a new situation."
"Is that inevitable, Maggie?"
"Yes; I must not stay here long. It would unfit me for the life I must begin again at last. I can"t live in dependence,--I can"t live with my brother, though he is very good to me. He would like to provide for me; but that would be intolerable to me."